The Prince of Mewargarh looked out the window, lazily swirling a glass of brandy. He much preferred the solitude of the Palace over the hustle bustle of the Raisinghania Mansion. When he looked out the window of his palatial home, he could see vast swaths of the countryside. He could make out the colours of the setting sun, the hues of orange, fiery red, a slight hint of purple, a bold brush of yellow…It stirred something inexplicable in his heart. Like the brush of something pure, entirely untouched by artifice.
Now, looking out the window, Vansh could see the busy lanes of Arthur’s Street. The colourful ripple of pretty dresses donned by young ladies, the dapper gentlemen who escorted them. Swanky cars passing by, pedigreed dogs being taken for their walks. Everything was luxurious and perfect…and a bloody sham.
Vansh gulped a mouthful of the amber liquid, an expression of distaste on his visage. He wanted to go back to his real home. Away from the façade that was Arthur’s Street and its occupants. But his obligation to wed a suitable lady and secure his lineage kept him tied to the house he could never find peace in.
Raisinghania Mansion was where his parents had settled after their wedding. They had built a home here, filled it with laughter and happiness. Often Vansh ran through the video tapes of his mother, just to hear her loud carefree giggles, a manner most unbecoming for a gently bred lady. But Aastha Raisinghania had been unconventional; an Incomparable of her time, a term coined by society for the most promising debutante of the year. A stunning woman with a sharp wit, who blossomed under her doting husband’s love.
When he watched the tapes of his parents’ wedding, he could see why Viren Raisinghania had never allowed anyone else into his heart. Despite his various dalliances, the man seemed to live in the past when it came to love. And who could blame him? Who could forget that mischievous twinkle, that unassuming grace, the sheer devotion and love of a woman like Aastha? As far as his father was concerned, he had brought a burning orb to his home whose memories still enveloped him like star dust.
It was poetic, probably whimsical. But for a pragmatic influential family, the Raisinghanias had a history of believing in the magic of love. As his grandmother loved to remind him – A Raisinghania only falls in love once, and it would be for always.
The saying had comforted Vansh as a child, even though he had never known his mother. It meant that she was special and irreplaceable in their lives, no matter how many women his father dallied with over the years.
Glimpses of his mother in photographs, videos, anecdotal snippets of her life from those who had known her, gave him the solace that he too would have been loved had she survived his birth. That she would forgive him for ripping through her body. That she looked after him still, from whichever afterlife she reigned in. For reign she would, he was sure of that. Aastha had been a force to be reckoned with.
Vansh wished Viren Raisinghania had felt the comfort of her presence in the early years of her demise. The dark spiral his father had descended to, was the reason Vansh hated the Raisinghania Mansion so much. It was a mark of all the nights a nanny had put him to bed, while his father drowned himself in copious amounts of liquor. It reminded him of a distracted pat on the cheek as Viren stumbled across the hall, drunk and obnoxious. He never sullied the place by bringing his amorous dalliances home, but Vansh remembered waiting for days before his father deigned to make an appearance, smelling of a new woman’s perfume every time.
It had taken his grandmother to finally put her foot down and declare moving permanently into residence, that brought Viren out of his drunken stupor. For if he feared anything in this world, it was living with the formidable Leela Raisinghania under one roof. The old harridan had put her son through the paces, bullying him into regular doctor visits and raising Vansh with firm discipline laced with stiff lipped love.
And so, he loved her to death and tolerated her meddlesome ways; enough to accede to her wishes of finding a wife in the banal arms of this privileged society. As per her logic, this was tradition and all Raisinghania wives, including herself, had come from the “good stock” of Arthur’s Street.
It is almost like magic, Leela Raisinghania declared often. In all my years, I cannot recall even one generation finding a partner elsewhere.
How would they, Vansh mused in exasperation. When the Raisinghania women keep bullying the bachelors into the voluptuous folds of this insipid society.
His grandmother skillfully managed to appear both bull-headed and frail; one of the reasons why he was acceding to her wishes.
He lit up a cigar, drawing the heady smoke into his lungs. His lawyer would be here any minute now. The sooner he was done with the tedious job of finding a bride, the earlier he could head back home.
