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"Did you just open the car door for me?"

I ask, my voice betraying the surprise curling in my chest. My eyes flick up to Rishabh, still half-expecting him to shrug it off, maybe even throw one of his aloof smirks my way.

But he doesn't. Instead, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile curving his lips. "I did."

The simplicity of it takes me off guard. I don't know why that makes my chest tighten—probably because I'm not used to it. Not used to him doing things like this, soft gestures that make me feel... seen.

"No one's ever done that before," I admit, feeling a flicker of disbelief slip into my tone. Why would I say that? Out loud? To him of all people?

He raises an eyebrow, like he's about to tell me something simple, something I should already know. "That's a shame. You deserve every bit of princess treatment."

He says it like it's a law of the universe, like gravity or the tax code. He reaches out, bowing slightly as he adjusts the hem of my dress.

Adjusts. The. Hem. Of. My. Dress.

I swear time stops for a second. Is this real life? Is this some bizarre fever dream? And how the hell does he make something so basic look like a scene straight out of a fairytale?

Is he doing this on purpose? Because if he is, he's way too good at it. His movements are smooth, effortless—damn near regal.

"You, darling, are the Prince of Rajsharan," I tease, slipping my hand into his. My heart flutters—damn it—why does it flutter?

"And what kind of prince would I be if I didn't treat my princess right?" His tone, warm and playful, makes me want to roll my eyes and smile at the same time.

The bodyguards exchange looks—yeah, they're shocked too. Rishabh, the Rishabh Singh Devgarh, being this attentive? It's hard to believe. They're used to the stoic, untouchable prince, not the man holding my hand like it's something he's done a thousand times. I catch their raised eyebrows, but Rishabh doesn't even seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but he just doesn't care.

He leans closer, his breath brushing my ear, and suddenly the air between us thickens. "Shall we, my lady?"

I barely have time to respond before we're walking, and my heel—damn it—decides to betray me. I stumble, my breath catching as I try to steady myself. But before I can even react, he's kneeling.

Kneeling.

The Prince of Rajsharan, down on one knee, his hands gently cupping my ankle.

"Hold onto my shoulder," he murmurs, his voice impossibly low and intimate.

And I do. I grip his shoulder—not just for balance but because, holy hell, he's solid. Warm. Steady. My fingers flex against the fabric of his jacket, and I suddenly forget how to breathe properly.

His hands move efficiently, refastening the strap of my heel with a precision that makes my brain short-circuit. Why does he know how to do this? For who? I don't want to think about that. Nope. Not going there.

But then his fingers linger, trailing up my calf, his touch scorching against my skin.

"Am I making you weak on your knees, Princess?"

His voice, low and husky, pulls my gaze to his. He looks up at me, dark eyes smoldering, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. That smirk—the one that's equal parts sinful and infuriating—curves his lips, and I want to scream.

Fuck him.

It's the same heat I felt last night, the same tension that's left me breathless since the moment I dared him to stop being so princely. I couldn't sleep, replaying the way he looked at me—intense, unreadable, like he was holding back something dangerous.

He'd left me alone with my thoughts, me questioning everything. Left me feeling like a fool for acting so bold, for daring him. Left me wondering if I'd gone too far.

And now here we are.

I should say something, anything, but my mind's a chaotic mess, caught between wanting to slap him and wanting to... nope. Not going there either.

I feel his fingers slide a little higher, his thumb grazing just beneath my knee, and my breath catches again, loud enough that I know he hears it. His hand retreats—too slowly—and when he stands, I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Then he leans in, his breath warm against my ear, and I swear my heart is going to jump out of my chest.

"You should be careful, Adhira," he murmurs, his voice like velvet and sin. "That dress... it leaves little to the imagination."

His words hit me like a jolt of electricity. I should laugh it off, roll my eyes, something. But instead, my pulse races, my skin alive with this overwhelming awareness of him.

Why is he like this? One second he's being all princely and chivalrous, and the next he's making me feel like I'm teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something I might just fall into.

But then—I asked him last night to stop being so princely, didn't I? Be careful what you wish for, next time!

We start walking again, but I feel his gaze trailing down to the thigh-high slit of my dress. And of course, I blush. Because apparently, I have no self-control.

"That slit," he says softly, his voice low and teasing, "won't go unnoticed by many eyes."

I should ignore him. I should let the comment slide. But I don't. My back straightens, and I throw him a sharp look, trying to mask the warmth still simmering beneath my skin.

"And you care?" I challenge, my voice harsher than I intend. "Is the Prince of Rajsharan suddenly concerned about the eyes of ordinary people?"

He steps closer, the space between us vanishing. His gaze is dark, hungry, and it's almost enough to make me step back. Almost.

