Back in the Rathore estate's inner chamber—secure, guarded, silent—Anaya sat across from Aryan, her hands clasped tightly, the weight of Meher's confession still pressing against her chest.
She told him everything.
The rebel leader's name. The false mythology. The admission that Meher had been *placed* in Veer's path like a perfectly carved pawn.
And for the first time, Aryan didn't immediately act.
He *listened.*
Then said only one thing:
"Someone wanted you out of the way long before Veer ever touched her."
Anaya's mouth went dry.
Because deep down… she'd known.
There had always been *intent* behind her suffering. The engagement being dissolved. Her exile from the palace. Meher's rise. Aryan's silence.
But now the puzzle was tightening.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
Aryan stood, crossed to the desk, and pulled out an encrypted dossier.
It was stamped with military clearance. And sealed by the **Imperial Intelligence Command**.
"I never showed you this," he said. "Because I couldn't prove anything before."
He placed it in front of her.
Anaya opened it.
And felt her stomach drop.
---
Inside were surveillance files. Cross-border payments. Confidential call logs.
And a name.
**General Vikram Mehra.**
Her *father.*
---
Aryan's voice was low. "Your father may not have known your origins. But someone in his circle did. Someone who saw your blood as a threat. Someone who moved you into his home to *contain* you. And when that failed…"
"They used Meher," Anaya whispered.
Aryan nodded. "And tried to take me off the board when I got too close."
Her chest felt tight. "He protected me my whole life."
"No," Aryan said. "He protected his *position.*"
The betrayal burned hotter than any heartbreak.
Worse than Veer's rejection.
Because this wasn't a prince losing interest.
This was *her own blood* keeping her small.
---
That night, Anaya stood in the grand hallway of the Mehra estate—the home she had once ruled as daughter, now returned as *threat*.
The staff bowed. Her mother gasped. Her father rose slowly from his chair.
He smiled like a man who still believed he held the script.
"My daughter," he said. "You look—"
"I'm not your daughter," she interrupted. "Not anymore."
And with Aryan beside her, sword strapped to his hip, she placed the imperial crest on the table.
"You don't speak for the empire anymore, Prime Minister," she said, voice like fire.
"I do."