The press called it *The Fall of the Father.*
But in private corridors, behind palace walls, they whispered a different name:
**"The Rise of the Villainess."**
---
Anaya didn't scream. She didn't beg. She didn't weep.
She walked into Parliament flanked by her husband and the Royal Guard, armed with documents, video evidence, and the Empress's silent approval.
One by one, she presented the truth.
Her father's secret communications with royalist extremists.
His role in planting Meher.
His attempt to erase her lineage.
He was powerful. Untouchable, once.
But Anaya didn't need to touch him.
She just *removed the ground beneath his feet.*
By the end of the day, Vikram Mehra's resignation letter sat signed and sealed under imperial review.
And Anaya?
She walked out of Parliament not as the Prime Minister's daughter.
But as the *Empire's future.*
---
Back in their suite, Aryan watched her quietly as she unpinned her earrings, her hands trembling for the first time in days.
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
She didn't meet his gaze. "No. But it hurts."
He stepped behind her, hands coming to rest on her waist.
"That's how you know it mattered."
Her voice was quiet. "He raised me. He read me poetry at night. He braided my hair when Amma was sick. I loved him."
Aryan didn't say anything.
He just held her tighter.
And that was enough.
---
Later, they lay in bed, their limbs tangled, breath slow. Anaya rested her cheek on his chest, fingers tracing the scar that cut across his side.
"I'm going to rule one day," she whispered.
"I know."
"You'll be the only man in court not afraid of me."
"I already am."
A pause.
Then she whispered, "You'd follow me even if it meant turning against the palace?"
His hand curled around her wrist, firm but gentle. "You're not asking me to be your soldier anymore, Anaya."
He kissed her temple.
"You're asking me to be your sword."
And she knew, in that moment—
*He already was.*