The Palace That Didn’t Blink

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.”

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