Chapter 4: Banquet of Fate

Prince Parth, Arjun Singh, was never part of my plans.

His name was spoken in the palace only in hushed tones, as if he were a distant relative nobody wanted to claim.

He was born of an insignificant concubine and never favoured by Raghav Singh. So, after coming of age, he was sent to the impoverished Pune, far from the centre of power.

To marry him would mean being trapped in Pune for life.

The thought of spending my days looking at the faded murals of an old estate, far from Lucknow, filled me with dread. I had grown up in the shadow of the peepal tree in our palace garden—I did not want to wither in exile.

Since I wanted to plunge the Singh dynasty into chaos, I had to draw ever closer to the heart of power.

I could only marry the future king—the current crown prince, Kabir Singh.

His name was a constant echo in the corridors—Kabir, Kabir, Kabir. Even the youngest servants seemed to know he was destined for the throne.

Thus, I carefully devised a scheme.

It happened that, a few days later, it would be Maharani Gautami's birthday banquet. Maharani Gautami was Raghav Singh's late wife's younger sister, and the most respected woman in the palace besides the queen herself.

I watched as invitations were written in gold ink, the best chefs summoned from as far as Banaras, and the air buzzed with anticipation.

My sister brought me to pay respects to Maharani Gautami, bowing with utmost courtesy.

We entered her chambers with a tray of flowers and sweets, the fragrance of tuberose almost overwhelming. My sister’s back was straight, her voice steady, but I could sense her nerves beneath the surface.

Maharani Gautami glanced at me, her smile full of hidden meaning.

"This is Maharani Meera's younger sister? She is even more beautiful than Meera was in her youth."

Her voice carried the weight of both compliment and warning, her gaze lingering a moment too long.

My sister, cautious and a little flattering, replied, "Didi, you praise us too highly. Even together, my sister and I are not half as elegant as you."

There was a practised lilt in her voice, the kind she used only when danger was close. She avoided meeting Gautami’s eyes directly, focusing on the bowl of roses instead.

Maharani Gautami smiled in satisfaction. "The king is right—Meera is always the most sensible person in this palace."

The way she said it, you could almost hear the hidden barbs. I realised then why my sister always kept her guard up—here, every smile was edged with steel.

Just by watching her humble herself before Maharani Gautami, I understood what kind of life my sister had endured all these years in the Singh dynasty's palace.

The sight tightened my heart like a fist. The great Princess Meera of Lucknow, bowing to someone who once envied her silks—this was survival in its rawest form.

My heart ached for her, and my resolve grew even firmer.

At Maharani Gautami's birthday banquet, the crown prince would certainly attend. Kabir Singh was born of Raghav Singh's consort and was Maharani Gautami's own nephew—he had always been Raghav Singh's favourite.

Rumour had it that Kabir never raised his voice at a servant, that he gave alms at every temple festival, that he always stood beside the queen at puja. His reputation was as spotless as fresh snow.

When I lived among the common people, I had heard that the crown prince was renowned for his kindness and respect for elders.

Even the milk vendor in Rajpur spoke of him with admiration, as if he were a hero from some folk tale.

At the banquet, I observed him closely: handsome, well-mannered, and graceful. Raghav Singh and Maharani Gautami praised him endlessly.

He wore a cream-coloured angarkha, his turban set at just the right angle. He touched his mother’s feet before sitting, and his voice was gentle as he greeted the elders.

What a pity—such a pure-hearted, virtuous crown prince was about to be ensnared by me, a princess of the fallen dynasty, forced to dwell in darkness.

A flicker of shame passed through me, but I pressed it down. My destiny was forged in fire, not sentiment.

I disguised myself as a maid and poured him wine laced with a secret drug.

My hands did not shake. I had spent years learning how to go unnoticed, how to blend in with the other girls carrying water and wiping floors.

Soon, his face flushed unnaturally. He immediately stood, feigning illness to leave the banquet, and retreated to the side hall of the palace, unable to return to his own quarters.

I watched him stumble, one hand pressed to his forehead. Maharani Gautami’s smile faded, suspicion clouding her features.

I quietly followed.

Pretending to have entered the wrong room, I burst into the chamber where he was.

The corridor outside was dim, the faint smell of sandalwood incense mixing with the sharp odour of the sleeping potion I’d used.

As soon as I entered, I was pulled into a burning embrace. He was gasping for breath, but his eyes remained clear—he was using all his strength to restrain himself.

"I have been drugged. I do not wish to ruin your purity. Quickly, fetch a bucket of cold water and pour it over my head..."

His voice was urgent but still controlled, the last flicker of his dignity shining through.

I turned and wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips, pressing myself against his chest.

My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it. I told myself this was just another step—no place for guilt.

Kabir Singh's breathing grew ragged. Several times he tried to push me away, but in the end, he could not resist the drug's fierce effects.

There was a moment when I thought he would break free, but the potion was too strong. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me.

When the passion finally faded and the drug's power subsided, his gaze cleared. Looking at me at his side, his eyes were full of guilt.

"I will do the right thing by you, Ananya. I promise."

The words were barely above a whisper, but they settled in the air like a verdict. I almost laughed at the irony—after all I had done, he still tried to be honourable.

Later, I wondered countless times—did Kabir Singh ever regret making that promise to me that day?

In the stillness of the night, I sometimes imagined him lying awake, wondering if he had made the right choice. Guilt is a heavy blanket, even for a crown prince.

If only he had been more ruthless, cut ties with me, accused me of seducing him, or simply silenced me forever—then none of what followed would have happened.

But he did none of those things. He only dressed me carefully, brought me to the main palace to see Raghav Singh, and requested an official order to marry me.

His hands were gentle, almost reverent, as he tied my hair and wiped the tears from my face. It was the last kindness I would accept from him.

Thus began our lifetime of entangled love and hate.

The first knot was tied that night, in the flickering candlelight of Lucknow’s oldest palace.

But even as he draped the shawl around my shoulders, I knew—my real battle was just beginning.