Chapter 1: The Dubai Prince Trap

“Wow! A Dubai prince!”

Neha leapt up from the old sofa, her eyes shining with pure greed. She waved me over, phone clutched in her manicured hand, showing off a photo of some foreign man with a headscarf.

“See? A Dubai prince!” she squealed. Then, with a burst of Hinglish excitement, she nudged me: “Arey, just look at him, Ritika! Full-on royal vibes, yaar!”

She barely paused for breath. “Do you even know where Dubai is? It’s the richest place in the world—luxury cars, oil everywhere!”

Neha tossed her hair and added, “Forget it, you’re just a gaon ki ladki who only knows how to slog away at a sarkari job. You wouldn’t understand, na?”

Then she lounged back on the sofa and planted several loud kisses on her phone. She pressed her lips to the cracked glass, leaving a faint pink smudge of her lipstick.

But I just stood there, stunned. I was alive again.

For a moment, I wondered if the monsoon heat had finally gotten to me. But no—the memories were too sharp, the ache in my chest too real. And I’d returned to the most critical turning point of my last life—the moment before my stepsister went to meet the Dubai prince in person.

“Hey, gaon ki ladki, jaldi kuch khane ko bana! I’m starving!” Neha shouted, breaking my trance.

“Make me some beauty meals too. I want to look my best and become the Dubai prince’s wife, hehehe,” she giggled, tossing her dupatta over her shoulder.

Apart from work, all I did at home was serve my stepsister and stepmother. If they said east, I didn’t dare go west. Otherwise, if they complained to my dad, his heavy hand would land right on my face.

Beauty meals, is it? Fine, I’ll make them for you. I’ll make you beautiful, I thought bitterly.

“Wait, come here—I want to ask you something,” Neha called out. I stopped in my tracks and walked over, bracing myself.

She looked conflicted, lower lip caught between her teeth. “Going to Dubai to meet him in real life… I don’t know what the chances are. The plane ticket alone is so expensive, yaar.”

“Do you think I should go?”

Here it was—the question that could cost me my life.

The air felt heavy and thick with the muggy July heat, the old ceiling fan above us barely moving the damp air. Somewhere in the next flat, a pressure cooker’s whistle cut through the silence like a warning. I wiped my hands on my faded dupatta, stalling for time. Neha’s phone, with its cracked screen, glinted with every movement. As she asked her question, her voice carried a hint of hope and calculation, like someone trying their luck with a scratch card. The question hung in the air, sharp as the tadka sizzling in the kitchen.