The courtyard of the Rajputana Haveli was covered in long shadows as the sun had just risen above Jaipur's pink sandstone palaces. The morning air echoed faintly with the cries of peacocks as they strutted past the garden. the aroma of freshly baked parathas, incense, and jasmine. This was just another morning in Arjun Rajput's life, not a scene from a travel brochure.
Arjun, who was nineteen, exuded the serene elegance of his ancestry. He appeared to belong in a history book because of his broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and impeccable appearance—until he opened his mouth and spoke like any other intelligent, pragmatic young Indian man.
However, beneath his calm exterior lay the burden of a legacy steeped in both tragedy and glory.
Blood was the first thing he remembered, bright red against the white Mercedes's crushed metal, the twisted wreckage still steaming on a rainy night. At the time, he was just twelve. His parents, Maharaj Vikram Singh Rajput and Maharani Devika, had died in a car accident. The loss had been lamented in Jaipur. The royal funeral had been chilly despite its grandeur.
The palace had gone quiet that evening, and Arjun had been given to his uncle, the younger brother of his father, Rajveer Singh Rajput.
Rajveer was different from many relatives who only came to sniff out inheritance. Without hesitation, he assumed the role of guardian, putting his hand on Arjun's shoulder that evening and declaring, "You're my son too from today on."
And he meant it for years.
Arjun was given better treatment by Rajveer than his own biological son. He involved Arjun early in business dealings and ensured that he received the best education possible. His uncle managed the estate and fostered the legacy while Arjun concentrated on completing his education and subsequently obtaining an MBA.
Arjun became the legitimate heir to his parents' fortune, which included assets worth over ₹4000 crore, on the day of his 18th birthday. Not including the land, shares, antiques, and old royal trusts, the palace estate alone accounted for ₹1000 crore of that total.
Arjun, however, did not waste his strength. He was not a party host. No nightclub scandals. No fancy cars. No boasting on social media.
Rather, he funded young entrepreneurs, invested in clean energy startups, and subtly cultivated a network of talented individuals, including writers, directors, tech developers, and NGO employees. He assisted a few because they showed promise. He assisted others because they were friends who had supported him through difficult times.
He was principled, intelligent, and giving.
Above all, though, he was trusting.
Too much, maybe.
Arjun sipped chai and watched the sunset while standing by himself on the palace terrace one evening. The city hummed below, and the orange, gold-streaked sky glowed. New investment proposals, company reports, and legal updates filled his mind.
His uncle entered at that point.
With grey flecks in his beard and a steady cigar in his hand, Rajveer had aged. He was still respected for his aura. But his face had a rare softness about it tonight.
"Arjun beta," he said kindly. "Come on. Tonight, let's grab a drink. Don't talk business. Just the two of us, as in the past.
Arjun blinked, startled. "You detest drinking."
"Exactly. You can tell it's a special occasion that way.
They were seated in the royal study, which had a fireplace that had not been used in years and walls covered in family portraits and antique war medals. Glenfiddich clinked in two crystal glasses.
After taking a sip, Rajveer remarked, "I was just thinking about your father today." "He was really pleased with you. I wish he could see you right now.
Arjun gave a longing smile. "I make an effort to live up to him."
"You've accomplished more than that." Rajveer held up his glass. "To your future self. To the Rajput name as well.
They took a sip. A glass became two. Next, three.
There was laughter. tales from childhood. Jokes about business. A few tears, even.
Hours went by. The bottle's amber dropped.
They were sitting there grinning and slouched when Rajveer took out a folder and put it on the table.
"By the way," he said sheepishly, "do you recall that land deal we were talking about earlier today? On the final document, I neglected to get your signature.
Arjun's cheeks were warm from the alcohol, and his eyes were glassy. The document was not read by him. He asked no questions.
Why would he?
He had faith in the man who reared him.
He picked up a pen and signed.
Just one signature.
Just a second.
That was the only way to change fate.
Later, he stopped to gaze at an old family portrait in the hallway—his parents, arms wrapped around him, the royal crest behind them—as he staggered with a languid smile toward his bedroom.
He pressed his fingers against the frame and whispered, "I'll make you proud."
He had no idea that by the time the sun rose, he would lose everything that was behind that frame, including every painting, artifact, and square inch of the palace.