The envelope was embossed with imperial gold.
It arrived on a silver tray, delivered by a palace emissary who bowed with sharp precision and vanished before Aryan or Anaya could speak a word.
The invitation bore the seal of the **Crown Empress**.
A formal summons to attend the *Sangh Sabha*-the first high court banquet of the year, where alliances were scrutinized, marriages evaluated, and whispers judged more harshly than swords.
It was tradition. A test. A reminder.
And it meant only one thing:
*They were being watched.*
---
Aryan read the letter in silence. Standing by the tall window of their suite, backlit by early afternoon sun, he looked carved from marble-stern profile, clenched jaw, still as a statue.
Anaya lounged on the divan, robe loosely belted, legs bare beneath the satin. She was sipping espresso, but her eyes never left him.
"Well?" she drawled. "Will you escort me like a proper husband, or should I show up with my father and scandalize the room?"
He didn't turn. "Wear the emeralds. The ones gifted by the Empress."
She arched a brow. "Planning to make a statement?"
"I don't plan. I execute."
She smirked into her cup. "You're so romantic, Major."
---
The night of the banquet, she dressed like vengeance wrapped in silk.
A deep emerald saree with a plunging blouse, her neck adorned in the Empress's jewels-a gift meant to pacify her after the broken engagement. Tonight, she wore them like armor.
Her lips were crimson. Her eyeliner winged to perfection. Her heels echoed like declarations down the marble hallway.
Aryan stood waiting at the base of the estate staircase, dressed in black-on-black-a tailored bandhagala and matte gold brooch bearing the Rathore insignia.
When he looked at her, he didn't compliment.
He didn't need to.
The slow rake of his gaze across her body was enough.
---
The *Sangh Sabha* was held in the Grand Peacock Hall of the Jaipur palace. Columns of carved marble stretched high into domed ceilings, lit by hanging chandeliers that shimmered like constellations. Courtiers, nobility, foreign royals-all dressed in their finest-stood gathered in delicate clusters.
When Aryan and Anaya entered, a hush swept the hall.
Not just because they were striking.
But because they were **dangerous**.
---
Meher was already there, standing beside Veer-dressed in pale gold, soft, angelic, forgettable.
She smiled when she saw Anaya.
Anaya smiled back. Wider. Sharper.
Veer looked away.
Good.
Let him watch.
---
Throughout the banquet, Aryan and Anaya played their parts with terrifying grace.
She spoke softly at his side, laughed lightly when nobles complimented her, and leaned in just enough to keep every camera flash chasing her curves.
Aryan never left her side. He stood behind her when dignitaries approached, hand ghosting at the small of her back, his presence a constant shadow.
To the court, it looked like fierce loyalty.
To her... it felt like ownership.
And yet, it wasn't suffocating.
It was strangely comforting.
---
Later, as they dined at the imperial table, Aryan leaned close, voice low against her ear.
"You're baiting him."
"Who? Veer?" she said, not bothering to hide her smile. "He's welcome to look. He can't touch."
Aryan's fingers grazed the inside of her wrist under the table, deliberate and slow.
"Neither can anyone else."
Her heart skipped once-then steadied. "Is that jealousy, husband?"
He didn't answer.
But his fingers tightened.
---
When the night ended, and their car pulled away from the palace gates, silence hung between them like smoke.
It wasn't tense.
It was electric.
And when they returned to the Rathore estate, she didn't wait for him to speak.
She grabbed his collar the moment the door closed, pulled him down to her mouth, and kissed him like she was starving.
He responded without hesitation.
That night, there were no power plays. No games. No whispered manipulations.
There was only hunger.
Raw. Wordless. Mutual.