The Journalist's Nightmare

Mumbai – The Morning Chaos

Meera Sharma sat frozen on the edge of her bed, her phone still clutched in her hand.

The call from Prince Aryan Singh echoed in her mind.

"You have been named my father’s heir."

"Come to Rajgarh—now."

The words didn’t make sense. None of this did.

Meera rubbed her temples, inhaling deeply. This had to be a mistake. A clerical error. A prank gone too far. A journalist inheriting a throne? That sounded like the plot of a terrible Bollywood film.

And yet…

The name Vikram Singh stirred something.

She had never met the Maharaja. Never written about him. But somewhere, buried in the depths of her childhood memories, the name tugged at something faint—something just out of reach.

Before she could dwell on it, a loud knock rattled her apartment door.

Meera jolted.

Then, another knock. Harder. Urgent.

Frowning, she rose from the bed and walked toward the door. "Who is it?"

No answer.

Instead, the knocking turned into pounding.

Her gut tightened. She reached for the peephole—and then her phone buzzed violently in her hand.

Unknown Number.

Heart hammering, she picked up.

"Ms. Sharma," a hurried male voice said. "Do not open the door."

Meera’s breath hitched. "Who is this?"

"I’m your legal representative from Rajgarh," the man said quickly. "I need you to listen carefully. The media has found out. They’re outside your building."

Meera’s stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

Not that kind of attention.

She moved toward her window, hands slightly shaking as she pulled back the curtain—and her breath caught in her throat.

The narrow street below was swarming with reporters.

Microphones. Flashing cameras. A dozen vans parked haphazardly. And in the middle of it all—a shouting crowd trying to break past the apartment gates.

She stumbled back.

"Ms. Sharma?" the voice on the phone asked.

Meera forced herself to swallow. "What… the hell is happening?"

"The news broke an hour ago," the man said grimly. "We don’t know how, but someone leaked the will’s contents to the press. The entire country knows now."

Meera felt the blood drain from her face.

Oh, this was bad.

She had handled media frenzies before—as a journalist. But now, she was the story. And that was a whole different nightmare.

"You need to leave your apartment immediately," the lawyer continued. "We’ve arranged for a car to take you to the airport. You have a flight to Rajgarh in two hours."

Meera snapped out of her shock. "Wait, wait, hold on—who said I was going to Rajgarh?"

"Prince Aryan’s orders," the man said.

Meera scowled. "Oh, so now I take orders from a prince?"

"You don’t have a choice," the lawyer said bluntly. "If you stay in Mumbai, the media will rip you apart. And if the wrong people find you before we do…" He hesitated. "Let’s just say Rajgarh isn’t just about royalty. It’s about power. And power comes with enemies."

Meera exhaled sharply.

She hated this. All of it.

But the truth was undeniable. She couldn’t stay here.

She had spent years chasing the truth. Now, the truth was chasing her.

"Fine," she muttered. "Where’s the car?"

Mumbai International Airport – Two Hours Later

Meera tightened her hoodie as she slipped into the airport terminal, head down, sunglasses firmly in place. The airport was packed with flashing cameras and eager journalists.

She barely managed to weave through the chaos before reaching the private terminal. A sleek, black car was waiting on the tarmac beside a jet.

Two men in suits approached her immediately. "Ms. Sharma?"

Meera nodded warily.

"This way," one of them said, gesturing toward the jet. "Prince Aryan is waiting."

Her eyes narrowed. "He's on the plane?"

"No, but he expects you in Rajgarh by tonight."

Meera huffed. "Right. Because my life is his personal chessboard."

The men said nothing.

With an exhausted sigh, she climbed aboard.

Rajgarh – The Royal Airport

The moment Meera stepped off the plane, she realized just how deep she had been thrown into this madness.

A full security escort was waiting on the runway. Armed guards. Black SUVs. And at the center of it all, standing with arms crossed, a man who looked like he was ready to kill someone.

Prince Aryan Singh.

He was taller than she expected, dressed in an impeccable navy-blue suit, his sharp jawline clenched tight. His presence was intimidating—but what unsettled her more was his eyes.

Dark. Calculating. Unforgiving.

As she stepped toward him, he didn’t offer a handshake. Didn’t offer a polite greeting. Instead, he cut straight to the point.

"You have one chance to explain this," Aryan said, his voice low but filled with barely restrained fury. "Who the hell are you?"

Meera lifted a brow. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you should tell me, Your Highness—since your father is the one who decided to dump a whole kingdom in my lap."

Aryan’s jaw twitched. "This isn’t a joke, Ms. Sharma."

"You think I’m laughing?" Meera snapped. "Because trust me, if I could, I’d give your stupid throne back in a heartbeat."

Aryan’s eyes flashed. "Then why are you here?"

Meera exhaled sharply. "Because I didn’t have a choice! Your little royal circus sent a damn convoy to my apartment! What was I supposed to do? Hide under my bed?"

Aryan took a slow step forward. "Let’s get one thing straight, Sharma. I don’t trust you. I don’t believe for a second that my father would give up his throne for a complete stranger. So until I figure out what game you’re playing, you are not my queen."

Meera smirked. "Good. Because I have zero interest in being one."

For a moment, Aryan just stared at her. Measuring her.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the waiting SUV.

One of the guards gestured for Meera to follow.

"Great," she muttered under her breath. "Thrown into royalty and stuck with a prince who hates me."

As she climbed into the car, she had a sinking feeling.

This was just the beginning.

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