"It's not their eyes I'm worried about, Princess," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his voice rough and dangerous. "It's the thought of anyone else imagining you - when all I can think about... is how it would feel to slowly slide it off you."

I freeze.

Damn him to royal hell.

His words hit me like a tidal wave, knocking the breath right out of me. I know I should say something biting, something to put him back in his place. But my mind betrays me, conjuring images I have no business imagining. His hands on me. The dress slipping away. His lips—

Stop. Stop. Stop.

I take a small step back, forcing myself to breathe, to steady my racing heart. My lips curve into a slow, teasing smile. "Careful, Prince. You may forget your manners."

"I never forget my manners, Adhira," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I just... bend them a little when I'm tempted."

Heat pricks my skin, crawling up my neck.

Get a grip, Adhira.

We step into the gala, and it's like stepping onto a stage where every spotlight suddenly fixes on us. Conversations falter. Heads swivel. Whispers ripple through the room like a wave. The buzz is unmistakable.

I want to believe they're looking at me. But no. They're looking at him.

Because, of course, Rishabh Singh Devgarh doesn't just walk into a room—he owns it. He wears authority like a second skin, even when dressed as just my plus-one. No crown, no throne, but the air around him still crackles with royalty.

And me? I'm just trying to keep breathing.

Tonight, I need simplicity. But with Rishabh, nothing ever feels simple.

But then Muskan barrels through the crowd, her grin wicked and bright.

"Adhira! Finally, you're here!" She wraps me in a quick hug before turning to Rishabh with that gleam of chaos in her eyes.

"Your Highness," she teases, giving an exaggerated bow.

Oh, God. I brace for impact. He hates formalities, and Muskan lives to poke bears with sticks.

But instead of bristling, Rishabh surprises me—shaking his head with that small, resigned smile that makes my knees weak.

And then he looks back at me.

And just like that—poof—the entire room disappears. The music, the chatter, the crowd, even Muskan—all of it fades into white noise as his gaze pins me in place.

My heart stutters, and I feel stripped bare, like he's seeing every messy thought I've tried to bury tonight. Stop looking at me like that, damn it.

The dress I spent hours agonizing over suddenly feels like a mistake. The high slit that seemed daring in front of my mirror at home now makes me feel...exposed. But it's not the dress doing it. It's him. His eyes. His presence. Everything about him is undoing me.

"Ira," Muskan whispers conspiratorially, snapping me back to reality. Her lips curl into a mischievous grin. "Oh, you bitch—you look like a literal goddess. Tell me, did the prince pray and give you head on the way here?"

WHAT.

My brain crashes. Blue screen of death. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I whip my head toward her, wide-eyed and horrified. Did she actually just—oh my God, she did.

Before I can strangle her, Rishabh clears his throat—a low, deliberate sound that cuts through the chaos in my head. I glance at him, already bracing for disaster, and there it is: the smirk. That tiny, deadly curve of his lips that promises trouble.

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. His voice? Low, sinful, and completely unholy.

"If I had, Adhira," he murmurs, slow and deliberate, "we wouldn't have made it here in time."

Oh. OH.

My heart plummets into my stomach, then rockets back up, slamming into my ribs. My brain is short-circuiting, neurons firing at random. My skin burns. My pulse is a wild, chaotic mess.

What the hell did he just say?

Desire coils low in my belly, a traitor I can't control, and I hate myself for how easily he gets under my skin.

Is it hot in here? It's hot in here. Definitely hot.

He pulls back, his expression infuriatingly innocent, as if he didn't just say something completely indecent in public.

Muskan is practically choking on her laughter. "I told you," she says smugly, "the prince is completely under your spell."

Under my spell? Please. If anyone's bewitched, it's me. I can barely think straight around him. And tonight? He's lethal. The suit, the smirk, that casual dominance he wears like second skin—he's a walking disaster for my sanity.

I plaster on a shaky smile, muttering something incoherent to Muskan before dragging Rishabh away. The sooner we disappear into the crowd, the better.

But even as we move, he's everywhere—the heat of his hand on my back, his scent wrapping around me like a soul, the whisper of his breath still lingering in my ear.

And the whispers. Oh, the whispers. Everyone's curious. They see a gorgeous, mysterious stranger on my arm and have no idea who he really is.

If only I could forget for one night too. Forget that he's a prince. Forget what that means for me, for us. Forget the way he's unraveling me with every glance.

"I'm glad you're here," I say softly when we finally find a moment alone. It's true, but I hate how vulnerable it sounds. Like I've handed him another piece of me without meaning to.

He chuckles, giving me a glance that sends my stomach into a series of flips.

"Muskan practically threatened me to show up," he says with that playful grin that makes my heart stutter. Then, in a softer tone, he adds, "But it's important to me too. She's your best friend."

