J A S M I N E

"In the palace of power, her silence became her weapon—and every shadow whispered secrets she wasn’t meant to survive."

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"In the palace of power, her silence became her weapon—and every shadow whispered secrets she wasn’t meant to survive."

Morning arrived not with sunlight, but with shadows that slithered through ancient curtains like smoke.

Meher hadn’t slept. Not even for a moment.

She sat on the bridal bed untouched, her red dupatta draped like a shroud over her head, the heavy gold mangalsutra pressing into her collarbone as if trying to mark her from the inside out.

The silence was heavier now. Not peaceful, but watchful—like the walls of this haveli had eyes.

There was no knock. Just the creak of the door opening on its own.

A maid entered—eyes lowered, feet bare, voice mechanical.

“Breakfast is ready, bahurani. Malik saheb has left for Jaipur. He will return by dusk.”

Her first breath in hours felt sharp. The predator was away.

For now.

Meher wandered the halls of her new cage like a ghost in red.

The haveli was enormous—too quiet, too perfect. The chandeliers glistened like frozen blood. Ancient Rajput paintings stared down from walls with hollow eyes. The corridors echoed with secrets.

Every step she took, she felt it.

She was being watched.

The staff didn’t meet her eyes. The guards at every corner stood too still. The women whispered behind covered mouths. No one smiled.

There were rules, she realized. Unspoken ones. Ones she hadn’t been told but was expected to follow.

Don’t ask questions.

Don’t go beyond the east wing.

Never enter the locked library.

And never, ever speak Raunak’s name aloud.

She broke the first rule by noon.

In the courtyard, she stopped a younger servant girl carrying jasmine garlands.

“Why does no one go into the east wing?”

The girl flinched. “It’s… closed, bahurani. Has been for five years.”

“What’s there?”

“Ghosts,” the girl whispered. Then ran off like she had said too much.

Ghosts.

Meher’s eyes flicked toward the stone archway that led east. Covered with a thick velvet curtain and guarded like a tomb.

Something pulsed behind it. Not quite danger. Not quite death.

But something alive.

Later that day, she stood before a full-length mirror in her chamber. The bridal jewelry still weighed on her. The vermilion in her parting had faded but left a stain, like dried blood.

And for the first time, she asked herself:

Who is Raunak Pratap Singh really?

And what was she married into?

By dusk, he returned.

She didn’t hear the engine. Only the shift in the air. The silence that came with him.

He walked in as if the haveli bent around his presence.

This time, he didn’t ignore her.

He found her on the veranda, reading a book she hadn’t touched in hours.

“You’ve been exploring,” he said.

Her spine stiffened. “It’s my home now. Isn’t it?”

He smirked. “That depends. Are you planning to live here... or escape?”

Her eyes met his—unflinching for once.

“Maybe both.”

Raunak’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re bold today.”

“And you’re used to obedience,” she shot back.

He stepped closer.

“Tell me, Meher,” he murmured. “Do you believe you’re clever? Brave? That I’ll fall for your fire eventually?”

She said nothing.

He tilted her chin up, his touch ice over flame.

“Let me give you a truth,” he whispered. “This haveli isn’t your home. It’s my kingdom. And every queen who stood before me eventually learned—love doesn’t live here. Only loyalty. Bought or broken.”

Then he turned away.

And for the first time, Meher didn’t tremble.

She burned.

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