* * *
Riddhima stopped in her tracks, her gaze drawn towards the entertainment parlour. Servants were rushing about, clearing away the remnants of evening snacks and tea. Had guests come home? This was surprising. Considering that families were giving Bungalow 9 a wide berth, she couldn’t fathom the reason for a social call today.
It had been a matter of great mortification for her parents to find their friends deserting them. As the Kapoor influence declined, so did social visits in the once bustling parlour of Shilpa Kapoor. With her brother’s medical ambitions striking him off the eligible bachelors’ list and her own less than remarkable pedigree, she wasn’t surprised at the fickleness. It was no secret that their family fortunes were dwindling and that her father was an aged Bollywood star, who could only ride on his former fame for so long.
As far as she was concerned, they still maintained a decent position in society, if not a coveted one. The Kapoors were a respectable family and they won’t be shunned per se, more like fade into the background with time…Unless she made an influential match in the marriage mart. Which, courtesy a certain Prince’s public attentions towards her, shouldn’t be very difficult to secure. She wondered if it had been one of her many suitors who had paid a visit today. Why that thought should strike fear in her heart was something Riddhima did not want to contemplate.
“Ah, there you are, my darling!”
She stopped in her tracks, staring agape at her mother. Shilpa Kapoor was descending the stairs with queenly grace. Decked up in a maroon chiffon gown with her dark hair curled stylishly, she looked too over dressed for a simple high tea. The fact that her dour faced mother was beaming alarmed Riddhima more than her attire.
“You look…”she fumbled for the right words. “…so radiant and-and enchanting, Mom.”
For a moment, Shilpa looked pleased at the compliment. Adjusting her coiffure, she fixated her sharp eyes on her daughter’s attire. “Thank you, my dear. The gown is an Alexis Shane creation. But why are you dressed like something the cat dragged in?”
As Riddhima was still wearing Vansh’s coat, with damp hair framing her face like a mop, she found the remark to be an understatement. On any other day, at any other time, she would have been subjected to the dressing down of her life for being so shabbily turned out. But her mother appeared to be in a better mood this evening. Thank heavens for small mercies.
Before she could open her mouth, Shilpa brushed off the explanation like it was a pesky fly. “No matter, no matter, dear. I have some exciting news to tell you.” In another uncharacteristic display of affection, she placed her bony hands on Riddhima’s shoulders. Her hazel eyes glittered with happiness. “I don’t know what you did to turn that Shishir boy’s head, but the hoity toity Mrs. Bhaskar has offered for you!”
She squeezed her shoulder, even as full-fledged dread roiled in Riddhima’s stomach. “Isn’t this positively miraculous?! It was such a sight to see that lofty woman hem and haw before grudgingly spitting out her proposal. Oh, darling, you have made me so happy today!”
As her mother hugged her for the first time in years, she struggled to keep a grasp on reality. Shishir Bhaskar wanted to marry her? Why? What had she ever done to convey her interest in him? Her stomach churned as she remembered his pasty-faced countenance at the Debutante’s ball.
“My mother has become quite picky suddenly. But don’t you worry. I will put in a good word for you tonight.”
Was it possible that the smug jackass had assumed her open-mouthed stupefaction for permission? Or did he think her consent wasn’t necessary at all?
Disentangling herself, Riddhima watched her mother’s face warily. “I’m sorry, Mom. I have to refuse.”
Her soft words sounded like a thunderclap in the empty hall. Shilpa’s eyes widened disbelievingly, a hand dramatically rising to her rosebud mouth. “Dearest-” She croaked, and then cleared her throat. “What-what did you say?”
Clutching the coat closer in trepidation, Riddhima repeated the damning words. “I refuse to marry Shishir, Mom.” She looked at her in mute appeal. “You don’t know him. He is the most…obnoxious person I have ever met! I can’t marry him. Please…please don’t make me. You don’t understand-“
“I don’t understand?” The menacing hiss sent a shudder through Riddhima. Her mother could be truly frightening when angry. “Do you even know what you are saying, you naïve child? Do you think we are in any position to refuse this coveted match?” She grabbed her daughter’s wrist roughly, apoplectic rage making the muscles under her eyes twitch. “Come with me! Let your father also witness what an ungrateful brat we have raised!”
