The Haveli's heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind her as Meera stumbled down the ancient sandstone steps, her breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. The hem of her designer kurti dragged through the dust-laden courtyard, but she didn't care. She didn't see the guards. She didn't see the luxury cars parked at the edge of the estate. She didn't even see the tall, unreadable man who stood with his back resting against the bonnet of a black Bentley, watching her with eyes that hadn't blinked since the door burst open.
All she could see was betrayal.
Her lungs burned, her feet moved on instinct. Through the arched corridor that led past the main building, past the carved stone elephants and broken fountains—straight to the overgrown garden that once belonged to her mother.
She collapsed onto the swing under the frangipani tree. It still creaked like it did when her mother used to sit there with a book in one hand and Meera curled up in her lap. Her knees pulled to her chest, she buried her face in them.
"What the hell is happening…" she whispered. Her voice cracked. It didn't even sound like her.
Her mother's Haveli. The only thing that had belonged to her. The only thing that felt safe in the labyrinth of half-truths her family had become. And now, the last piece of her mother was being held hostage behind a marriage proposal with a man three times her age. A stranger. A pervert.
For what?
Her hands trembled. For walls that couldn't speak? For secrets no one had ever told her? For legacies soaked in blood and betrayal?
She yanked her dupatta over her head and sobbed—loud and broken. Not the tears of a woman, but of a little girl who had lost her mother once and was now losing her all over again.
The swing creaked beneath her weight, moving slightly with each silent gust of wind that rolled through the garden. The scent of earth and fading frangipanis clung to the air. Meera clutched her sides, shaking with sobs that felt like they were tearing her insides apart. Every breath hurt.
From the distance, she could faintly hear footsteps—fast, scattered, multiple. Familiar voices echoing her name through the courtyard and corridors of the Haveli.
"Meera!"
"Where are you, Meera?!"
"Yaar, say something!"
But she couldn't answer. She didn't have it in her.
Then—"Found her!"
Dhrithi's voice rang out loud and clear, regal even when rushed. She came running across the stones barefoot, her royal silk saree flowing behind her like a war flag. Zahra and Isha followed close behind, concern etched on their faces.
Dhrithi skidded to a halt when she saw her friend curled up on the swing. For a moment, she simply stared—softening, grounding herself before she approached.
She knelt in front of Meera and gently touched her arm.
"Mira…" her voice was low, almost a whisper, "What did she say to you?"
Meera sniffled, her eyes red and swollen. "She—she said I have to marry some 60-year-old to get my mother's Haveli. That… that she's already arranged everything. That it's done."
Zahra sucked in a breath. Isha muttered a curse under hers. Dhrithi just closed her eyes, visibly collecting herself before shaking her head.
"Nahi." She looked Meera dead in the eye. "You're not marrying anyone like that. Not happening. Not on our f***ing watch."
Meera blinked, stunned by the steel in Dhrithi's voice.
"There's someone else here to see you," Dhrithi added gently.
Meera's brows furrowed. "Another buyer?"
"No," Dhrithi stood up, wiping her hands on her saree pleats, her expression unreadable. "Not a buyer. A storm, actually."
"What do you mean?"
Dhrithi offered a small, crooked smile, the kind that never came without a side of trouble. "Come and see for yourself. But be warned—he's not what you're expecting. And… he's not going to be patient."
Meera hesitated.
"Trust me," Dhrithi said, holding out her hand. "You'll want to meet this man before you let Anita ruin your life."
Meera tried to stand, but her legs wobbled beneath her like the last threads of resolve she clung to. Dhrithi quickly steadied her, wrapping an arm around her waist.
"Aram se, Meera. You haven't eaten anything. Take it slow."
She nodded faintly, her lips trembling. Her mind was still stuck in the maze Anita had forced her into—but Dhrithi's presence, calm yet commanding, was the only anchor she had right now. Zahra slipped off her shawl and draped it over Meera's shoulders, while Isha offered a small water bottle and pressed her hand gently against Meera's back.
"Let's go," Dhrithi said, as they began walking slowly back toward the Haveli.
Barefoot and dazed, Meera didn't notice much at first—until she stepped through the Haveli's arched doorway and froze.
There he stood.
A man carved from stone and rage.
Tall, powerful, draped in an immaculately tailored dark grey suit that looked custom-made for his broad shoulders. His black shirt hugged the defined muscles underneath, the top button casually open, revealing a sliver of his sharp collarbone. There was a calm fury in the way he stood—one hand tucked neatly into his pocket, the other gripping a pair of sleek sunglasses, knuckles tense.
