The grand Rathore living room was a majestic blend of tradition and luxury. Tall arches rose into a dome painted with intricate frescos of gods, kings, and queens from centuries past. Antique chandeliers glimmered above, and the marble floor sparkled like still water. The gold-and-emerald upholstery glowed in the afternoon sun that spilled in through stained glass.
Meera sat at the center of the room on a velvet-cushioned divan, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, her eyes hollow and downcast. Her red bridal saree clung to her like a second skin, heavy and suffocating. Her fingers were still faintly stained from the alta.
Everyone sat around her. Maharaja Devendra Singh and Maharani Shanta Devi took the central couch. Daksh stood leaning against a pillar, arms folded, his expression calm but guarded. Dhriti sat beside Meera, offering silent support. Meghna stood behind Abhimanyu, who remained standing with a face carved in indifference.
It was Rani Vaidehi, the soft-spoken wife of Raja Rajveer, who first tried to break the tension. "So, Meera beta," she said gently, "I hope you are fine, we were all there at your father's funeral. Tum Thik ho na bete…?"
The words barely escaped her lips when the air in Meera's chest tightened. But before she could reply, Maharaja Devendra raised his hand slightly and interrupted, his voice authoritative but not unkind.
"Abhimanyu," the king said, his voice echoing across the silent chamber, "since you're married now, it's time you moved into your own wing."
Abhimanyu raised a brow slightly but didn't protest.
"The north-west wing is ready," the king continued. "It was renovated two years ago for Daksh's marriage, but fate chose otherwise. You and your wife will live there now. You are no longer a boy living with your cousin. You are a husband. You will take responsibility."
Meera looked up at Abhimanyu through her lashes. For a moment, their eyes met. Cold. Detached. Distant.
Then Abhimanyu simply nodded once, expression unreadable, and turned to leave. But the king's voice stopped him mid-step again.
"Sit. You're still part of this family, Abhimanyu. You can't just walk out like a stranger."
With clenched jaw, Abhimanyu walked over to the opposite couch and sat, legs crossed, hands folded over his knee.
And then came the introductions.
"I am Rani Vaidehi," said the graceful woman in pastel green. "Rajveer's wife."
"I'm Rani Devika," came a sharper tone. Dressed in an elaborate navy-blue saree, Devika's eyes scanned Meera from head to toe with thinly veiled disdain. "Mahendra's wife. So… abrupt wedding, was it? Quite the scandal for the Rathores. But I suppose these days, we welcome chaos as tradition."
Meera lowered her eyes, her chest tightening with humiliation. The sting of Devika's words cut deep, but she didn't have the strength to retort. Not today.
"Devika," Shanta Devi warned softly.
Devika shrugged, smiling coolly. "Just saying what everyone's thinking."
Daksh stepped forward, "Welcome to the family, Meera. Whatever has happened, you are now one of us. And we protect our own."
His words were diplomatic, but Meera couldn't miss the layers in them. He wasn't offering warmth, just neutrality.
Veer, a boy no older than fifteen, grinned from the corner. "So now we have a queen in the palace again. Can I show you around later?"
"Veer," Vaidehi scolded gently.
Abhimanyu remained silent. He didn't speak for Meera. Didn't shield her from Devika's words. Didn't acknowledge her presence beyond what was required.
And somehow, that silence hurt more than anything said aloud.
Still, Meera stayed quiet. She could feel Dhriti holding her hand under the fabric. A silent tether to reality.
The voices around her faded, melting into one another.
The shehnai music that once echoed in her dreams whenever she imagined her wedding was replaced now with the muffled beat of a trapped heart.
Meera had no energy to defend herself.
No strength to argue.
Not after everything today.
She just had to survive this day.
One breath at a time.
As they were escorted to The north-west wing of the Rathore Palace, it stood silent as dusk cloaked the sky in a deep sapphire hue. The servants had already left after preparing the suite—massive, regal, and far too grand for the tension that now hung in the air.
Meera stepped in behind Abhimanyu, her footsteps hesitant, her body aching from the emotional weight of the day. The door shut behind them with a quiet click. That sound alone was enough to make her flinch.
The room was split into two spaces: a sprawling bedroom with a carved four-poster bed draped in ivory curtains, and a smaller lounge area with a vintage leather couch, bookshelves, and a fireplace that hadn't been lit in years.
Abhimanyu walked straight toward the window, staring out for a long moment, his hands in his pockets. The silence pressed hard between them.
Then he turned, his voice cold and stripped of all pretense.
"Let's get one thing clear."
Meera looked up at him slowly, her body still shaking faintly.
"You're only here because you are the key to that Haveli," he said, his voice low but sharp. "And I always get what I want. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He walked to the couch and gestured toward it.
"That is your place," he said flatly. "You will sleep there. Not on my bed. Don't even think of crossing that line."
Meera's eyes widened slightly, her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Abhimanyu moved closer, towering over her. "I don't like you. I won't ever like you. So don't pretend this is anything more than what it is—a transaction."
Her breath caught.
"You will smile. You will laugh. You will act like the perfect bahu in front of my family. No one needs to know what actually happens behind this door. You are going to wear the sindoor. You are going to touch feet, play the part, be the blushing bride. Because if you don't…"
He paused.
"…I'll demolish the Haveli with my own hands. Brick by brick."
Her knees nearly gave out. The air left her lungs as her eyes welled up again, helplessly.
"And trust me," he added, voice darkening, "not even Daksh or the king himself can stop me from doing that."
She looked at him then. Really looked.
This wasn't the same man she'd seen in the funeral crowd. This wasn't the man who had stood tall in a Bentley with guards trailing behind. This was someone entirely colder. Someone who had buried the boy inside long ago.
Her lips trembled as the first tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Then another.
And suddenly, Abhimanyu looked away, jaw clenched hard.
He hated this. Hated her tears. Hated how they did something to him. Not guilt. Not concern. Just something he couldn't name—and didn't want to face.
But his rage lashed out like a whip.
"Don't," he snapped. "Don't cry."
Meera's hands went to her face, trying to muffle her sobs, to hold herself together.
He stepped forward, his voice now almost shaking with the weight of his own restraint.
"I said don't cry," he barked. "Or I will throw you out of this room right now. Out of this palace. Don't test me."
Her shoulders curled inward, and she turned her back to him, curling up on the far edge of the couch, as though her body could disappear into itself.
Abhimanyu stood still for a moment, fists clenched at his sides, breathing uneven. Something inside him felt out of control.
Without another word, he turned away and walked into the attached bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
The silence that followed was so deep, it almost roared.
Meera curled tighter on the couch, wedding saree still heavy on her body, her soul bruised far beyond repair.
This wasn't a marriage.
It was a sentence.
And the worst part?
There was no escape.