Chapter 1: The Dungeon’s Chains

I adjusted the heavy gold jhumka on my ear, its cold weight a reminder of my birthright as the infamous, tyrannical Eldest Princess—

The reputation I carried was a burden as ornate as my jewelry, whispered through the marble corridors, dissected over steaming tumblers of chai, and picked apart in every palace courtyard where the ayahs gathered in the afternoon shade. I signaled to the guards, and they dragged out the fiercest man from the old haveli’s iron holding cell, his ankles clinking with rusted chains. His thick, battered muzzle bit into his jaw—a man whose eyes alone could set fire to the desert winds. Tonight, I was prepared to indulge myself, as only the most feared woman in Rajpur could.

Suddenly, comments flashed before my eyes, like WhatsApp forwards from nosy aunties—uninvited, relentless, and always with an opinion:

[Arrey wah, villainess didi really knows how to pick—she went straight for the enemy crown prince.]

[Sure, you can chain him up and do whatever you want now, but when he escapes, he’ll bring thirty thousand cavalry and crush your kingdom.]

[Villainess didi, there’s still time to stop! Reform him with love, na!]

[If Amma sees this, she’ll faint. Someone hide this from the family group, please!]

Their voices echoed in my head with the nasal insistence of a distant relative at a wedding, always poking where it hurts most. I lazily flicked my whip, its handle studded with Jaipur rubies, glinting like a bridal chooda in the lamplight, and lifted the man-servant’s tense, sharp jaw. The soft golden glow from the oil lamp trembled, scattering across the cold stone walls and the dark pools of his eyes.

Let him conquer my bed before he conquers my country.

1

The whip in my hand was lined with barbs, each one glittering wickedly under the flickering diyas, like something out of a nightmare the royal priest would never approve of.

I dragged it down the man-servant’s solid chest, scraping over his rapidly moving Adam’s apple, watching his dusky skin twitch under the cruel touch. Even the silent guards at the edge of the dungeon shrank away slightly, as if they, too, could feel the scrape.

Finally, I pressed it against his taut jaw, forcing him to lift his head and meet my gaze. The faintest shadow of a scar ran along his cheekbone—one more mark from a life spent in the harsh, unforgiving sun of the desert. I had to admit, Arjun was the tallest and wildest among all these servants. Even while in chains, he’d managed to bite several guards, so they’d muzzled him. His very presence reeked of rebellion; the room felt charged, as if any moment the gods themselves would intervene.

Under the cold touch of my whip, Arjun shuddered. His bloodshot, wild eyes—untamed and defiant, like a beast sizing up its prey—locked onto me. Before he met my gaze, his glance flickered to the diyas burning low, then to the guards, as if weighing his chances for escape or resistance. Only then did he meet my eyes head-on, his defiance more visceral than ever. In that glare, there was challenge, and something deeper—a warning. Do you dare take off my muzzle, noble Eldest Princess? His muscles bulged with terrifying strength, making the chains rattle. Even the iron seemed to protest, groaning under his will. This lowly servant even curled his lips into a mocking, dangerous smile. I could bite through your delicate, slender neck at any moment.

As the Eldest Princess and regent, no one dared defy me—let alone a servant kneeling at my feet. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and new power. I raised my wrist, showing no mercy. The whip lashed hard across his chest. The crack echoed, and a few guards flinched, though I pretended not to notice.

Arjun’s chest heaved violently. Crimson blood trickled down his dusky, rock-hard chest, running deeper along the lines of his abs—reminding me of the henna that once adorned my hands during festival nights, only now it was stained in pain. I narrowed my eyes, suddenly feeling a little thirsty. My throat was dry, the way it gets in the high noon of a Rajasthan summer. He awakened my urge to conquer—a hunger not just for his body, but for the wild defiance that simmered beneath the surface. This whip I use to tame beasts—if it can break a tiger, it can break you.

Just as I was about to strike again, a few more comments floated by, as if the universe itself was tuning in to my drama:

[As the most ruthless villain in the whole book, with the worst ending, you really know how to dig your own grave.]

[Villainess didi, you’re doomed. The hero already hates you to the core. Once he escapes, he’ll pay you back a thousandfold for tonight’s humiliation. Get ready for your country’s doom.]

[Of all the men you could play with, you just had to choose the fallen desert crown prince-turned-servant. You should treat him well, reform him with love like your goody-two-shoes sister does. Maybe then you’d have a better ending—or at least keep your body intact.]

The taste of fate soured on my tongue. I lowered the whip, looking thoughtfully and coldly at Arjun, who was covered in blood and panting through the muzzle. Desert crown prince, hero of this world. The same one whose face was painted on the coins of his ruined nation. Arjun’s sharp, deep-set brows lifted slightly. The look he gave me—he wanted to skin me alive and drain my blood. If curses could kill, I’d have dropped dead right then.

The comments continued, relentless as the beating of a tabla at a wedding:

[Thank goodness, our sweet little baby heroine is here! She’ll feel sorry for him and rescue Arjun.]

[It’s fine, it’s fine. Once the villainess leaves, our sweet baby will tend to his wounds. The hero’s got plot armour—he’ll heal in no time.]

[The villainess is just a stepping stone. The pain she inflicts on the hero will all come back to her, and only bring him and the sweet baby closer.]

[Once the hero escapes and reclaims his crown prince status, he’ll bring thirty thousand cavalry for revenge. The Rajpur royal family will be wiped out—except for the sweet baby heroine. Arjun will marry her as his desert queen.]

Before I could react to all the spoilers in the comments—

Priya rushed in, clutching the end of her pallu tight in her fist, her sandals slapping against the cold stone as she burst into the dark dungeon, pushing past everyone. Her footsteps echoed, hurried and desperate, the way a mother runs when her child’s name is called in distress. Seeing Arjun’s miserable state, chained up, her nose turned red and she sobbed with heartbreak, tears catching on her chin: "Didi, please stop torturing him."

Her voice cracked in the damp air, hands trembling as she tried to fold them in a pleading namaste, but then she clenched them into fists—showing both vulnerability and resolve. Her spine was straight, her small hands clenched at her sides. "If you want to vent your anger or amuse yourself," Priya bit her lip, lifted her chin, and bravely stood in front of the man-servant, "let me take his place."