“Mom, what are you doing?! For heaven’s sake-” Riddhima tugged at her captive wrist, wincing as Shilpa’s nails dug punishingly into her skin. She was unceremoniously pulled up the stairs, her protests falling on deaf ears. A vase overturned as they rounded the landing, the loud noise warning the lingering servants to retire from the brewing storm.
She stared in despair at the approaching rosewood door of her father’s study. He would likely take her side as per usual but be disappointed within. She hadn’t wanted to break this kind of news to him in this manner, but her mother loved a good scene when provoked.
Before they could knock, the door opened, her brother’s curious face poking out. Riddhima groaned inwardly. Why did he have to be studying in that room this evening? His presence would only worsen the situation. Since the day he had expressed his desire to be a doctor, his busy schedule had kept him away from their mother’s recriminations. There would be no escaping today.
Aman Kapoor looked from his sister’s frightened visage to his mother’s heightened colour, a sense of foreboding rushing through him. “What was that noise, Mom? Did something fall?” Soft brown eyes landed on Shilpa’s death grip on Riddhima’s wrist and widened in alarm. “Why are you holding Ridzy like that?” A panicked edge crept into his gentle voice. “Mom, for fuck’s sake-“
“Mind your language, boy. I didn’t raise a villager in this house,” Shilpa barked, marching past him into the room. Riddhima stumbled over the plush carpet’s edge, managing to finally pull her hand free. She glanced at her wrist, the imprint of nails stirring resentment in her chest. Aman came to stand beside her, squeezing her shoulder in support.
“Shilpa? Riddhima?” came Pritam’s annoyed tenor. “What are you two doing here?”
At the sight of her father seated at the bar, she made a strangled sound and ran towards him. He stood quickly in alarm, engulfing her in his huge pillow-like arms. “Hush, my little girl. Sssshhh…Don’t fret. Papa will make it okay,” he whispered in his trademark gruff voice. Riddhima swallowed past a lump in her throat. It had been a while since he had spoken to her this way.
She had come to this room often as a child, cuddling up in her favourite armchair as her Papa read to her. Before it became a haven for Pritam’s priced liquors, the room had been used only for the purpose of family gatherings. She remembered many an evening spent playing with Aman, while their parents bickered over chess.
When did everything change? When did the blue and cream furnishings of the room become a dark ombre, strictly meant for entertaining? What happened to her favourite armchair and the long lingering hugs followed by playful tickles?
A tear slipping past her eye, she held onto him tighter like she could capture those memories and bring them to the present day. He had stopped hugging her after she turned 13, following societal decorum towards young daughters. Pritam Kapoor smelled entirely of whiskey and cigars, a scent she had found comforting from childhood. How she wished she had never grown up…how she wanted to go back to simpler times, when she could seek her father’s arms without judgement.
“What is it, sweet dove?” His plump palm patted her head lovingly. “Why are you crying?”
“Papa, I-“
“Yes, girl,” She flinched at her mother’s cutting voice. “Why don’t you tell your father what an ungrateful brat you are?”
“That’s enough, Shilpa” Pritam’s voice rumbled against her ear. He continued patting her head. “Tell me, sweetling. What’s wrong?”
“Papa…” Riddhima sniffled, wiping at the tear streaks on her cheeks. “I won’t marry Shishir. I can’t. Papa, he is awful! I could never be happy with him.”
“Shishir?”His hand stilled its ministrations. “The son of Ajit Bhaskar, the steel magnate?” At her nod, he looked over her head at his wife. “When did this happen?”
“Today. I was coming to tell you…” Shilpa sighed, rubbing her throbbing temples. “The Bhaskars have offered for our Riddhima. Can you believe it?! This is such a splendid chance…But this girl wants to put us on the streets! Oh Pritam, what are we going to do?”
Her father extricated himself from her gently. He caught her chin, making wounded doe eyes meet his. “Why do you refuse this match, my dear? The Bhaskars are an illustrious family. You know their son since childhood. We even live in the same neighbourhood! This is more than what we could hope for, Riddhu! Don’t you see that?”
