????The Crown and the Badge????

Jiya, the daughter of one of the Rajputs’ long-time business associates, stood with a small group of young women near the courtyard pillars. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd until they settled on Iraaya, who had just rejoined her friends, still carrying the calm poise from earlier.

With a syrupy smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Jiya walked over and asked, loud enough for the nearby girls to hear,
Jiya (with a faux-sweet tone): “Tum kis business family se belong karti ho?”
(Which business family do you belong to?)

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was charged. Everyone present could feel the subtle disdain beneath her words, as if her voice alone was trying to draw a social boundary.

Iraaya, ever composed, glanced up and shrugged with practiced ease.
Iraaya (simply): “Kissi se bhi nahi.”
(From none.)

Chitra Vikram Raghuvanshi, Vedansh’s aunt who had been standing nearby, raised her brows slightly. She leaned in, curiosity piqued, her voice laced with polite inquiry.
Chitra: “Matlab?”
(Meaning?)

Iraaya (with gentle honesty): “Papa retired bank manager hain.”
(My father is a retired bank manager.)

There was no defensiveness in her tone — only calm truth. But before anyone else could process it, Jiya scrunched her nose, clearly unimpressed, and spoke without tact,
Jiya (in disbelief): “Middle class family??”

Iraaya looked at her for a brief second, then shrugged again, her smile soft but unbothered.
Iraaya: “So what?”

The girls nearby shifted, sensing the tension rise, while Jiya’s pride bristled.
Jiya (taunting): “Attitude, huh? Do you even know, agar tum Aditya ki friend nahi hoti na, toh yeh shaadi toh tum dekh bhi nahi rahi hoti.”
(You’ve got attitude, huh? Do you even know that if you weren’t Aditya’s friend, you wouldn’t have even been attending this wedding?)

Iraaya tilted her head, unfazed, her voice laced with dry amusement.
Iraaya (with a smirk): “Haan toh nahi dekhti toh kaunsi duniya mein afat aa jaani thi?”
(Yeah, so if I hadn’t, what catastrophe would’ve hit the world?)

Gasps and suppressed chuckles followed from a few girls who pretended not to enjoy the drama.

Jiya took a step forward, her expression darkening.
Jiya: “Listen, you—”

But Iraaya held up a hand with casual finality, not even rising from her seat.
Iraaya (coolly): “You listen. Subha subha dimag mat khao. I didn’t even drink my chai yet. Thodi der baad , will let you enterined me . Hmm.”
(Don’t fry my brain early in the morning. I haven’t even had my tea yet. Let’s talk later, okay?)

And with that, she turned back to her friends, leaving Jiya flustered and fuming, her mouth slightly open in disbelief.

A few elders nearby exchanged glances — some amused, some mildly surprised by Iraaya’s composed sass. But no one interrupted.

Because the girl who just shrugged off class, insult, and entitlement with poise and one-liners… had clearly arrived with more than just a connection to Aditya. She had her own gravity — and people were beginning to notice.

Aditya caught up to Iraaya just as she was walking away from the group, clearly done with the unnecessary morning drama. He scratched his head sheepishly and called out,
Aditya: “Sorry yaar… that girl—”

Iraaya raised an eyebrow without slowing her pace,
Iraaya (dryly): “You know her?”

Aditya (honestly, frowning): “No! I don’t even know her name.”

Iraaya stopped in her tracks and turned to face him with a teasing smirk.
Iraaya (mock innocent): “See? It’s easy. Naam aur pata toh pata nahi, kisi aur ke liye maafi mangne chale ho?”
(You don’t even know her name or address, and you’re out here apologizing on her behalf?)