The Room with Golden Bars

The east wing of Raj Mahal was quieter than the rest — too quiet. Not peaceful, not serene, but... hushed. Like secrets whispered down marble corridors, hiding behind every gilded frame and silk curtain.

When Meher stepped inside the room assigned to her, the first thing that struck her was how out of place she felt.

It wasn’t a room.

It was a chamber. A space crafted not for function, but for possession.

Intricately carved ceilings, walls painted in soft gold and crimson, and an antique mirror that reflected more than just one’s face. A four-poster bed stood at the center, draped in sheer ivory netting that danced gently with the air. Rose petals were scattered on the sheets, and beside the headboard sat a silver tray — with a goblet of water, and a note written in firm, masculine handwriting.

"You belong here now. — V"

Meher’s fingers trembled as she folded the note and shoved it into her dupatta.

Belong? To what?

To whom?

A knock came at the door. She turned quickly, only to see a soft-spoken maid entering with a pile of new clothes — elegant kurtas, dupattas, shawls — all rich, regal, nothing like the cotton comfort she knew. No words were exchanged. The maid simply placed them in the wardrobe and bowed before leaving.

The door clicked shut.

Meher stared at her reflection in the mirror. The girl looking back wore fear like lipstick — visible, fresh, and smeared at the edges. She was still Meher Verma… wasn’t she?

---

Hours passed. She had no idea what time it was, and no one had come to brief her about the documentation work. She opened her journal, tried writing something — about the palace, its architecture, its art — but all her pen scratched out were three words:

“I feel watched.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

Because just across the corridor, behind another set of doors, Veer stood in silence. Watching the live feed of her room from the security monitors embedded discreetly into his private office — a new addition to the palace he had renovated for "security purposes."

But it wasn’t security he was seeking. It was control. And curiosity.

She moved like poetry. Even in fear, she was captivating. He didn’t understand what it was — this need to own every piece of her. Not just her presence… but her resistance.

A soft knock on his door snapped him back.

“Dinner is served, Hukum,” a servant informed him.

He nodded. “Send a tray to Meher’s room. She’ll dine alone tonight.”

But his eyes didn’t leave the screen. Not yet.

---

Later that night, Meher stood by the jharokha, staring at the moonlit courtyard. The palace was beautiful — painfully so. But beauty, she was learning, could be deceiving.

She didn’t know what Veer wanted from her. Why she was here. Why the air around her suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else.

She only knew one thing.

This wasn’t an internship anymore.

This was a slow, silent surrender.

And the palace…

was her golden cage.

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