Page 3 of Trapped By the Maharaja

Rewa Palace

Mira stood at the bottom of the palace steps, her ivory sari stirring faintly in the morning breeze.

She checked the time on the antique watch she wore, which was a gift from Her Highness long ago.

Right at fifteen minutes to the appointed hour, four shiny black cars drove into the palace gates, their polished bodies glinting in the sunlight.

The cars came to a halt before the fountain, the sight of them commanding as much attention as a royal procession.

Lined across the entrance stood the palace guards, tall and turbaned, their crisp uniforms immaculate, their swords gleaming in the morning light.

They waited in perfect formation to receive Suchitra Devi’s sons.

The four Maharajas stepped out of the car in perfect order.

The first car door opened. Maharaja Ram Krishna Devara emerged.

Tall, sculpted, and commanding, Ram moved like a man who owned not just companies, but fates.

His sun-kissed skin bore the sharp features of his South Indian royal lineage.

He gave the guards a single curt nod. To most, it was intimidation, but Mira knew it was Ram being himself as a disciplined and detached royal.

From the second car stepped Maharaja Bharat Singh Jogra.

Tall, broad-shouldered, fair-skinned, and piercing-eyed, Bharat had the icy intensity of his Northern bloodline that ran across the snowcapped mountains.

His piercing eyes swept across the line of guards, his expression unreadable like his older brother's.

Third was Maharaj Samar Pratap Peshaw. Tall, with golden skin and thick, wavy dark hair that brushed just past his ears, he carried his father's legacy across the Western ghats.

His casual demeanor in an open-collared cream shirt and tailored pants belied his fierce intelligence and hot temperament.

Fourth and the youngest of all was Maharaja Viraj Singha Sahom, also known as Swargdeo by the people of his region.

He was tall with boyish good looks and striking almond-shaped eyes that were his inheritance from his father, a powerful royal from North Eastern India.

Although he was in his mid-twenties, he was already recognized as a razor-sharp strategist, helping to build political empires across the country.

Despite having different fathers, the four sons shared a thread of unmistakable resemblance to their mother. They had a similar proud tilt of the chin, a commanding presence, and the unsettling way they could command a room without speaking.

Mira had seen Maharani Suchitra Devi raise them under one roof. Four royal sons, each of them destined for a royal legacy, but shaped by a single queen.

And though they came from different bloodlines and led separate empires from their own penthouses and royal estates in four corners of the country, Mira knew they were fiercely loyal to each other.

The brothers didn’t exchange words of affection or embrace each other like other brothers from normal families did.

But the nods they shared, the way they adjusted their pace to match one another, the unspoken glances spoke of trust, unity, and a history only they understood.

Mira had seen how one brother would finish what another started, defend the others in press or courtrooms, and stand as one in public. Beneath their cold, refined exteriors beat hearts that would lay down everything for one another. And for their mother.

Mira greeted them with a small bow. “Her Highness will be with you shortly. She asked that you wait in the royal gallery.”

They nodded at her, then moved in quiet formation through the arched hallway. Their polished shoes clicked against the marble floor in a rhythm that was smooth, practiced.

Mira watched them go, her heart tightening with pride, awe, and anticipation.

Mira knew the reason why Rani Suchitra Devi had summoned them. And she knew that before the palace echoed with wedding trumpets again, it might first echo with the clash of wills.