Feeling cornered, Riddhima eyed him beseechingly. “I thought you will understand,” she whispered in a small voice. “It is not about their wealth and the distance from our home. Papa…I don’t feel for him. I know Shishir from childhood and don’t even like him! How can I accept becoming his wife?”
The very thought of it made her nauseous, but that was hardly something she could verbalize without being unkind.
To her surprise, Pritam guffawed loudly. He ruffled her hair, ambling back towards the bar like a weary hibernating bear. She glanced back at Aman, who looked as stupefied as she felt. Her mother crossed her arms, managing to appear both forbidding and supremely bored.
There was silence as he poured his drink, some of the amber liquid spilling onto the counter. “You young chits,” he chortled as if to himself, taking a long sip and sighing in pleasure. “Always wanting handsome Princes and everlasting love. I told your mother not to let you delve too much into those romantic novels, but she was too indulgent.” Wagging a plump finger, he looked back at his wife, cheeks flushed from the liquor. “Now you come to me, expecting me to handle this. No no, Shilpa dear. You will take care of this situation. Make no mistake about that.”
“Wonderful,” Shilpa let out a long-suffering sigh. “That’s awfully convenient, isn’t it, darling? The one time I ask you to step up for your children, you choose to linger in your cups again.”
He gave her a lopsided smile, raising his glass mockingly. “And the one time you need explain the real world to your daughter like a mother, you choose to be a shrew instead. Cheers to us,” He gulped down the drink, reaching for another. “We always disappoint each other, don’t we, my love?”
“Mom, Dad…”Aman glanced from one parent to the other in disbelief. “What is the matter with both of you? Ridzy doesn’t want to marry Shishir. I know him. He is a pompous prick! We surely can’t be thinking to force her into a wedding.”
Shilpa levelled him one of her icy glares. “And so, bleats the black sheep of the family. Tell me, boy. Is it not enough that we suffer because of you? You want to pull your sister onto the streets too, with your other doctor friends?”
“Mom! No one’s going out on the streets! Stop it,” Riddhima breathed in outrage. A flicker of hurt reflected on her younger brother’s visage, raising her hackles. Aman was barely 18 and slogged like a mule trying to fulfil his dream. While other boys his age partied and courted beautiful girls, he spent most waking moments preparing for his entrance or assisting the local physician on his rounds.
“It’s fine, Ridzy,” his smile wobbled slightly. “Don’t bother. I am accustomed to these taunts.” Striding towards her, he wrapped an arm around her affectionately. “When I become a doctor, you can come live with me. I will never force you into anything you don’t want to do. Except…” His brown eyes twinkled with merriment.”…for making me your famous apple tarts, of course.”
“Of course,” Riddhima rolled her eyes, elbowing him playfully in the tummy.
Shilpa gave a short laugh at their exchange, throwing up her hands in mock defeat. “Oh yes, my dears. Please do dream about your hovel in a neighbourhood filled with simpletons, spinsters and whores. Don’t look so shocked. It’s only the reality. Do you even know what a doctor in Arthur’s Street makes on a good day?”
Aman stiffened in affront. “I may not be able to afford a lavish lifestyle, but I will earn enough to provide for all of us, Mom.” His tone had a serrated edge. “I want to practice medicine and heal people. It’s a noble, respectable profession. How are you not proud of me? That’s surely better than sitting on my arse and waiting for my wife’s dowry, like the other boys you want me to emulate!”
“No, it isn’t!” Pritam Kapoor roared suddenly, making everyone jump. “Your fucking noble profession doesn’t pay our goddamn bills!” In one mighty swoop, he swept the empty glasses off the table. Riddhima cried in shock as shards of glass flew across the floor. Aman stumbled backwards, his mouth agape. Their father staggered to his feet, pure rage on his features. “Do you think your fees will pay for this mortgaged house? I will knock these flighty illusions out of your fucking head, boy!”
He strode violently towards Aman, striking fear into the deepest parts of her being. “Papa, no!” She intercepted him swiftly, placing a placating hand on his heaving chest. “Please. Control yourself, Papa! You will hurt someone!”
