Page 7 of Claimed By the Maharaja
He knew the protests would spread to his other plants. But he would ensure they would be contained. Efficiently.
Outside, faint chants carried on the wind.
“Cold-hearted.”
“Ruthless.”
“The Jogra Maharaja.”
They used those words like an accusation. But he treated them as facts.
He pressed a button on his desk. The soundproof blinds slid down silently, cutting off the noise.
Perfect silence.
Noise faded. But results remained.
CHAPTER 2
Yamini had a habit of saying yes to things she would later regret.
At the top of that list was agreeing to the college bad boy’s marriage proposal five years ago. And next on the list was agreeing to photograph an elite event.
The venue stretched out in front of her, an old heritage property perched against the hills, its stone walls softened with strings of golden lights. The lawns were already filling up with guests, polished and poised, holding crystal glasses and conversations that sounded important.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said under her breath, adjusting the strap of her camera as she stepped out onto the lawn.
Her friend Pooja didn’t even look at her. She stood near the entrance, headset on, directing volunteers with sharp efficiency. “It’s a brilliant idea,” Pooja said, already moving on to the next instruction. “And stop that face. You’re an award-winning photographer, not a nervous intern.”
Yamini made a face anyway.
“That award was for documenting migratory birds in freezing weather,” she muttered.
“Exactly,” Pooja shot back. “Which means humans should be easy.”
Yamini let out a soft huff. “Humans judge. Birds don’t. The bird won’t care about angles or lighting or how they look from their left side.”
Pooja finally turned, grinning. “You’ll be fine. You always are. And you look perfectly professional and capable.”
Although capable was debatable at this point, professional was true.
She was wearing a simple, well-fitted suit in muted blue tones. No bright colors, nothing that drew attention. Practical shoes that would let her move quickly without thinking about her footing. Minimal jewelry, just a watch and a pair of small gold studs her mother had given her years ago.
Her dusky skin caught the warm lights easily, and her naturally wavy hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail to keep it out of her face, though a few strands had already escaped. She ignored them and adjusted her grip on the camera instead.
This wasn’t her kind of assignment.
She was used to uneven ground, shifting light, and people who didn’t know they were being photographed. Fishermen hauling nets at dawn. Children running barefoot through narrow lanes. Women who laughed without checking who was watching.
But this event was filled with well-dressed people, their smiles curated and their conversations careful. Although she had led the first two decades of her life in similar circles, the last five years were the exact opposite.
“You agreed to this,” Pooja reminded her, glancing over her shoulder. “You flew back from the US a week ago for this. A new beginning.”
Yamini didn’t answer immediately.
Six months ago, she had walked out of a marriage that had drained her patience, her savings, and whatever illusions she had left. A week ago, she had packed up the last of her life in the US and come back to India with two suitcases, a camera, and no real plan beyond starting again.
Although home still felt complicated. It was still home.