And just like that, my world tilts.
He's here. For me.
Not because of duty, not for appearances—but because he wanted to be. He flew all the way to Mumbai, just to be here - for me.

My brain flashes back to Muskan's voice echoing in my head—The prince is falling for the princess.

It was supposed to be a joke.
Except suddenly, it doesn't feel like one anymore.

Panic flares in my chest. This is dangerous.This thing between us is dangerous. A spark I can't afford to let ignite.

It's too complicated. Too dangerous. But the way he looks tonight...He's a prince. I'm... I'm supposed to be poised, in control. I can't afford to lose myself in him.

I have to loosen up. Forget everything that's suffocating me. The engagement, the way I feel around him, the way Rishabh looked tonight—God, he's so devastatingly handsome it takes every ounce of willpower not to grab him by that perfectly tailored lapel, drag him into a dark corner, and kiss him senseless.

But I can't.
I won't.
I can't let myself fall like this.

He's making me lose it, turning me into someone I barely recognize.

Rishabh steps away to take a call, his posture straight and regal, all calm authority. The second he's out of sight, I make a beeline for the bar, desperate for something—anything—to cool the fire he's set inside me.

I slam my hand on the counter, signaling the bartender. "Something strong," I manage to say, my voice strained and unfamiliar.

The glass appears in front of me like magic, and I take a deep sip—letting the burn scorch down my throat. But it doesn't do a damn thing to extinguish the blaze in my chest.

Nope. Still raging.

Why does Rishabh always have to be the definition of Royal Perfection?
Why can't he trip over something or spill a drink? You know, act human?

I sigh, catching sight of the ever-looming bodyguard nearby, his eyes boring into the back of my head like he's a human surveillance camera. He's judging me, I can feel it. His expression practically screams, Behave, future princess.

Yeah, okay, Mr. Security Cam. I get it.

I'm supposed to be poised, graceful, and composed—the perfect fiancée to the Crown Prince of Devgarh. The future queen of Rajsharan.

Not some whiskey-chugging, wild girl having an identity crisis at a party.

But guess what?
Poise is boring, and my sanity's on life support.

My eyes flick back to Rishabh, and of course, there it is again. That maddening, magnetic pull toward him. It's like my brain's screaming danger, danger! but my body? Oh, my traitorous body just wants to run straight into the fire.

Why? Why does he have to carry that infuriating calm authority, like the whole universe is his chessboard and I'm just a pawn he moves with a flick of his fingers?

Ugh. Never mind. I'm not thinking about him tonight.

Liar.

Before my brain spirals further, Muskan's voice cuts through my thoughts.

"Come on!" she yells over the music, her grip on my hand firm as she drags me toward the bar top.

"Muskan—" I start to protest, but she's already laughing, slightly slurred and completely contagious.

"Live a little!" she shouts, and somehow—because I've lost all common sense—I find myself climbing onto the bar like a woman possessed.

What the hell am I doing?

My dress shifts as I move, the high slit revealing more skin than any future princess should be showing in public, but I don't care. Screw it. For once, I want to forget everything. The cameras, the whispers, the judgmental stares.

Tonight, I'm not the future princess of Rajsharan.
I'm just Adhira.
Reckless, whiskey-drinking, bad decision-making Adhira.

The bass pounds through me, syncing with my heartbeat, and I let it take over. Arms above my head, body swaying—I lose myself in the music.

But even as I move, a part of me knows the truth. Knows that this isn't the life I can live anymore. Eyes will always be on me, always judging, always waiting for me to slip. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be here.

You're not that girl anymore.
The voice in my head nags at me, but I push it away.

You're going to be a princess. You're going to be someone people look up to.

But tonight, I don't want to be. I don't want to think about royal obligations or the weight of my future.

And then I see my future.

Rishabh.

Standing at the edge of the crowd, watching me.

Of course he is.

His gaze slices through the room, piercing and relentless, like he's the judge, jury, and executioner of my sanity. Everything else blurs into white noise. I freeze under his stare, my confidence evaporating like cheap perfume in the sun.

He's ruining this. He's ruining me.

Seriously, who gave him the right to look at me like that? Like he's dissecting every reckless move I make, peeling me apart without even trying?

The slit in my dress, which felt liberating a minute ago, now makes me feel naked. My skin prickles under his scrutiny, heat rising to my cheeks.

Abort mission. Abort.

But I can't move. I'm rooted to the spot, trapped under his gaze like some lovesick idiot in a rom-com gone horribly wrong.

And then he starts walking.

Slowly. Deliberately. Every step measured, precise, like he's got all the time in the world and knows exactly how to ruin me with it.