“You dare-“
“Pritam!”
The next few moments were those that would haunt Riddhima for years to come.
She heard a scramble of feet and shouts behind her. Her mother pushed her out of the way of her father’s descending hand. Just as she hit the floor, the resounding sound of a slap rang through the surroundings. When she turned back, Aman was clutching a crimson cheeked Shilpa upright, both staring in shock at the unrecognizable man they all loved.
“Papa,” Riddhima burst into sudden tears, her heart breaking into tiny inconsolable pieces. “What have you done…How could you…” Her father’s bloodshot eyes met hers, remorse and fear shining in their depths.
“Riddhu…” He stumbled forward, extending a hand to her. “I swear I didn’t mean to-“
“Go away.” Her words were oddly quiet, a deathly chill in the dark room. “Go and drink yourself to death if you want to.” Lips curling in disgust, Riddhima eyes held a fierce protectiveness. “But if you raise a hand to any of us again…I will tell the world that the great Pritam Kapoor is just a penniless drunkard, submerged to his ears in production debt. Do you think your beloved fans can take it?”
He straightened at her verbal blow, a pained look on features that resembled hers. She watched him go, feeling like something ugly had shattered all her childhood illusions.
* * *
“How about Ayesha Anand? She is beautiful, comes from old money, is not overtly tall, can converse in more than two languages, likes horses and doesn’t smile like Mrs. Das, your high school teacher,” deadpanned his lawyer friend Aditya Ahuja, sliding over the sixth picture across to his friend.
Vansh passed it a cursory glance before flicking it into the rejected pile. “Too perfect. How did her husband die?”
“Her 70-year-old husband passed away, believe it or not, after slipping on a banana feel. Poor man died of a bad concussion, leaving her with boatloads of riches and freedom at the tender age of 22,” Aditya finished with flourish.
“Sounds like a spoilt brat with daddy issues.”
Aditya quirked a brow, hiding his smile behind a drag of smoke. “I was wondering what excuse you would come up with for this one. Pretty impressive, I must say.”
“What do you mean?” murmured the Prince of Mewargarh distractedly, eyeing the blinking light of his desk phone.
“You don’t want to get married, Vansh. Admit it. It will save us both time.”
Dark eyes snapped up, fingers drumming impatiently on the oak table. “And pray tell, what is giving you that impression?”
Aditya gazed pointedly at the stack of rejected pictures. “I came up with a list of suitable women, all widowed with a genteel disposition like you wanted. But you have managed to reject most of them for perfectly ridiculous reasons. What is this, my good man, if not a distaste for matrimony?” At his friend’s uncharacteristic silence, he followed his eyes to the persistently blinking phone light. “Why don’t you take that call?”
“Following protocol and waiting for my butler to announce the caller. He has the other line.” Vansh gave a self-deprecating half smile. “I guess I am becoming the royal popinjay everyone expects me to be.”
“Interesting,” mused Aditya, looking like the portrait of a gentleman at leisure. “I won’t call you a popinjay yet. You are more of a commitment phobe clutching at anything inane to avoid the topic of his nuptials. It becomes even more amusing when one considers that it was you who set the marital agenda of this meeting.”
“I swear I am not trying to waste your time, Adi.” The impatient drumming on the desk increased in intensity. “I really need your help to get my family off my back. They want me to wed an Arthur’s Street girl and get an heir, before my gambler brother tries to usurp the Raisinghania estates. This happens to be the only solution.”
“Really? Marrying a widow, specifically one you don’t care much about, is the solution? I fail to see the logic in that.”
“I refuse to despoil an innocent,” Vansh said simply, his fingers abruptly stopping the agitated beat. “These young ladies have fanciful notions of love that I want no part of. My grandparents had an arranged match and were happy together. I would prefer that very much.”
Aditya deliberated a moment, mentally picking apart the argument. “Weren’t your grandparents a love match? The way I hear it, your grandfather Vijay Raisinghania took one look at a young Leela Sisodia and pestered his Papa for months to send a formal proposal. They were married despite his family’s objections, as your grandmother did not have the acceptable dowry to marry into royalty. He fought against everyone to marry her. If that’s not true love, what is?”
