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The palace transformed within minutes.

Servants ran across corridors with trays of marigolds and jasmine. The family priest was summoned. The courtyard was being prepared for a mandap under the open night sky.

And in the middle of that royal whirlwind stood Damini — equal parts thrilled and stunned.

Durga did not waste time.

“Call Mehra,” she instructed a maid. “Immediately.”

Within fifteen minutes, the palace’s trusted designer, Mr. Mehra, arrived in visible confusion, measuring tape draped around his neck.

“Rani Sa, you called?”

Durga nodded toward Damini.

“Yes. We have a bride for.”

Mehra blinked.

“Tonight”

His eyes widened.

“Tonight?” He squeaked.

“You have handled greater crises in this palace.” Durga’s expression remained composed. 

She turned to Damini, studying her thoughtfully.

“You will not wear anything ordinary.”

“Ji, Dadi Sa?” Damini straightened instinctively.

Durga smiled faintly at the way the title rolled off her tongue so naturally.

“Bring Jhanvi’s wedding lehenga,” Durga ordered calmly.

A sharp silence followed.

Even Mehra hesitated. “Rani Sa… that lehenga was preserved—”

“For a bride of this house,” Durga completed. “And she stands before us.”

Damini’s heart skipped.

Jhanvi’s wedding lehenga.

The legendary heirloom piece worn by Rajveer and Durga’s daughter-in-law decades ago — handcrafted, heritage embroidery, priceless zardozi work.

“Take her measurements,” Durga instructed.

“Please stand straight, ma’am.” Mehra hurried forward. 

Damini lifted her chin, barely containing her excitement as the measuring tape circled her waist, shoulders, arms.

Durga observed closely.

“Alter it to fit her perfectly,” she said. “No compromises. And do not touch the original embroidery.”

“Yes, Rani Sa.”

“And Mehra,” Durga added, her tone soft but commanding, “she must look like she was born to wear it.”

Damini couldn’t stop the grin spreading across her face.

“Oh, I intend to look exactly like that,” she muttered under her breath.

Durga heard it.

“Confidence is good.” Her eyes narrowed playfully.

“I have plenty,” Damini replied sweetly.

“Do you understand what you are stepping into, child?” Durga stepped closer, lowering her voice.

The question held weight now.

For a fraction of a second, Damini felt the reality of it all.

A royal wedding. In two hours.

Marriage. To Inder Ranawat.

She swallowed, then smiled.

“Yes.”

Durga studied her carefully.

“Fear?”

“A little,” Damini admitted honestly.

“Of Inder?”

Damini almost laughed.

“No.”

Durga raised an eyebrow.

“Of my jeeju,” Damini confessed dramatically. “He is stricter than my father. Paa will shout. Jeeju will give a two-hour lecture on responsibility, consequences, family honor—” she imitated a serious masculine tone so perfectly that even Mehra suppressed a chuckle.

“And yet you proceeded.” Durga looked amused. 

“He is a cutie pie,” Damini added quickly. “He will calm down after some advice and counsel. Maximum two hours.”

“I have yet to know about your family..” Durga pointed out..

“All in good time, dadi sa..” Damini said calmly.

Durga shook her head lightly, half disbelieving, half charmed.

“You are remarkably fearless.”

“No, Dadi Sa. I am strategic.” Damini’s eyes sparkled.

“Explain.” Durga folded her arms. 

Damini leaned in slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“All I have to do is make Inder fall in love with me before my family finds out.”

Durga blinked.

“That is all?”

“And,” Damini added thoughtfully, “I suppose I should fall in love with him too. Fair is fair.”

For a moment, Durga simply stared at her.

Then she laughed softly — a rare, genuine sound.

“You speak as if love is a task to be scheduled between tea and dinner.”

Damini tilted her head.

“Isn’t it?”

Durga’s eyes softened.

“Love does not bend so easily.”

Damini smiled, confident.

“It will.”

Inside, her thoughts were racing far more dramatically than her expression revealed.

Okay, maybe slightly terrifying.

But exciting.

Inder was not like the men she had known. He was sharp edges and controlled fire. Silence and storms beneath it.

But she had seen something else too.

Loneliness.

And she wasn’t afraid of storms.

If poles apart Drishti Di and Shravan Jeeju could fall in love, she could definitely manage Inder.

Opposites attract, right?

She folded her arms confidently.

“Yes,” she declared to herself silently. “This will work.”

Durga watched her for a long moment, as if trying to read the future written across her bright face.

“You are either going to heal him,” Durga murmured softly, “or drive him insane.”

“Why not both?” Damini grinned.

Durga shook her head, but there was unmistakable approval in her eyes.

“Very well,” she said firmly. “Let us get you ready, Damini soon to be Ranawat.”

The title settled between them.

And for the first time—

It didn’t feel impossible.

***

The palace courtyard shimmered under a canopy of stars.

