Chapter 1
Mehr’s POV
The sharp trill of my alarm shattered the silence of dawn. I groaned, fumbling for the clock to silence its unwelcome sound. Mornings were merciless. The world seemed so full of promise, yet it only reminded me of the endless demands that awaited.
With a heavy sigh, I swung my legs out of bed and onto the cold wooden floor. I sat there for a moment, willing myself to move. This wasn’t laziness—it was something deeper, a reluctance to face the world that rarely understood me.
Finally, I forced myself to my feet and shuffled to the bathroom. The warm water from the shower was a balm, easing the stiffness in my muscles and granting me a few stolen moments of peace. As I wrapped a towel around myself and stood before the mirror, I stared at the woman reflected there.
The face looking back at me was weary but determined. My eyes, framed by dark circles, held a quiet strength I didn’t always feel. I ran a comb through my damp hair, twisting it into a neat braid. The routine was simple, and efficient—just like everything in my life.
I reached for my gold studs, my most cherished possession. Ammi had given them to me when I was eleven, the day I fasted for the first time during Ramadan. “You’re growing up so fast,” she had said, her voice tinged with pride and sadness.
I hadn’t taken them off since. They were more than jewelry—they were a connection to a past that felt worlds away. A past where I had a family, where my days were filled with love and laughter instead of meetings and deadlines.
A Life Shaped by Loss
The memories of Ammi and Abbu were never far from my mind. They lingered in the quiet moments, unbidden but insistent. I thought of Ammi’s bright eyes as she prepared for Ahmed Bhai’s return from Cambridge, the way her laughter filled the house. That day had been so full of joy—until it wasn’t.
She collapsed suddenly, her laughter turning to silence as panic gripped our home. I remember screaming her name, begging her to wake up. The paramedics arrived too late. The doctors tried to explain, but their words were meaningless against the tidal wave of grief that consumed us.
Abbu had been my anchor in those first few hours, his strength holding me together. But even he wasn’t invincible. The weight of losing Ammi was too much for him to bear. He passed away quietly, sitting by her side, his hand still clasped around hers.
I was sixteen. Too young to lose everything, yet old enough to understand the permanence of it. That day, I promised myself I would be strong—not just for me, but for them. Their legacy deserved more than tears.
The Niqab: My Choice, My Freedom
I wrapped myself in my abaya and niqab, the fabric soft and familiar against my skin. To the world, it was a symbol of modesty, a barrier between me and the gazes of strangers. To me, it was a shield, a sanctuary.
People often misunderstood my choice. They saw the niqab as a limitation, a restriction imposed by tradition or culture. But they were wrong. It wasn’t about hiding—it was about defining myself on my terms.
The world outside was relentless in its demands. It wanted women to be everything—beautiful, intelligent, successful—yet it always found a way to criticize. My niqab allowed me to step back from that chaos. It let me focus on who I was, not what others expected me to be.
I often thought about the young girls who looked up to me, who saw me as a role model. What did they see? A successful businesswoman? A woman of faith? Or someone caught between two worlds? I hoped it was the first two.
The Drive to the Office
Abdullah Uncle greeted me with his usual warmth as I stepped into the car. “Good morning, Beta,” he said, his voice kind and steady.
“Good morning, Uncle,” I replied, settling into the back seat.
The streets of Mumbai were alive with activity. Vendors set up their stalls, rickshaws honked impatiently, and people hurried to their destinations. The city’s energy was both invigorating and exhausting.
As the car wove through the traffic, my thoughts drifted to the day ahead. Shah Jewels was more than a business to me—it was a legacy, a tribute to my parents. Every piece we created, every deal we closed, was a step toward honoring their memory.
At the Office
Haya greeted me with her usual enthusiasm as I stepped into my sleek, minimalistic office. “Good morning, Mehr!” she chirped, handing me a stack of papers.
“Good morning, Haya,” I replied, taking the documents and scanning them quickly.
She launched into a detailed rundown of the day’s agenda: meetings, calls, approvals. It was routine, yet each task required my full attention.
“There’s one more thing,” Haya said, her tone shifting. “Mr. Sancaktar has been trying to get in touch with you. He’s very insistent about meeting.”
I looked up, my brow furrowing beneath the veil. “Why does he want to meet?”
“It’s about the crown,” she explained. “The one showcased at the charity gala in Turkey. He wants to buy it.”
My grip on the papers tightened. That crown wasn’t just another design—it was personal. A tribute to Ammi, inspired by her love of floral motifs and crescent moons. Selling it would feel like a betrayal.
“It’s not for sale,” I said firmly. “The crown belongs to the museum.”
Haya nodded but hesitated. “He’s very persistent, Mehr. He said he’d fly to Mumbai just to speak with you.”
“Then he’ll waste his time,” I replied, my voice cold.
