The First Glance At Fate

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.