Desert Rose

The Desert Rose

The Desert Rose

The palace at Udaipur was no longer what it once had been. Guards stalked its corridors, ministers whispered behind closed doors, and Gitanjali Devi—once the proud queen of the land—now lived under constant suspicion.

But amidst this suffocating air of politics, there was one presence that still carried light.

Princess Aaliya Devi.

Gitanjali’s younger sister was nothing like the iron-willed royal who dared to defy the government. Aaliya was softer, quieter, her beauty untouched by scandal or rebellion. She was known for her kindness, for the way she spoke gently even to servants, for the way her laughter still echoed like a melody in a palace that had forgotten joy.

That evening, she walked through the sandstone corridors, a tray of marigolds in her hands. The sunset bathed her in gold, turning her simple cream saree into something almost divine. Her anklets chimed against the marble as she paused to place the flowers before a shrine.

She was a vision of serenity, untouched by the chaos of the outside world.

But Aaliya was not blind. She knew the danger that hovered over her sister. She knew the eyes of men—ministers, officers, enemies—often followed her too long. And she knew that soon, she too would be dragged into the storm.

Still, when she lifted her face toward the fading light, her gaze was calm, almost defiant. She belonged to the desert, and the desert belonged to her.

She did not know that far away, a man was being dragged unwillingly from his playboy life, annoyed and careless.

A man whose path would soon cross hers.

Seher Rathore.

The beast would see the rose.

And the rose would never be left in peace again.