Speculating About Yavuz
As the day went on, I couldn’t shake the thought of Yavuz Sancaktar. His name was familiar—he was a wealthy businessman with a reputation for getting what he wanted. But why was he so fixated on the crown?
Was it a gift? A status symbol? Or was there something deeper at play?
“Haya,” I called, and she appeared in the doorway moments later.
“Yes, Mehr?”
“Did Mr. Sancaktar mention why he wanted the crown?”
Haya shook her head. “No, but he seemed... personal about it. Almost emotional.”
Her words gave me pause. Men like Yavuz didn’t get emotional about jewelry. Whatever his reasons, I couldn’t let them sway me.
Evening Reflections
By the time I returned home, the day’s events weighed heavily on me. I removed my niqab and abaya, folding them neatly before collapsing onto the couch.
My mind wandered to the crown, to Yavuz, to the life I had built. There were moments when I wondered if it was all worth it—the sacrifices, the solitude. But then I thought of Ammi and Abbu, of the legacy I was preserving, and the doubt faded.
I whispered a prayer, seeking guidance and strength. The road ahead was uncertain, but I would face it with the same determination that had carried me this far.
YAVUZ POV (Somewhere in Turkey)
A Promise to Leyla
The museum was alive with chatter and footsteps, a symphony of voices blending with the quiet hum of history. I walked beside Leyla, her small hand tucked securely in mine. At just sixteen, she still had the wonder of a child, her wide eyes darting from one exhibit to the next, drinking in the colors, textures, and magic of it all.
Leyla loved museums. To her, they were magical places where stories lived forever. Despite the weight of my responsibilities and the demands of my work, I always made time for her. Leyla wasn’t just my sister; she was my heart. Her Down syndrome meant she saw the world differently, with a purity and innocence that put everything into perspective.
“Yavuz, look!” she exclaimed, tugging at my hand and pointing to a case filled with antique jewelry. “It’s like the ones in the fairytales!”
Her joy was infectious. Leyla’s world was simple, untainted by the greed and chaos that consumed most people. Moments like these reminded me why I did everything I did—why I built my empire, fought my battles, and kept climbing higher.
As we turned a corner, she froze, her gaze fixed on a display at the center of the room. It was the crown.
Encased in glass and illuminated by soft golden lights, it seemed almost ethereal. The delicate floral motifs and tiny gemstones shimmered like starlight. The craftsmanship was exquisite, a testament to the designer’s skill and vision.
Leyla’s breath hitched. “Yavuz! It’s a princess crown!”
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed, crouching to her level. Her excitement made the crown seem even more magnificent.
She nodded fervently, her curls bouncing. “Can we take it home?”
Her question caught me off guard. Leyla rarely asked for anything. She was content with small joys—a new book, a walk in the park, her favorite sweets. But now, her eyes were locked on the crown, her expression filled with hope.
“Leyla,” I began gently, “this crown belongs to the museum. It’s not something we can take.”
Her face fell, and my chest tightened. I hated disappointing her. I hated the way her joy dimmed, replaced by a sadness that was all too rare for her.
“Please, Yavuz,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”
In that moment, I made a silent vow. I didn’t care what it cost or what I had to do—I would get that crown for her. Leyla was my world, my reason for everything. If this crown made her happy, it was worth any price.
Back to Mehr’s POV: The Persistent Suitor
Haya’s voice cut through my thoughts as she walked into my office, holding a folder and a steaming cup of chai. “Mehr, there’s something you should know about Mr. Sancaktar,” she said, placing the items on my desk.
I looked up from the sketches spread before me. “What is it now?”
“He’s... persistent,” Haya said carefully. “I did some digging. He’s not just interested in the crown as a collector. It’s personal.”
“Personal?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow.
Haya nodded. “Apparently, he has a younger sister with Down syndrome. She saw the crown at the charity gala and fell in love with it. She asked him to bring it home.”
The information gave me pause. My first instinct was skepticism—men like Yavuz Sancaktar didn’t operate on sentiment. But as I thought about it, a part of me softened.
“She must mean a lot to him,” I said quietly.
“She does,” Haya agreed. “But Mehr, this doesn’t mean you have to sell it. The crown is more than just a piece of jewelry. It’s your design, your legacy.”
I nodded, her words resonating with the resolve I had built over the years. The crown was indeed a part of my legacy. It wasn’t something I could part with lightly, even for a reason as heartfelt as this.
But as the day wore on, I couldn’t shake the thought of Yavuz and his sister. What kind of man would move mountains for a simple request from his sibling? Was he truly as ruthless as his reputation suggested, or was there more to him than met the eye?
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts on the story and the characters. Who do you think should play Mehr Shah in a movie adaptation? Share your opinions in the comments!