A traditional Rajasthani mandap had been erected in the inner courtyard — carved pillars wrapped in marigold garlands, brass lamps flickering softly, rose petals scattered across white marble. The shehnai played gently in the background, its notes weaving through the cool desert night.

Only the family stood witness.

Inder adjusted the cuff of his sherwani, expression controlled — until she appeared.

Damini walked toward the mandap beside Durga.

And for one suspended moment—

Inder forgot to breathe.

She wore his mother’s wedding lehenga.

Deep crimson with intricate gold zardozi work that glowed beneath the lights. The heavy dupatta rested gracefully over her head, framing her face. Traditional kundan jewelry adorned her neck and wrists, but it was her eyes — kohled, luminous, alive — that undid him.

She wasn’t just beautiful.

She was breathtaking.

He had seen her earlier in blue and thought that was unfair.

This was catastrophic.

Yash leaned closer, following Inder’s line of sight.

“Close your mouth,” he muttered casually.

Inder didn’t respond.

“You are drooling,” Yash added helpfully.

That snapped him out of it.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are. For someone calling this a business contract marriage, you are looking very emotionally invested.”

“Be quiet.” Inder shot him a warning glare. 

“Relax. I would stare too if my ‘contract bride’ looked like that.” Yash grinned. 

Inder’s jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed him — drifting back to her again.

Damini’s gaze lifted and met his.

And she smiled.

Soft. Knowing.

As if she had caught him staring.

Inder straightened immediately.

Yash chuckled under his breath.

The priest began chanting mantras, the sacred fire crackling to life between them.

They exchanged varmala first — Damini lifting the garland gracefully, Inder lowering his head just slightly to make it easier for her. A faint murmur rippled through the family.

Then came the kanyadaan, Durga and Rajveer symbolically offering her hand into Inder’s.

Inder felt the warmth of Damini’s fingers in his palm.

Steady.

Unshaking.

The pheras followed — seven sacred circles around the fire. With each round, the priest recited vows of companionship, strength, prosperity, loyalty.

Damini walked beside him confidently, her lehenga brushing softly against his steps.

Not hesitant.

Not unsure.

When the moment came, Inder lifted the mangalsutra and tied it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin briefly.

She inhaled sharply.

Then he filled her hairline with sindoor.

The red streak against her hairline sealed it.

“From this moment,” the priest declared, “you are husband and wife.”

A soft murmur of blessings followed. The sacred fire crackled gently as Damini and Inder sat side by side — no longer strangers bound by urgency, but partners bound by ritual.

Durga stepped forward.

In her hands was a velvet case.

Inder noticed it instantly.

His breath stilled.

Durga opened it slowly.

Inside lay an exquisite tiara — delicate yet commanding, crafted in fine rose gold, studded with brilliant diamonds and deep emeralds that caught the firelight and scattered it like stars.

Jhanvi Ranawat’s tiara.

Inder’s late mother had worn it on her wedding day.

The courtyard grew even quieter.

Durga turned toward Damini.

“This,” she said softly, “belongs to the Ranawat daughter-in-law.”

Damini’s eyes widened slightly. For the first time that night, she looked overwhelmed.

“Dadi Sa…” she whispered.

Durga stepped closer and gently adjusted Damini’s dupatta. Her fingers were steady as she lifted the tiara.

“For years,” she continued, her voice carrying both memory and strength, “this has waited.”

Inder watched, something unfamiliar tightening in his chest.

Durga placed the tiara carefully over Damini’s head.

It settled perfectly — diamonds glinting against her dark hair, emeralds enhancing the richness of her bridal red.

And suddenly—

She didn’t just look like a bride.

She looked like a queen.

Inder’s gaze lifted slowly, almost reverently.

He had thought she was breathtaking before.

This—

This stole the air from his lungs.

For a brief second, memory and present blurred. His mother’s laughter. Her warmth.

And now Damini, sitting in the same place, wearing the same heirloom — but with her own fire, her own light.

Durga adjusted the tiara one last time, then cupped Damini’s face gently.

“Welcome to the Ranawat family,” she said.

Inder swallowed.

Yash leaned toward him again, unable to resist.

“You are staring. Again.”

Inder didn’t even look at him this time.

“Be quiet, Yash.”

But his eyes never left his wife.

The moment the tiara settled on her head, Damini nearly squealed.

An actual tiara.

Not the plastic kind from childhood games. Not the one jeeju gifted her that didn’t come with a title. Not a dramatic fantasy. A real one — diamonds, emeralds, history… and a royal title attached to it.

Princess Damini Inder Ranawat.

Oh, this was delicious.

Somewhere inside, her inner child was twirling in victory. From sneaking extra desserts at home to accidentally becoming royalty in two hours — what a plot twist.

Focus, Damini.

Queen later. Fall in love first.

But still…

She had to admit—

This drama? Totally worth it.

A/N

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