The Prince's Fury

Inside the Royal Palace – Moments After the Will’s Reading

The grand hall of Rajgarh Palace was no longer a place of quiet mourning. It had erupted into chaos.

Ministers whispered furiously among themselves. Distant relatives—some of whom Aryan hadn’t seen in years—were already debating legal loopholes. The trusted advisors who had served his father sat in stunned silence, their expressions carefully masked.

But Aryan?

Aryan was a storm waiting to explode.

"This is nonsense," he spat, pacing the length of the hall like a caged tiger. "You expect me to believe my father—the Maharaja of Rajgarh—left his throne to a woman he never even mentioned?"

His voice echoed through the room, bouncing off marble columns and intricate tapestries. Every eye in the palace was on him, waiting for his reaction, but he didn’t care.

Because this was wrong.

This was impossible.

His father had trained him for this role his entire life. His entire life.

And now? Now, everything was being handed to some unknown journalist?

"I refuse to accept this," Aryan said, his voice lower now, but no less deadly. He turned toward the family’s legal counsel. "Kapoor, is there a way to challenge this will?"

Kapoor hesitated. "Legally, the will was drafted and signed under proper procedure—"

"That wasn’t my question," Aryan cut in. "I asked if it can be challenged."

Kapoor exhaled, glancing nervously at Devyani before speaking. "It would be difficult, Your Highness. Your father’s wishes were clearly stated, and the succession clause is binding unless proven fraudulent."

"Then I will prove it," Aryan said without hesitation.

Another wave of murmurs rippled through the room. Aryan barely heard them. His mind was already racing, assembling the pieces of a puzzle that shouldn’t even exist.

There had to be an explanation.

A mistake. A forgery. Something.

Because his father wouldn’t do this to him.

He wouldn’t.

"You’re being emotional."

The voice was sharp, controlled. Aryan turned to see Devyani watching him, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"This is not emotion," Aryan shot back. "This is common sense. Do you honestly believe my father would leave his kingdom to a woman no one has ever heard of?"

Devyani’s expression did not change. "Your father always had his reasons."

Aryan let out a humorless laugh. "Right. And did he share those reasons with you?"

A flicker of something crossed Devyani’s face—something unreadable. Then, she looked away.

She knows something.

Aryan’s jaw tightened. His grandmother was the most formidable woman he had ever known. If she did know something, dragging it out of her would be like trying to move a mountain with his bare hands.

But he wasn’t going to stop.

He turned back to Kapoor. "Where is this Meera Sharma?"

Kapoor adjusted his glasses. "In Mumbai, Your Highness. She has not yet been informed."

"Then we inform her," Aryan said darkly. "I want her here in Rajgarh. Immediately."

Kapoor hesitated. "You wish to summon her?"

"No," Aryan said, his voice laced with ice. "I want to see her reaction when she learns she’s been given a crown she doesn’t deserve."

Mumbai – The Next Morning

Meera Sharma was running late.

She swore under her breath as she weaved through Mumbai’s crowded streets, dodging slow-moving rickshaws and impatient pedestrians. The heat was relentless, the traffic even worse, and she could already hear her editor’s voice ringing in her ears.

"Sharma, if you don’t get that corporate fraud piece in today, don’t bother coming in tomorrow!"

She clutched her laptop bag tighter.

Her life was a mess—a half-written article, three unpaid bills, and a refrigerator that contained nothing but a bottle of water and two slices of stale bread.

And yet, somehow, she was supposed to believe she was royalty?

She let out a laugh just thinking about it.

Because that message from last night? That had to be a joke.

She hadn’t even read the whole thing, but the words were ridiculous enough—You have been named heir to the Rajgarh throne.

Yeah, right. And she was also secretly the Queen of England.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.

Annoyed, she pulled it out. Unknown Number.

She rolled her eyes but answered anyway. "Whoever you are, if this is about a scam, I swear—"

"Meera Sharma?"

The voice on the other end was sharp, clipped, and dangerously precise.

Meera hesitated. "Who’s asking?"

"This is Aryan Singh of Rajgarh," the man said. "You and I need to talk."

Meera frowned. Aryan Singh? The name sounded familiar. And then—

Wait.

The Prince of Rajgarh?

She nearly tripped over her own feet. "Is this a joke?"

"It’s not," Aryan said coldly. "And I suggest you take this seriously, because whether you like it or not, you’ve been named my father’s heir."

Meera blinked. "Your what?"

"The Maharaja’s will has declared you his successor," Aryan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I don’t know who you are or why my father named you, but I intend to find out."

Meera stopped walking. The street noise around her seemed to fade into the background.

This… this wasn’t a prank?

Her stomach twisted. "There must be some mistake," she said.

"I agree," Aryan said flatly. "Which is why you need to come to Rajgarh—now."

Meera exhaled. "Look, I don’t know what kind of mess this is, but I have a job, I have responsibilities, and—"

"Leave them," Aryan interrupted.

Meera scowled. "Excuse me?"

"You’re part of this now," Aryan said. "Whether you accept it or not."

Meera could feel her pulse quicken. "And what if I don’t come?"

There was a pause. Then, Aryan spoke, his voice soft but dangerous.

"Then I’ll come to you," he said. "And I promise, you won’t like that."

Meera’s grip tightened around her phone.