A small scar ran just above his right eyebrow, a barely-there line, but it drew her eyes like gravity. His face looked like it was sculpted from raw marble—jaw clenched, brows hard, lips set in a line that screamed dominance. And yet… there was a quiet storm behind those eyes. Old grief. Quiet rage.
Abhimanyu Rajput.
Behind him stood two large SUVs with black-tinted windows and guards dressed in formal attire. His secretary, a slim woman holding a black tablet, whispered something into his ear and he barely nodded.
And beside him—Anita.
Pacing. Visibly flustered. Uneasy.
As if she knew she'd just invited the devil into her Haveli.
Meera's eyes met his.
And the world—the noise, the tension, even her grief—blurred.
All she could see was him.
Her breath hitched. Her heart thudded violently in her chest. Her stomach twisted, not with fear but something she hadn't felt in a long, long time—something terrifying and magnetic.
She should have looked away.
She didn't.
Abhimanyu didn't blink. He let his eyes roam over her—subtly, sharply—reading her like a code, assessing, remembering the photograph in her file and seeing her now, real, more fragile than he imagined. More… stunning.
His jaw ticked. Meera noticed the twitch. The storm behind his gaze seemed to flicker, just for a second. But his posture remained that of a man in complete control.
Then—he walked forward.
Each step deliberate, the kind that made Anita visibly shrink back, and Dhrithi instinctively tighten her grip on Meera's wrist.
"He's here for you," Dhrithi murmured, barely audible.
Meera took a breath, shaky, her voice hoarse from the crying, "Who is he?"
"Abhimanyu Rajput," Zahra whispered beside her. "Dhrithi's cousin. Daksh's right hand."
Meera blinked, stunned. The Abhimanyu Rajput.
By then, he was just feet away. He stopped in front of them, looking down at Meera, silent. His eyes locked on hers—and for a moment, neither said a word.
Meera's fingers clutched the shawl tighter. Her voice was barely a whisper, "Why are you here?"
His reply came low, deep, and firm—"Because you're about to make a mistake."
And with that, he turned.
Not waiting for a reaction.
Anita's hands trembled slightly as she led Abhimanyu and his men through the long corridor of the Haveli. Her eyes darted toward Meera, who was slowly being ushered in by her friends, barefoot and dazed.
Inside the old office, its once-grand aura now suffocating under tension, Anita fumbled with courtesy.
"Would you like some refreshments, Mr. Rajput?"
Abhimanyu didn't sit. He didn't smile.
"Let's not waste time, Ms. Singhania. I'm not here to exchange pleasantries. I'm here for the Haveli."
Zahra and Isha stiffened at his bluntness. Dhrithi narrowed her eyes, but stayed quiet for now.
Anita blinked. "And what exactly do you propose?"
He looked at Meera for the first time since entering the room, his eyes cold, unreadable.
"A marriage."
The word dropped like a thunderclap.
Everyone froze.
Meera flinched, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "You're joking, right?"
Abhimanyu's eyes met hers—dark, smoldering with something sharp beneath.
"No," he said coolly. "This is the only deal you're going to get. I've already spoken to Daksh. The Haveli gets transferred to the married heiress. So I will marry you. And the Haveli will be mine."
Dhrithi took a sharp step forward. "Abhimanyu, yeh kya nonsense hai? You can't seriously—"
He held up a hand, his tone softening just for her. "Dhrithi, tu samajh ja. Is baar main kisi ko jawab nahi de raha."
Then he turned to Meera again. She was shaking, her lips trembling.
Abhimanyu took a slow step closer. His voice dropped low, meant only for her ears.
"You have two choices, Meera Singhania."
"That sixty-year-old pervert your stepmother is selling you to…"
He leaned in, his breath just brushing her ear.
"Or me."
"And if you choose me… I promise you, I will make your life a living hell."
Meera gasped, her knees almost buckling at the threat laced in his calmness.
"You'll get no love. No peace. No freedom. You'll be my wife on paper, and nothing more than a pawn in my game."
Her friends moved toward her in alarm, sensing the sudden change in her body language.
"But why—?" she barely managed.
Abhimanyu's eyes locked with hers, colder than the desert nights of Rajasthan.
"Because your father owed me blood. And since he's gone, I'll take everything he ever loved. Starting with this Haveli. And you."
Dhrithi stepped in between them. "Enough, Abhimanyu! She's not some pawn in your power games—"
Abhimanyu looked at her with that same silence, but his voice turned steel once more.
"I'm leaving in one hour. I expect her answer by then."
He turned to Anita. "Keep the paperwork ready. We'll sign it at the registrar's office."
Then without waiting for another word, he gestured to his men and walked out of the room, the door swinging behind him with a final thud.