The First Storm in Silk

The morning in Raj Mahal didn’t arrive with the chirping of birds or the smell of chai. It arrived in silence — thick, elegant, unbothered by human rhythms. Even the wind here seemed to move under royal command.

Meher sat on the cushioned seat beside the jharokha, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the brass railing. Her eyes were blank, but inside, questions piled up like dust in the corners of an unopened room.

This wasn’t what she signed up for.

No professors, no books, no lectures, no heritage tours. Just corridors, guards, veiled maids, and her — caged in silk and confusion. No one had come to explain anything. She hadn’t seen Veer since that brief encounter in his office, yet his presence hung in the air like incense — thick and inescapable.

A part of her wanted to leave. But where would she go? She had signed official papers. She hadn’t even kept a copy. And worst of all — her phone had been taken “for palace security.”

It wasn’t an internship. It was a trap dressed in heritage.

A soft knock broke the stillness.

Before she could even rise, the heavy wooden door creaked open. And then he walked in.

Veer.

No guards. No warning. Just him.

This time, he was dressed differently — not in royal layers, but in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers. His sleeves were folded, veins visible along his forearms. He looked less like a prince and more like a man used to command boardrooms and hearts alike.

Meher stood, startled, adjusting her dupatta. “You could’ve knocked.”

“I did,” he replied calmly, scanning the room. “You took too long.”

Her jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

“You.”

The word fell heavy into the space between them. Her breath hitched.

“I mean your presence,” he clarified, walking toward the window. “Tonight. Dinner.”

“I’m not comfortable with this.”

He turned, slowly. His expression didn’t change, but his tone dipped an octave lower.

“This isn’t about comfort, Meher. You’re here now. Inside Raj Mahal. And nothing inside this palace happens without purpose.”

“I came for work, not for—whatever this is.”

Veer stepped closer, his voice dangerously soft. “Then work. Observe. Write. But understand something—when a woman walks into my palace without invitation and still haunts my mind days later... that’s not coincidence. That’s destiny.”

She swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the edge of the window.

“You don’t know me,” she whispered.

He moved even closer. “Then let me.”

Their eyes locked — hers filled with fear and defiance, his with something unreadable. Want, perhaps. Or something far darker.

“You’ll dine with me tonight,” he said, stepping back. “Wear red.”

And just like that, he left.

That evening, a maid entered, silent as ever, laying out a red chiffon saree embroidered with golden vines. Meher stared at it, her hands trembling.

The palace hadn’t spoken.

Veer had.

And tonight, for the first time, she wouldn’t just be an observer.

She would be the center of the storm — wrapped in silk, walking straight into a dinner that felt more like a test of fate.

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