Meher ~ Veer

Meher- A forgotten poem

“She was not born to be royal — she was born to be real.”

In the sleepy lanes of Udaipur, where the morning breeze carried the scent of old marigolds and the clink of temple bells, Meher Verma existed like a forgotten poem — delicate, untouched, yet full of depth.

Long, black hair always braided with care, eyes that sparkled with wonder even when the world turned grey, and lips that rarely lied. Meher was the girl who sat by the window during lectures and daydreamed about galaxies, not grand weddings.

She wore cotton kurtis like armour and anklets like whispers. Her notebooks were filled with poetry scribbled in margins, and her phone gallery was a mess of sky pictures and candid smiles. A girl of chai over coffee, faith over fashion, soul over surface.

But fate doesn’t knock — it invades.

And in one cruel turn of tradition, Meher found herself wrapped in silks instead of smiles, in palaces instead of poetry… a bride by rule, not by love.

Veer- The Crown Prince

“He wore the crown like a burden — and loved like a battlefield.”

Born into the gilded legacy of Rathores, Veer Pratap Singh was not a man — he was a dynasty in motion. From the moment he first walked through the marble corridors of Raj Mahal, he was taught how to rule, not how to feel.

With sharp cheekbones, a jaw etched like sculpture, and eyes dark as secrets — Veer carried silence like a sword. His black sherwanis, his guarded gaze, his stillness — everything about him warned: don’t come too close.

He loved his land, his traditions, his people — but never learned how to love a woman.

And when the crown forced him into a marriage with a girl who glowed like rebellion, he did not welcome her — he caged her.

He was not cruel by nature. But he became cruel by dastoor.

Chapter 1: The First Glance at Fate

Jaipur shimmered under the golden veil of dusk — a city suspended between legacy and longing. The air was warm, dusted with the scent of roses and old secrets, wrapping itself around the sandstone palaces like a forgotten poem.

In a modest PG near Jaipur University, Meher Verma stood in front of a mirror, her fingers fumbling with silver jhumkas. But even in that fleeting motion, she looked ethereal — as if she'd stepped out of a miniature painting lost in time.

Meher wasn’t just beautiful.

She was the kind of beauty that made silence gasp. Almond-shaped eyes that held galaxies, skin like soft ivory kissed by twilight, and lips that curved like poetry when she smiled. Her hair, long and wavy, was braided to one side, a fresh mogra pinned gently above her ear — the only fragrance she wore.

She didn’t need silk or sequins. Draped in a cream mirror-work kurta, with a half-pinned dupatta slipping off her shoulder, Meher carried grace without trying — as if the universe had painted her with too much detail.

That evening, their college had been invited to a grand cultural event at Raj Mahal, celebrating the return of the royal heir — Prince Veer Pratap Singh Rathore.

The palace was alive with torches, petals, and sitars. Marble floors gleamed beneath dancing chandeliers, and the who’s who of Jaipur whispered in velvet and wine.

And then he arrived.

Veer stepped into the courtyard like the silence before a storm. Dressed in a deep black Achkan with gold embroidery, he looked every bit the royal he was born to be. Broad-shouldered, tall, with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that seemed chiseled from stone. His eyes — dark, intense, dangerous — scanned the crowd without emotion.

Until they found her.

She wasn’t among the queens, the models, or the socialites.

She was standing near the edge, adjusting her dupatta, unaware that she had just stolen the breath of a prince.

And he stared — not with desire, but with disbelief.

As if the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen had just appeared like a secret written in fate.

Their eyes met.

In that split second, amidst music and murmurs, something ancient passed between them. A quiet claiming. A warning.

She looked away first. He didn’t.

For Meher, the moment felt like a ripple in still water.

For Veer, it felt like destiny — dangerous, demanding, and already too close.

The night carried on — speeches, slow melodies, the clink of royal glass. But for both of them, something had begun.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something more permanent.

A connection too beautiful…

to ever end without breaking.

The event was over, but the weight of it hadn’t left Meher’s chest.

She walked out of the palace gates slowly, trailing behind her college group. The night air was cool now, brushing softly against her flushed cheeks. She should have felt proud — she had just attended a royal event, something most students only saw in television dramas. But her heart thudded differently.

She could still feel his gaze.

Like it had stitched itself into the folds of her dupatta, clung to her hair, and settled into the curve of her spine.

Prince Veer Pratap Singh Rathore.

That was the name the host had announced. That was the name that belonged to the man who had looked at her like she was… known to him. From another life maybe. Or maybe from no life at all.

