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PROLOGUE
Nine years ago
I pressed my heavy polki earring into place and hid the matching maang tikka in my dresser drawer. Ma would search for it in the big brass jewellery box because that’s where I was supposed to keep all my jewellery, and she wouldn’t bother to look anywhere else. Because Princess Diya Sisodia always did as she was bid.
Hiding my maang tikka was my way of rebelling against the dictates of my very traditional family. A micro-rebellion, so to speak, because it wasn’t as if the sky was going to come crashing down because I wasn’t decked out like a desi Christmas tree.
But going by the way my mother shrieked at the staff, the illustrious Sisodia family would be shamed if their daughter wasn’t dressed appropriately.
“It’s just a birthday party, Ma,” I said softly.
She shot me a glance venomous enough to make me regret my earlier rebellion. I should just have worn the damn jewellery, I thought worriedly, before I straightened my spine.
I might not know much about anything but I knew fashion, and I knew style. A maang tikka was too much for a birthday party. Even if I was the birthday girl.
“It’s not just your birthday party, Diya,” hissed Ma. “Your Baba has fixed it up with the Trikheras. They will announce your engagement to Dheer tonight.”
Dheer. My stomach fluttered at the thought of His Highness Randheer Singh Shekhawat, Maharaja of Trikhera. We had been close friends all our lives, and it felt like Dheer was my destiny. My future. One I looked forward to.
Our marriage would unite the royal families of Jadhwal and Trikhera. Hence, the grand announcement at my birthday party. But it was more than just a dynastic marriage. So much more. I had been in love with Dheer since I first eyes on him. And I knew he loved me too, even if he hadn’t said it aloud. I knew it when he kissed me just before he left for his training in New Delhi.
What had been the most miserable day of my life had turned into a magical evening when Dheer pulled me into his arms in the little gazebo behind the palace and kissed me senseless. We were both breathing hard when he pulled away.
“I’ll be back for you before you know it,” he had whispered in my ear. “No matter where I go, I’ll always be back for my Diya.”
Dheer was a man of his word. I knew he was going to come back for me. And I knew he’d ask me to marry him tonight at the party because what could be more romantic than a handsome prince claiming his bride in public?
In the olden days, said prince would create quite a spectacle when he rode into the durbar on his favourite horse and demanded to marry the woman he loved. For what was romance without a good spectacle? The boring, unvarnished truth of an arranged marriage could hardly be immortalised in a painting or tapestry.
I sighed as I realised that Dheer would never make a spectacle of himself. He wouldn’t come to me on a horse. He would probably show up on his latest motorcycle.
I felt a delicious shudder wrack my body at the thought of riding away into the sunset on the back of his monster motorcycle. Fine! Maybe motorcycles were way more romantic than horses and way less smelly.
Of course, I was too young to get married right away, but I couldn’t wait to be formally engaged to Dheer. He was my best friend, my partner in crime. He was also the first boy I had ever kissed. And he would be the last because Dheer and I were meant to be forever. I couldn’t see myself loving anyone the way I loved him.
Sure, my brother, Ranveer, rolled his eyes when I spoke of my love for Dheer. That’s because they were best friends. Dheer and Veer were the Jai and Veeru of the princely states of Trikhera and Jadhwal. Erstwhile princely states, I corrected. It was very important to use the right words.
My father, His Highness Raghuveer Singh Sisodia, was the Maharana of Jadhwal. Dheer’s father, His Highness Mayur Singh Shekhawat, was the Maharaja of Trikhera until his sudden death a year ago. He was also the sitting MP for Trikhera. Veer and Dheer were very close and when my father decided to send Veer to Eton when he was thirteen, Dheer insisted on going there as well. Meanwhile, his sister, Isha, and I were stuck in one of the premier girls’ boarding schools in India with teachers who kept a stern eye on us because Rajput princesses were guarded more closely than the British crown jewels.
We weren’t daughters. We were bargaining chips. Pawns in the giant game of chess that our parents played against the world. I was lucky to be marrying the man I loved, I reminded myself.
“Did Dheer say anything to you?” asked Ma, as she brought the pallu of my pastel pink poshak over my head, draped it over my right shoulder and pinned it in place with a diamond and emerald brooch.
I picked up my favourite tan Sabyasachi belt and began winding it around my waist, but my mother grabbed it out of my hands.
“Are you crazy? Why are you wearing a leather belt over your outfit?”
“Trust me, Ma. It will set off the gold zardosi in the poshak.”
“I don’t care,” screeched my mother. “You are a Rajput princess, and you will dress like one. Don’t make me whip you with that belt, Diya.”
I snorted at the very idea.
“I’d like to see you try,” I dared her, knowing my father would never allow it.
I was my father’s princess, and my mother would never dare to cross that line, no matter how upset she was. To be honest, it didn’t take much to make my mother upset. She refused to even consider therapy for her anger management issues and spent her days going around in a cloud of fury. I tried to stay out of her way most days, but on days like this, I just couldn’t avoid her.
She rolled up the belt and threw it across the room as hard as she could and I winced at the sound of the solid gold buckle shaped like a Bengal tiger hitting the wall.
