Aryan's Investigation

Rajgarh Palace – Aryan’s Private Study

Aryan Singh had spent the last 24 hours in a state of controlled fury.

He sat behind his large mahogany desk, flipping through old records, scanning decades-old files, searching for anything—anything—that could explain who the hell Meera Sharma really was.

Because one thing was clear:

She wasn’t here by accident.

The way his grandmother had reacted. The way his father had hidden this from him. The way that damn maid had whispered about knowing Meera’s mother.

This wasn’t just about the throne anymore.

This was about a secret buried in the past.

And Aryan hated secrets.

He pulled out a leather-bound file.

It was one of his father’s private archives—something Vikram Singh had kept locked in his personal safe.

Aryan hadn’t been allowed to see these before. But his father was dead now. And if the old man had withheld something, Aryan had every right to uncover it.

He flipped through the pages—legal contracts, handwritten notes, sealed letters—until he found something that made his blood freeze.

A photograph.

Black and white. Faded with time.

Of a young woman.

She looked exactly like Meera.

But the name on the back of the photo wasn’t Meera Sharma.

It was Asha Kapoor.

Aryan’s grip tightened around the paper.

Asha Kapoor.

Meera’s mother.

And the date?

Thirty years ago.

Taken right here. In Rajgarh Palace.

Meera’s Room

Meera hadn’t stopped thinking about the maid’s words all day.

"I knew your mother."

But why?

Why had her mother never mentioned Rajgarh?

Why had she left this palace and never looked back?

Meera had too many questions. And no answers.

A knock on her door made her snap out of her thoughts.

She frowned. It was late. Who—?

She pulled the door open—

And immediately scowled.

Aryan.

He stood in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes dark and unreadable.

Meera crossed her arms. "Are you lost, Your Highness?"

Aryan didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he held up a photograph.

And the moment Meera saw it, her heart stopped.

She grabbed it before she could think, her eyes scanning the image.

It was her mother.

Younger. Beautiful. But there was no mistaking it—this was Asha Sharma.

Only… the name written on the back wasn’t hers.

Meera swallowed. "Where did you get this?"

Aryan’s voice was low. Controlled.

"My father’s private records."

Meera looked up at him, her pulse racing. "Why would your father have a picture of my mother?"

Aryan exhaled slowly, as if choosing his next words carefully.

"Because," he said finally, "your mother wasn’t who you thought she was."

A chill ran through Meera.

Aryan watched her reaction closely, then stepped inside the room.

Meera barely noticed. She was too busy staring at the picture.

Too busy trying to breathe.

"My mother’s name was Asha Sharma," she said quietly.

Aryan shook his head. "Not in Rajgarh. Here, she was Asha Kapoor."

Meera’s chest tightened.

This didn’t make sense.

She knew her mother. She had lived with her for twenty-two years before she passed away.

Her mother had been gentle. Loving. A woman who worked tirelessly to make ends meet after Meera’s father died.

Not… this.

Not a secret hidden in a palace.

"This could be a mistake," she said, though even she didn’t believe it.

Aryan studied her. "You really didn’t know, did you?"

Meera shot him a glare. "Why would I lie?"

Aryan didn’t answer.

Instead, he pulled another file from behind his back.

And when Meera saw what it was, her stomach twisted.

A DNA test.

"You ran a test on me?" she demanded.

Aryan’s expression didn’t change. "I needed proof."

Meera grabbed the papers, flipping through them, her hands shaking.

She found the section that mattered—the comparison between her DNA and Vikram Singh’s.

She barely understood the technical details, but the result was clear as day.

99.8% Probability of Paternal Relationship.

Meera stopped breathing.

Her hands trembled.

No.

No.

This was a mistake.

"This says—" she couldn’t even get the words out.

Aryan’s voice was quiet.

"It says my father was also yours."

Meera’s vision blurred.

The paper slipped from her hands.

Her pulse was too loud in her ears.

"No," she whispered.

Aryan’s face was unreadable. "Yes."

Meera shook her head. "No. My father was—he was—"

She tried to remember his face.

Tried to remember the man who raised her.

The man who died when she was six.

A father she barely remembered.

And suddenly, something cracked inside her.

Because if this was true—if Vikram Singh was really her father—

That meant everything she had ever known about herself had been a lie.

She backed away, breathing uneven. "No. No. This test—it could be faked—"

Aryan stepped closer. "It’s real, Sharma."

Meera swallowed hard.

She felt like she was falling.

Like the ground beneath her had just vanished.

Her mother had never told her. Never even hinted at the truth.

And now, the truth was staring her right in the face.

She wasn’t just some random journalist who got dragged into palace politics.

She was the Maharaja’s daughter.

A princess.

Meera clutched her head. "Oh my God."

Aryan’s voice was quiet. "Now do you see why I don’t trust you?"

Meera’s eyes snapped to him. "I didn’t know!"

Aryan’s jaw tightened. "Maybe. Or maybe you’re just better at lying than I thought."

Meera’s hands curled into fists. "I have no reason to lie!"

Aryan studied her for a long moment.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he stepped back.

"Then prove it," he murmured.

Meera frowned. "What?"

Aryan’s voice was calm. Controlled.

"You want me to believe you didn’t know? Then help me find out the truth."

Meera hesitated.

She had spent her whole life running from things she couldn’t explain.

But this?

This wasn’t something she could run from.

So she took a deep breath.

And nodded.

"Fine," she said. "Let’s find out the truth."

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