Page 5 of Trapped By the Maharaja
Ram glanced to his left. Bharat walked a half-step behind him, his gaze straight ahead, jaw tight. As boys who were barely two years apart in age, they had often butted heads. But there had always been respect beneath the rivalry. When Ram had broken his collarbone in a horse-riding accident at thirteen, it was Bharat who had carried him halfway back to the palace stables without uttering a word.
Samar strolled just behind them, his hands in his pockets as if he were walking through a resort. But Ram knew better. Samar saw everything. As children, Samar could charm their tutors and win over palace staff with that easy smile. But he had also been the first to throw a punch when someone mocked their mother’s multiple marriages.
And Viraj, the youngest of them all, walked at the rear, his hands clasped behind his back. The strategist. Even as a child, he had observed more than others did. Ram remembered how Viraj used to follow him around the palace library, asking questions that seemed far too complex for an eight-year-old. The youngest had grown into a man of startling clarity and ruthless efficiency.
As they entered the spacious home office conference room that branched off the gallery, Ram’s eyes scanned the old mahogany table, the high-backed chairs, and the crystal water glasses neatly placed at each spot.
Viraj broke the silence first. “Does anyone know why we’re really here?”
Samar smirked faintly as he moved toward one of the seats. “If it’s donations, mother will lead with pleasantries. If it’s a PR crisis… she’ll skip straight to the point.”
“I’d bet on PR crisis,” Viraj added, circling the table with a thoughtful glance. “We haven’t been summoned like this since the press coverage two years ago, calling us ruthless royals born with golden spoons.”
Ram moved to the window, his arms folding across his chest.
Bharat poured himself a glass of water from the crystal carafe and offered it around. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Like always.”
Ram didn’t say anything. Knowing that in a couple of minutes, the reason for the summons would be revealed.
Just then, the doors to the conference room opened. All four brothers turned in unison.
Maharani Suchitra Devi entered gracefully. She wore an emerald saree threaded with gold, her hair swept up in an elegant bun, a single diamond pin glinting beneath the light. Her posture was impeccable, her face composed and regal.
“Good morning, sons,” she said, her voice warm with affection.
Ram and his brothers stepped forward.
“Amma,” Ram said first, bowing his head slightly.
“Mouj,” Bharat followed, his tone softer than usual.
Samar offered a kiss to her hand, murmuring, “It’s good to see you, Ma.”
“Mei,” Viraj greeted, giving her a quick hug, which she accepted with grace.
She looked at them one by one, her smile soft. There was pride and love, but there was also something else.
“I have something important to share,” she said after a moment. “But I’d like you to watch something first.”
She gestured to Mira, who was already standing by the controls. The room dimmed, the soft whirr of the projector filling the silence. Ram and his brothers took their seats around the table.
Ram folded his arms, expecting to see images of one of their mother’s latest charity endeavors, an education initiative, a new royal scholarship fund. But what appeared on the screen caught him completely off guard.
A series of photographs faded in, one after the other. They were all women who were young, beautiful, and poised.
The first image expanded.
“Princess Amira of Bhavanipur,” Mira narrated. “Accomplished equestrian. Oversees five major rural literacy programs. Host of the annual Emerald Gala in Jaipur.”
The next image appeared.
“Lady Kavya Rajnath of Chittor. Patron of women’s healthcare in Rajasthan. Known for organizing one of the largest international heritage summits.”
Then another.
“Princess Leena of Gajendragarh. Trained in classical dance, fluent in six languages, and chairwoman of three education trusts.”
And on it went.