Vansh pursed his lips sourly. “What is your bloody point?”
“Well, if the grapevine is anything to go by about a certain lady and you,” Aditya couldn’t hide his smirk this time. “then you probably ought to consider repeating history, my friend.”
“Miss Kapoor and I are mere acquaintances, Adi. You know that better than anyone.”
“I wasn’t talking about Riddhima.”
The men stared at each other, one chagrined and the other grinning from ear to ear. Vansh leaned forward irritably. “Then who in the goddamn world were you referring to?”
“Miss Deepali Dixit, of course,” Aditya answered smoothly, his voice dripping innocence. “I heard all about the Rani Maa’s matchmaking and the ensuing saga with the ladies this afternoon. Isn’t this the reason you called to draw up a marriage contract like the hounds of hell were yapping at your heels?”
Vansh kissed his teeth in frustration. “Which loudmouth tattled to you about that?”
“It’s Arthur’s Street,” Aditya shrugged. “Everyone’s a loudmouth. Word spread like wildfire about Miss Kapoor’s audacious horse race this afternoon. They say she was competing for your affections against Miss Dixit. People are calling her a hoyden and tutting over Pritam Kapoor’s ill fate with his two children. It didn’t help that the poor sod got into a public brawl with his business partners at the Shanghai Club this evening.”
The pure rage on Vansh’s face paused his dispassionate litany. He observed his friend’s clenched jaw, the glittering anger in dark eyes. “Pretentious arseholes,” Vansh growled, hands balled into tight fists. “They aren’t worth a tenth of Riddhima. Bloody jackals always ready to tear others apart. How I detest this place. I wish-“
The caller’s light lit up with a low trill, drawing both their gazes to the phone. Giving him an apologetic glance, Vansh picked up the receiver.
“Your Highness,” his butler breathed, sounding agitated. “I sincerely apologize for the interruption. A caller keeps dialing this number but never speaks. I tried to converse in four different languages, but they didn’t respond in even one. I have cajoled, pleaded and threatened but they continue to call insistently. I even…” He paused, sounding sheepish. “…I even pretended to be you once, but the only response I got for my efforts was a definitive scoffing. Now I usually refer all such prank calls to the authorities, but the caller ID reads as…as someone important-” He cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly ill at ease.
“I will take it,” Vansh interrupted, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Put them through to me when they call again.” Then, warmly, “And thank you, Joshi. You did a great job.”
Grinning to himself as he replaced the receiver, Vansh glanced up to find Aditya perusing him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Just wondering if you would choose a wife from this last stack of pictures,” Aditya flicked another set of prints towards him, his gaze turning speculative. “I assure you they are all lovely women and suitable to be royalty.”
“Adi, I-“
The phone rang softly. Both men lunged at it at the same time. Vansh stared at Aditya in astonishment, his hand caught under his on the receiver. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Is Miss Kapoor on this line?” he panted, preventing his friend from lifting the receiver. “If so, I want to tell her what a pig-headed Romeo you are.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Vansh tugged at his hand, scowling at Aditya.
“I have to make my billable hours count for something, my man,” he gritted out, holding tighter to the device.
“You bloody lunatic! Let it go.”
“All you have to do for me to leave is admit that you fancy Miss Kapoor and want to offer for her. It’s really that easy, Your Highness.”
“No fucking way,” Vansh snarled, backing out of their tussle suddenly. “I don’t fancy that woman. Do you want me to prove it to you?” Aditya cradled the phone tighter as a glowering Vansh leaned closer. He snatched the photo prints off on the table, mouth set in a grim straight line.
Picking up a random photograph from the pile, he placed it with flourish on the table. “There! I have decided. I will marry this one. Are you happy? Now get off the table and make yourself useful before I take you off retainer.”
“Empty threats, my friend,” Aditya sniggered, allowing Vansh to snatch the phone away. “We both know I am your precious.” Avoiding an incoming swat, he exited with a mocking salute.
He paused at the doorway, glancing at the woman in Vansh’s chosen photograph. Shoulders shaking in silent mirth, Aditya turned to stare at his preoccupied friend.