“Meher!” her friend Kavya whispered, nudging her arm. “What’s gotten into you? You’ve been zoned out since we left the palace.”

“I’m just tired,” Meher lied, glancing at the palace once more as it faded behind trees and shadows.

But the truth was sharper. That look hadn’t felt like admiration — it had felt like a decision.

---

Inside the palace, Veer stood alone in one of the inner courtyards. A fountain murmured nearby, but he didn’t hear it. His hand ran absently along the curved edge of a marble pillar.

“She’s not royalty,” his cousin Rajveer said behind him, approaching quietly.

Veer didn’t turn around.

“I know,” he replied.

Rajveer smirked. “Then why do you look like a man who just saw his queen?”

Veer’s silence was his only answer.

He didn’t believe in signs. Or love at first sight. Or in destiny. But tonight… the moment their eyes met, something had moved inside him. A voice — ancient and undeniable — whispered only one word.

Her.

---

Two days passed.

Meher didn’t talk about the event. She buried herself in classes, assignments, and walks around the campus, pretending everything was the same. But every time someone mentioned the palace or the prince, her stomach coiled.

Until one afternoon, the head of the heritage department walked into her lecture hall and said:

> “A special internship project is being launched under the patronage of Raj Mahal. Two students will be selected for a month-long cultural documentation inside the palace premises. You’re one of them, Meher.”

The pen slipped from her hand.

Her breath caught.

“No,” she whispered before she even realized it.

But it was too late. The list was already submitted. And behind the heavy glass windows of Raj Mahal, Veer was already waiting — not as a prince, but as a man who had chosen something… or someone.

---

That night, Meher sat in front of the mirror. She stared at her own reflection, trying to find the girl who had once been excited by small things — the smell of old books, a good rain, hot samosas.

But the girl in the mirror looked different now.

More aware.

More watched.

She didn’t know what lay ahead inside those palace walls.

But a part of her already feared that her life — her freedom — would never be the same.

Not after him.

Not after Dastoor had begun to write her fate.

The gates of Raj Mahal opened slowly — not with grandeur, but with a quiet finality. As if they were swallowing her whole.

Meher stood still for a moment, blinking against the sunlight as the palace cast its long shadow over her. Her dupatta fluttered in the warm breeze, the only part of her that moved freely now. A luxury car had brought her here — a sleek, black, intimidating thing — like everything else that belonged to Veer Pratap Singh Rathore.

She stepped inside the massive marble corridor, her sandals clicking softly against the floor in a rhythm too delicate for a place built on power.

A palace worker, dressed in traditional white with a red turban, greeted her politely and led her down the hall. Meher’s eyes roamed over the intricate arches, the royal portraits, the ancient chandeliers — and yet, none of it felt real. It felt staged. As if beauty here was curated… like a cage too pretty to question.

They stopped in front of a carved wooden door. Her heart skipped.

“Wait here. Saheb will see you shortly.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say, and as the man walked away, the silence pressed harder on her shoulders.

The door creaked open from inside.

And there he was.

Veer.

Not in royal attire this time. He wore a charcoal grey tailored suit, no tie, shirt half-unbuttoned. His presence filled the room like thunderclouds before a storm — silent, but ready to burst.

His office was modern — steel and glass clashing against the haveli's vintage heart. On the wall behind him hung both a Rathore crest and a sleek company logo: V&R Heritage Group, the luxury empire he built from his family’s legacy — hotels, forts, exports, fashion, and more.

He didn’t get up.

Just looked at her.

Intensely.

Deliberately.

“Meher Verma,” he finally said, his voice smooth, low, dangerous. “You’re punctual.”

Her throat was dry. “I was told I’d be documenting heritage structures.”

“You will,” he said, standing slowly. “But first, understand this: nothing that happens here is simple. Not every wall is for display. Some… are for protection. Some for power.”

She didn’t respond.

He walked toward her, slowly, like a lion circling its prey. “Tell me something, Meher… do you always steal attention without trying?”

She flinched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His lips curled slightly — not a smile. A warning. “You do.”

Her heart beat loud in her ears. This wasn’t an internship anymore. This was something else. A game, perhaps. A dare. A ritual dressed as routine.

“Your room is in the east wing,” he said finally, stepping back. “You’ll stay here for the duration of the project.”

“I—wasn’t told I’d be staying,” she whispered.

“You are now.”

He turned away, dismissing her without another glance, and returned to his desk. But before she could leave, his voice came again — quieter, sharper.

“Don’t forget, Meher. You’re inside the palace now. And once something enters this world… it doesn’t always leave unchanged.”