Oh, fuck me. He's doing that slow-motion walk again.

My knees turn to jelly, and my heart's throwing a rave in my chest.

I want to roll my eyes, maybe flip him off for good measure, but instead, I'm standing here like a complete moron, silently praying I don't faceplant off this bar.

Don't trip. Don't trip. Don't—

He's only a few feet away now, and that smirk—that devastating, soul-destroying smirk—tugs at his lips.

Is it possible to sue someone for emotional smirking damage? Because I need legal counsel immediately.

Even though I'm standing above him, I feel like I'm the one at his mercy.

My breath hitches, and my thoughts spiral.

Why does he always do this to me? Why does he look at me like he already knows every part of me I'm not ready to show?

I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but it's useless. My head spins, and it's not the alcohol.

It's him.

Rishabh stops at the edge of the bar, his eyes locked on me with this maddening look—half amusement, half you're mine.

And then it hits me. He's not just watching me dance—he's watching me. Every inch, every sway of my body, every flicker of fire in my eyes. Like he's mentally undressing me and then some.

I want to look away, I swear I do. But then his lips part, and he lets out this low, sinful chuckle, the kind that seeps into your bloodstream and makes your knees weak.

"Having fun up there, Princess?"

Oh, for the love of God.

My heart stumbles, my pulse hitching up like it's training for a marathon. I've heard his voice a thousand times before—hell, probably a thousand just today—but tonight it feels like it's got fangs. And it's sinking straight into me.

I'm supposed to be in control here. I'm the one standing on the bar, commanding attention. But the way he looks at me—like I'm the only thing in the room—makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable. Dangerously his.

Muskan's voice slices through the chaos beside me. "Girl, you're driving him crazy. The whole room's watching. You better own it."

Own it?
OWN IT?!

How am I supposed to own anything when I'm two seconds away from spontaneously combusting?

Rishabh's eyes are still on me, daring me to do something. Anything. His presence is suffocating and intoxicating, all at once.

The alcohol, the heat, the way his gaze strips me bare—it's too much. My body aches for him even as my mind screams, stop, turn around.

But do I ever listen? Nope.

And then he moves, stepping closer.

Closer.
Too close.

I swear time slows down because of course he walks in slow motion, like he knows exactly how devastating he looks. His hazel eyes gleam with something dark, and his jaw tightens, like he's holding back every primal instinct.

I'm not breathing. Am I breathing? Nope, not breathing.

And then he does it—he raises his hand, palm up, inviting me down from the bar.

Oh, hell.

I hesitate. My brain's all NOPE NOPE NOPE, but my body? My body's already moving. I place my hand in his, and boom, big mistake.

The second our skin touches, it's like my neurons go on strike. His grip is firm, warm, and completely possessive. He pulls me down effortlessly, his hand steadying me as I land right in front of him.

Too close. WAY too close.

His breath brushes my ear, hot and deliberate. "You're playing a dangerous game, Adhira." His voice is velvet and sin, wrapping around me like chains. "Do you know what I want to do to you right now?"

Oh, God.

My name on his lips—low, rough, delicious—makes my head spin. My body is melting into him like some whipped dessert.

His fingers graze up my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. I shiver, betraying every ounce of control I'm clinging to.

"If we weren't here, in front of everyone..." His breath ghosts over my skin, and I close my eyes for half a second, fighting for control I no longer have. "I'd have you screaming my name before the night was over."

WHAT.

My eyes snap open. His words hit me like a punch straight to the gut, and I hate that my body reacts—flaring to life like gasoline meeting a match.

The crowd is still around us, but I can't hear or see them. It's just him. Always him.

"I'm not afraid of your games," I whisper, though my voice shakes. Lie. Bold-faced LIE.

His hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His body heat seeps into me, overwhelming every sense I have left.

"Oh, Princess, you should be."

My brain's officially left the chat.

I should push him away, reclaim my dignity, but no. Instead, my fingers curl into his shirt, holding onto him like he's the only thing keeping me upright.

"I hate you," I whisper, even though it sounds pitiful. Weak.

"No, you don't." His smirk widens, cocky and devastating. "But keep telling yourself that, Princess. It's adorable."

Ugh!

His lips hover just inches from mine, and every rational thought I have dissolves into chaos.

"You want me as much as I want you," he continues, voice low and dangerous. "And you can fight it all you want, but you can't change it."

And damn him to hell, he's right.

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Oh I love chaotic babies.
What has gotten into Rishabh today?
But do we love him? YES, we do!!!

Alsoooo - I am working on a new story. It's so fun writing the parts. Can't wait to share with you guys.

Also, let's take a moment and remember the lives of 27 tourists who lost their lives in the Pahalgam attack. May they find peace wherever they are. 🙏🏻