In his hand was the picture of Reject Number 6 – Ayesha Anand.
* * *
Riddhima played with the phone cord, certain that no one would pick up this time. She almost felt bad about troubling the butler, but it had been a welcome distraction to push the man from polished British English to a fumbling native colloquial. It had certainly made her smile when he had broken into an abysmal imitation of Vansh’s baritone.
The receiver clicked suddenly, making her start. “Hello. Good evening, this is Vansh Raisinghania.” The deep velvety sound rendered her frozen for a moment.
She opened and closed her mouth, a warm flushed feeling making her toes curl. Say something, her panicked mind screamed.
“Ahhhghh.” Riddhima clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Hello? Pardon, I couldn’t hear you.”
She cursed herself silently, praying that he pegged that absurd sound to a connection error. God, why did I have to call him?
“Miss Kapoor? Are you there?”
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Her eyes widened in panic. He knew it was her! Say something, for the love of God. Say something, woman!
“Unnhh,” Riddhima exhaled, pausing to clear her throat. “Am I audible now, Your Highness?” Her voice sounded high pitched, even to her own ears.
“Very much. I thought I lost you,” she could detect a smile in his smooth tenor. It set her heart fluttering like a hummingbird.
“Well…you didn’t,” she trailed away lamely, slapping a hand on her head. Where was eloquence when one needed it? “How did you know it was me?”
There was a pause. “I have all Arthur’s Street numbers fed into the calling system. When I saw the call is from your residence, I could only assume it was you.”
“Why? It could have been my Papa, wanting a favour from you.” She could have bitten her tongue, so upset was she with herself. The mere mention of her father pricked her already swollen eyes. She didn’t want to think of him right now. There was a plan and she was going to stick to it.
Vansh chuckled. “I’m certainly glad it wasn’t your father, little one. Tell me. What can I do for you?”
“I have a ruse to propose,” she told him breathily, casting her eyes at the bedroom door. “No one must know about it. Ever.”
“Colour me intrigued,” he drawled amusedly. “A ruse, is it? Aren’t you a feisty one!”
Riddhima rolled her eyes, relaxing at his teasing tone. “Are you coming to the party at Ivory Mansion tomorrow?”
“Yes. Don’t you want me to?”
“Au contraire,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “We have to take your feigned interest in me up a notch tomorrow. I need your help to make a boy back out from his proposal. Without the blame falling on me, of course.”
“Is someone pestering you, Riddhima?” A dangerous quality entered his tone.
“Well, yes…and no,” she fidgeted with her hands out of nervous habit. “He wants to marry me. I most certainly don’t. My parents think I should. But I can’t, I just can’t!” Her voice became a loud whisper. “I want more than this, Vansh. I want…I want…Do you understand?” There was a desperate plea in her words.
He was quiet for a moment, making her anxious. “You want love,” he finished flatly, his tone turning dull. “Is that it?”
“Is it too much to ask for?” She hated how she sounded almost apologetic.
Another pause. “No, I guess,” he sighed finally. “No, it’s not.”
“So you will help me?”
“To the best of my humble capacity,” the teasing note had returned, making her smile. “I will put the fear of God in that boy, whoever he is.”
“Oh, nothing quite so drastic as that,” she corrected hastily. “Just something to make him back off, so that I can find a suitable gentleman to wed instead. You have already made me so popular that I am fairly certain I shall meet someone more acceptable by the end of the week.”
“I like your confidence, Miss Kapoor. Do you fall in love so fast?”
“No, silly,” she gave a twinkling little laugh. “I have not the faintest idea of love. I just need to lock in on a good prospect, so that perhaps, some day I may feel something deeper for my husband.”
“Then it shall be my honour to help you with this worthy endeavour.”
“It’s a deal then. I am forever indebted to you, Vansh.” She spoke his given name softly this time, reverentially.
“I like the way you say my name,” he murmured, making butterflies flutter in her belly. “Wear something in red, little one. We shall give the performance of a lifetime.”
As she replaced the receiver, a huge smile lit up her face, despite her hurting heart.
It will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
***