The laughter still echoes lightly in the hall when Meera's phone buzzes, the screen flashing with a name that flips her breath — Rizwan.
She stands up and walks a few paces away, toward the long glass corridor that overlooks the palace gardens. She picks up, her voice low.
Meera (whispering):
"Rizwan? I told you I'm not—"
Rizwan (firmly, over the line):
"Not optional, Meera. The board knows you're back in India. You've been operating from Milan, Zurich, Dubai for two years. But now that you're home, they want to see you in Bombay. Tomorrow."
Meera (exhaling, tense):
"I just landed in Rajasthan. There's a royal gathering in two days—"
Rizwan (interrupting):
"This is business, not a wedding reception. You don't get to vanish and waltz around palaces, Meera. You're the damn face of this firm."
There's a pause — heavy with tension.
Rizwan (quieter):
"They know what you've done. What you've pulled off internationally. But now they want proof you're still in control."
Meera (after a beat):
"Fine. I'll take the 6 AM charter."
Rizwan:
"Good. And Meera—don't wear that royal smile. Wear your game face."
The line clicks dead.
She lowers the phone slowly, her reflection in the window staring back at her — half princess, half storm.
Isha (calling out from behind, teasing):
"Meera! If you had a secret mafia twin life, now would be the time to confess!"
Meera smiles faintly but says nothing. She walks back, her thoughts spiraling, her jaw tight.
Tomorrow, she won't be Meera Rajput.
She'll be the shark in heels they trained in Zurich — the player, the strategist, the threat.
————————————————————
The soft click of the door echoed in the quiet room as Abhimanyu stepped inside, his jacket slung casually over one shoulder. The clock ticked toward midnight, but the air between them had never felt more alert, more fragile.
Meera sat at the vanity, brushing her hair, her reflection calm—but her eyes had already tracked his every step from the mirror.
He didn't say a word. Just placed the jacket on the chair and loosened his cufflinks.
That silence—again. Dense. Thick with unsaid things.
She finally broke it.
Meera (softly):
"I'm leaving for Bombay tomorrow."
Abhimanyu looked up, his brow twitching.
Abhimanyu (measured):
"Why?"
Meera (turning to face him):
"My company. They want to see me in person. I've been handling international campaigns for the last two years remotely. Now that I'm back in India, they want a face-to-face."
He folded his arms, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
Abhimanyu:
"And you agreed?"
Meera (steady):
"It wasn't a request. It was a directive. I signed the contract two years ago."
He looked away for a second, jaw tightening.
Abhimanyu:
"Interesting. Seems everyone gets to demand things from you, except your own husband."
The words lingered. Neither of them moved.
Meera (quietly):
"This has nothing to do with you, Abhimanyu."
Abhimanyu (sharp):
"Of course it does. Everything does now, Meera. You married into this family—my family. And this—"
(He gestures vaguely between them)
"—doesn't run on separate itineraries."
She stood up then, meeting him at eye level.
Meera (firmly):
"I didn't get married to lose myself. And you didn't marry a woman who was going to ask you for permission to work."
A beat passed. His stare didn't waver, but it flickered—just enough.
Abhimanyu (low voice):
"You're still leaving?"
Meera:
"Yes. Early morning charter."
He said nothing. Just looked at her—long enough for her to feel the weight of what he didn't say.
Then he turned away, heading for the balcony. She watched his back.
The night deepened in stillness, the moonlight casting pale patterns across the cold marble floor.
Meera, too tired to fight anymore, folded a throw over herself and curled up on the sofa, her limbs heavy from everything—unspoken words, unshed tears, unclaimed space in a marriage that still felt like foreign land.
Her eyes drifted shut, slowly surrendering to sleep.
Meanwhile, on the balcony, Abhimanyu stood alone, leaning on the railing with a cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the dark sky, as if trying to carry away the storm brewing quietly in his chest.
He hated this feeling.
He wasn't used to being… unsettled.
But the silence Meera left in her wake—whether in a sentence, a glance, or just walking away—got to him. She didn't yell. She didn't plead. She simply drew her lines with terrifying calm.
And yet here she was… asleep on the sofa.
He walked back into the room and paused at the sight—her curled frame, her knees drawn in like a child's, a red mark from the cushion already forming on her cheek.
He stared at her for a long second.
And then, silently, he bent down.
No words. No drama. Just a breath held between two broken things.
With a strength that came so naturally to him, he slipped one arm under her legs, another behind her back, and gently lifted her into his arms.
She stirred a little, letting out the softest sigh, but didn't wake.
Carefully, he placed her on his bed, pulling the quilt over her. His gaze lingered on her face for a moment—quiet, softer in sleep.
Abhimanyu stood there for a beat too long.
Then, wordlessly, he turned away and slept on the sofa she had just left.
————————————————————
The soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp barely pushed back the darkness of the room.
The clock ticked quietly — 04:02 a.m.
Meera blinked awake, momentarily confused by the soft mattress beneath her.
She sat up, a frown knitting her brows. This wasn't where she remembered falling asleep.
She turned slightly… and froze.
Abhimanyu lay on the sofa, one arm curled under his head, the other resting across his chest. His shirt was still creased from the night before, and the cigarette tray on the side table had a single stub crushed silently into the glass.
Her chest tightened.
He had moved her.
And taken the sofa for himself.
No words. No drama. Just a quiet shift in roles.
She stared for a moment longer than she should have.
A part of her wanted to walk over. To say something. To wake him.
But she didn't.
Instead, she stood up slowly, walking softly toward her suitcase, already packed the night before. She changed into her travel clothes — black joggers, a long coat over a fitted grey top, her makeup minimal, hair pulled into a sleek ponytail.
As she stood at the doorway, her hand on the knob, she glanced back one last time.
He was still asleep.
Meera whispered into the stillness,
"Main waapas aungi… Abhimanyu Rajput."
And with that, she slipped out, the faint echo of her heels disappearing into the quiet corridors of the palace, where a chartered flight to Bombay awaited her.
The Mumbai air hit differently.
It wasn't the heat — Meera had faced worse.
It was the density.
A crowded blend of past ambition, sharp choices, and the ghosts of who she had once been.
Her heels echoed against the private terminal floor as she stepped out, flanked by her assistant and two silent bodyguards. Her black shades covered tired eyes, but her posture — upright, precise — betrayed none of it.
A sleek black sedan waited for her. As the door closed behind her, Rizwan's voice filled the car on speakerphone.
"You've got two hours before the boardroom, Meera. Everyone's expecting you to be a little… different."
She smirked faintly. "Let them."
Rizwan paused. "You sure you're okay?"
Her voice dropped lower. "Rizwan, I'm not here for therapy. I'm here to remind them whose name they signed two years ago."
The black car slowed in front of a glass skyscraper — Aurum Talent & Management. Mumbai's elite modeling agency.
She didn't wait for the door to be opened. Meera stepped out herself.
A security guard blinked once. Then straightened like he'd seen royalty.
Because he had.
"Ma'am… welcome back."
Her stilettos clicked against marble as she entered — each step effortless, timed to a rhythm she didn't even have to think about. The lobby receptionist looked up — and went wide-eyed.
"Holy shit… Meera Ma'am?"
She gave a tight smile. "Is Saharsh in?"
"Yes— yes! Top floor. He said he'd be waiting."
As she entered the executive lift, her reflection stared back at her in polished gold. White silk blouse. Black cigarette pants. Heels sharp enough to pierce pride. Her hair pulled back into a sleek bun.
She was ready.
She had no choice but to be.