The Reading of the Will

The Main Hall – Rajgarh Palace

The chandeliers burned bright, casting a golden glow over the towering columns of the grand hall. It was a room meant to display power, meant to remind anyone who entered that Rajgarh was not just a relic of the past—it was a dynasty.

Tonight, however, the air felt thick with something else. Expectation. Suspicion. The quiet hum of whispers from the gathered elite—nobles, ministers, and trusted advisors—filled the space like an electric charge waiting to snap.

At the center of it all sat Aryan Singh.

Dressed in a crisp black bandhgala, his posture was perfectly composed, but his knuckles were taut against the armrest of his chair. He scanned the room, his sharp gaze lingering on familiar faces—the aging ministers who had served his father for decades, the distant relatives who had arrived like vultures at the scent of death, the lawyers standing stiffly by the podium.

And then there was his grandmother.

Rajmata Devyani sat beside him, draped in an ivory silk saree, her silver bangles clinking as she adjusted the folds. She was unnervingly still, her expression unreadable as she watched the lead attorney—Arvind Kapoor—step forward with a thick, bound document in his hands.

"The final will and testament of His Majesty, Maharaja Vikram Singh," Kapoor announced, his voice carrying over the hushed silence.

A ripple of tension passed through the hall.

"Before we begin," Kapoor continued, adjusting his spectacles, "I must clarify that His Majesty updated this document six months ago. The details of this will supersede any prior legal declarations regarding succession."

Aryan’s brows furrowed. Six months ago?

His father never mentioned any new arrangements. The last time they discussed the future of Rajgarh, Vikram had been clear—Aryan was to inherit everything.

So why had that changed?

Kapoor cleared his throat and began reading:

"To my beloved wife, Sudha Singh, I leave the estate in Jaipur and the jewelry collection belonging to her lineage, along with an annual trust to support her personal endeavors."

A few scattered nods. No surprises there.

"To Rajmata Devyani Singh, I leave the ancestral palace, along with the governing rights over the royal trust. Her wisdom has guided this family for decades, and it is my wish that she continues to oversee matters of heritage and tradition."

Devyani remained impassive, her fingers lightly tapping against the silk of her saree.

"To my son, Aryan Singh—"

Aryan straightened, his pulse steady but expectant.

"—I leave the business empire of Rajgarh Holdings, including all shares, assets, and directorial control over its future operations."

There was a murmur of approval. It was expected. Rajgarh Holdings was vast—spanning real estate, luxury goods, and international investments. It was a fortune in itself.

But something felt off.

The crown. The title. Those words had not been spoken yet.

Kapoor turned the page, adjusting his glasses again before reading the next line. And that was when the air shifted.

"As for the throne of Rajgarh…"

A pause. A breath. The moment before the storm.

*"I name my rightful heir as—Meera Sharma."

The world stopped.

For a second, it felt as though the entire palace had been swallowed by silence. A silence so deep, so unnatural, that Aryan almost questioned whether he had heard correctly.

Then, all at once—

"WHAT?"

Aryan shot to his feet, his chair scraping against the marble floor. His voice rang through the hall, raw with disbelief. Meera Sharma? A name he had never even heard before?

His gaze snapped to Kapoor, who looked rattled but determined to continue.

"This is a mistake," Aryan said sharply, stepping forward. "Read that again."

Kapoor hesitated. "It is clearly stated, Your Highness." He lifted the document, steadying his voice. "Maharaja Vikram Singh has legally declared Meera Sharma as his chosen successor to the Rajgarh throne."

Murmurs exploded across the room.

"Who is she?" someone whispered.

"An illegitimate daughter?" another voice speculated.

"This is impossible," a minister muttered under his breath.

Aryan barely heard them. His pulse thundered in his ears, his fists tightening at his sides.

"This is wrong." His voice was low but dangerous. "My father wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave the throne to a stranger."

Devyani finally spoke. "Who is she?" Her voice, calm yet cutting, sliced through the chaos.

Kapoor exhaled. "Meera Sharma is a journalist based in Mumbai."

Aryan stilled.

A journalist?

Not a noble. Not a hidden royal bloodline. Not even someone remotely connected to their world.

This was madness.

"What is her relation to my father?" Aryan demanded.

Kapoor hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.

"That information is sealed under His Majesty’s request," he said. "It is to be revealed only to Ms. Sharma herself."

Aryan’s breath caught. Sealed? A decision so monumental, so utterly insane—yet his father had left behind no explanation for the family?

He turned sharply to Devyani, expecting her to demand the same answers. But she didn’t move. Her face remained stone.

She knew.

The realization struck Aryan like a thunderclap. His grandmother—his father’s most trusted confidante—she already knew something.

And she had chosen to say nothing.

The murmurs in the room grew into full-blown arguments, ministers demanding clarity, distant cousins expressing outrage, the legal team looking as though they wanted to flee.

But Aryan heard none of it.

His father’s voice rang in his memory, words from a long-forgotten conversation.

"Sometimes, the greatest truths are the ones we are least prepared to face."

A bitter taste filled Aryan’s mouth.

He needed answers.

And there was only one person who could give them to him.

Mumbai – 800 Kilometers Away

Far from the grandeur of Rajgarh, Meera Sharma sat in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment, typing furiously on her laptop. The newsroom had been chaotic all day, and she was running on three cups of coffee and an unfinished article on corporate fraud.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

She ignored it.

Then, another buzz. This time, a text.

URGENT. You must come to Rajgarh immediately. The Maharaja’s will has named you his heir.

Meera frowned.

Then, laughed.

"This has to be a prank," she muttered, setting her phone down.

She had no connection to royalty. No claim to a throne.

And yet—far away, in a palace built on power and secrets—her name had just changed history.

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