The coldness of his rejection still echoed in her bones.
Don't touch me.
Not ever.
The words kept circling like a curse.
Without thinking, Meera rushed to her room.
She didn't wait for anyone. No notes. No explanations. Just her suitcase, her documents, and her laptop. She stuffed in clothes blindly, zipped her bag, pulled on a hoodie, and left the palace through the side corridor, unnoticed.
By the time the guards were alerted, she was already in the car, heading for the airport.
And then — gone.
Early morning, Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport, Mumbai.
The city was just waking up. The sky hung low with a dull grey and the smell of jet fuel and wet earth mixed in the air.
Rizwan was already there, leaning against the wall outside Starbucks, phone in hand.
His eyes widened when he saw her walking toward him, hoodie on, dark circles under her eyes, a visible crack running through her composed exterior.
"Damn, you ran, huh?" he said as they sat at a quiet corner inside, cups between them.
Meera exhaled slowly. Her fingers wrapped around the cup, absorbing its warmth like it could anchor her.
"I told him," she began, her voice barely audible. "About the campaign. About the Rajputs."
Rizwan waited. He sensed the dam about to burst.
"He yelled. He… he lost it. Told me never to touch him again. Said it like I had betrayed him. Like I was… one of them."
A beat.
"He hates them, Rizwan. And I didn't even know."
Rizwan blinked, then leaned forward.
"Meera, are you okay?"
"No," she whispered. "But I will be. Just… cancel everything with them, please."
"We can't," he said gently. "The coordinator's already here from London. We'll face this together. You're not alone, Meera."
She didn't say anything.
She just stared out the window, the Mumbai skyline blurred by the fog and her glassy eyes.
————————————————————
ABHIMANYU RAJPUT
The silence in the palace was deceptive.
Abhimanyu stood in front of the window, jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.
When the guards entered, there was an unnatural stillness in the air.
"Sir," one of them began hesitantly, "Meera ma'am… she's not in her room."
Abhimanyu turned slowly, the stillness in him shattering.
"Then where the hell is she?" His voice cut through the room like a blade.
The second guard swallowed nervously.
"She's already gone, sir. Took a car last night, left without informing anyone. We tried to alert you, but…"
He didn't let him finish.
"Gone?"
The word escaped like a growl. He stormed forward.
"You let her leave this palace alone? In the middle of the night?!"
They didn't respond.
Another voice, calmer, more careful:
"We tracked her movement. She boarded a flight to Mumbai. She's there now. With her manager. Sir—she's going to meet the Rajput Industries coordinator today. But…"
"But?" he snapped.
"She's planning to refuse the deal."
Abhimanyu stilled again, this time his breath caught.
That stubborn woman. Still trying to protect him—even now.
After what I did. After the things I said… she's still trying to stand by me.
A short-lived relief washed over him—quick, painful, humbling.
Then it was gone.
Because he knew what she didn't: Rajputs never liked being told "no."
Especially not by someone they deemed beneath them.
"Send two guards immediately," he ordered, tone razor-sharp. "If they're on the same flight she took, they can be there within the hour."
He dialed again.
"Tanvi?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Deploy two more men from our Bombay office. She's to be shadowed until she returns. And if she agrees to meet that coordinator—double her security."
A beat. His voice dropped, quieter, heavier.
"They're Rajputs. And I know exactly how ruthless they can be."
He ended the call but didn't move.
————————————————————
MEERA RAJPUT
The chandelier above shimmered with silent elegance as Meera sat calmly in the private lounge of Hotel Regis. The plush interiors were designed to impress — gold accents, velvet walls, the scent of wealth in the air.
But none of that mattered.
Because across from her sat Kunal Rajput, coordinator for Rajput Industries — and a man too used to women nodding when he snapped his fingers.
Kunal stirred his espresso with deliberate ease, then looked up with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Let's get this locked. You'll fly to London next week. The campaign launch is already being teased. Your agency has the itinerary."
Meera lifted her eyes, poised.
"I'm not doing the campaign, Mr. Rajput."
Silence. The spoon in his cup clinked softly.
Kunal blinked. Then laughed.
"I think I misheard you."
"No," Meera said calmly. "You didn't."
He leaned back, posture shifting.
"You signed the pre-contract. You're not backing out of this because of some… moral pangs, are you?"
"It's not a contract. It was an intention note. And I've changed my mind."
His amusement curdled into disdain.
"You think you have that kind of power? You're a model. One of many. This campaign is backed by real names, real bloodlines. Rajput bloodlines."
Meera's face stayed still.
"That doesn't change my answer."
Kunal's face hardened.
"You little opportunist. Don't play princess now just because you've had your five minutes of fame. You forget your place."
He rose from his seat, crossing the distance between them.
"I made you sit here. I can end your name just as fast."
She stood too, backing half a step — not in fear, but in disgust.
That's when he grabbed her wrist. Hard.
"You models think a few international walkways make you invincible?" he snarled.
"Say no again, and you'll see what we do to ungrateful—"
Meera gasped, his grip bruising.
He raised his hand—ready to strike.
But he never made it.
Because five black-suited men suddenly stepped into the lounge, weapons holstered, presence unmistakable.
The nearest one caught Kunal's wrist mid-air with iron grip.
"Step. Away," he said quietly, deadly calm.
Kunal looked stunned.
"Who the hell are you?!"
One of the guards flashed a badge.
"Private Royal Security. Sent by the Rajput Estate. Touch her again, and you won't leave through the front doors."
Meera's breath was shallow. She hadn't even known they were there.
Kunal stared at her, realization slow — this girl had protection. But from whom?
"Who are you?" he whispered, more to himself than to her.
Meera didn't answer. She simply fixed her wrist, turned on her heel, and walked out — flanked by the guards, head high.
She walked straight to where her car was parked, Mumbai heat clung to the early evening air as Meera stepped into the backseat of the car where Rizwan was waiting.
She hadn't said a word yet. She didn't need to.
Because Rizwan's eyes dropped straight to her wrist — red, swelling, angry.
"Who did this to you?" His voice was low. Deadly.
She looked out the window, still in shock. Voice hoarse.
"Kunal. He lost his temper."
"He touched you?" Rizwan leaned forward, almost jumping out of his seat.
"I said no to the campaign," she muttered. "And he didn't like it."
But it wasn't just what she said — it was the look in her eyes.
Dead calm. Quiet fury. Her pride bruised more than her wrist.
Rizwan swallowed.
"You're not okay."
She looked at him.
"I'm not," she said. "But I will be."
Then, softer.
"I'm going back to Udaipur, my haveli, Rizwan. Tonight."