The first thing she noticed when her eyes fluttered open was the stillness.
The room was silent. The kind of silent that sinks into your bones.
Meera blinked slowly, her head heavy, her throat parched. Her back ached, and the deep redness of the saree clung to her like a memory she couldn't shake off.
She sat up, barely, as the stiff cushion beneath her shifted. Her eyes darted across the room instinctively—
But Abhimanyu wasn't there.
He was gone.
The sheets on the king-sized bed were untouched, the curtains drawn half open to let in the soft morning sunlight. His coat was no longer hanging on the chair. His watch no longer rested on the table. He had vanished without a trace.
Of course he did.
She slowly pushed herself up, bracing her hands against the edge of the couch. Her muscles screamed in protest, her arms trembling.
But the worst pain came from her legs.
The moment she stood, her knees buckled.
And she fell—a sharp cry escaping her lips as her knees hit the cold marble floor.
A sharp, stabbing pain bloomed immediately. She could already feel the bruises forming—deep purple bruises under her pale skin.
But Meera gritted her teeth. No more crying. No more trembling. Not when she was in the enemy's palace, under the enemy's roof.
She pulled herself up again.
Step by step.
Inch by inch.
Dragging her body across the room, she finally reached the bathroom. Her fingers trembled as she turned on the tap of the shower, and the sound of warm water hitting the tiles felt like a lullaby.
She stepped under it fully clothed. The red wedding saree now drenched, the golden thread embroidery growing heavier with the weight of water.
She didn't care.
She couldn't.
Her forehead rested against the cold wall as warm streams of water soaked her hair, her arms, her back. She stood there silently, allowing the warmth to melt something inside her—though she didn't know what.
All she could think about—through everything—was him.
Abhimanyu.
How he looked in that sharp black suit. How his sleeves were rolled just enough to show the veins on his forearms.
The faint stubble that outlined his jaw. The mark near his temple—like a faded memory of a wound that never left.
And the way he looked at her. Like she was a burden. A pawn. A symbol of everything he hated.
But still…
Still, her heart didn't know how to hate him.
Why?
Why couldn't she hate him?
After everything. After the threats. After the forced marriage. After watching her own freedom crumble under the weight of his vengeance.
Instead, her body betrayed her.
Every time he stood close—every time his voice dipped dangerously low—her breath hitched.
Her hands trembled.
The butterflies that were supposed to die in her belly fluttered harder.
She hated herself for that. For the way her skin tingled when he brushed past her. For how the sound of his footsteps outside the door made her freeze—half with fear, half with anticipation.
No, this wasn't love. It wasn't even infatuation.
It was something darker.
Something painful.
Something like a curse.
The water was cold now, turning from warm comfort to biting ice. Meera finally moved, peeling off the heavy saree from her skin piece by piece.
She dried herself slowly, wrapping a towel around her body as she stood in front of the mirror.
Her face looked pale. Hollow. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes bloodshot. Her once flawless complexion now marred with exhaustion.
And yet—there was a fire in those eyes.
Dim. Flickering. But still burning.
A soft knock echoed on the door.
"Meera?" It was Dhrithi's voice.
"I'm coming," she said hoarsely.
She dressed herself in the simplest cotton suit she could find in the wardrobe—the only luggage she had was a small overnight bag Dhrithi had sent upstairs. She didn't wear makeup. She didn't even comb her hair, letting it air dry over her back.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, the scent of Abhimanyu still lingered in the room.
A mix of cedarwood, leather, and something subtly spicy.
She took one last look at the empty bed, the broken couch she had claimed, and the silent space between them.
And she promised herself—
Today would be the last day she let herself be weak.
The door creaked softly as Meera unlocked it, still towel-drying her damp hair with a faded cotton cloth. Her limbs ached, her heart felt like a collapsing cave, but her eyes—those haunted yet stubborn eyes—held firm.
Dhrithi stepped inside, her expression lined with worry, her phone still buzzing in her hand.
"They've called seven times already," she whispered. "Your manager's in panic mode. The Milan shoot—it's this week. They've flown in designers from Italy. You were supposed to land there in 48 hours."
Meera exhaled slowly, rubbing her temple. Her body was exhausted, but her mind… her mind was strangely clear.
"Let him know I'll be there."
Dhrithi blinked. "Wait—what?"
"I said," Meera repeated, standing upright as she walked toward the mirror, "I'll go. I'm not backing out of Milan."
"You just got married, Meera," Dhrithi said, stepping forward, her voice lower now, more cautious. "And to him. Do you really think Abhimanyu is going to be okay with you flying to another country in two days? Alone?"
Meera didn't answer right away. She picked up the comb, slowly untangling the knots in her hair. Her voice, when it came, was soft—but absolute.
"I gave up a lot, Dhriti. My mother's memories. My freedom. My choices. But the one thing I'm not sacrificing is my career. That's mine. Not built on my father's name, or his death, or this wretched marriage. It's mine."
Dhrithi's brows furrowed. "But Meera, you just collapsed last night. You're—"
"I'll be fine." She cut her off, her tone harder than she intended. "I can't afford to not be fine."
She turned toward her friend. "This… this modelling, this brand… this is the only thing I created for myself. The only thing untouched by Singhania wealth or trauma. I've earned Milan."
Dhrithi hesitated, biting her lip. "Abhimanyu won't like this. You didn't even discuss it with him."
"I don't need his permission," Meera said simply, crossing her arms. "We got married because of a deal. Nothing more. I'm not his pet. I'm not a prisoner. He made his rules. Now I'll make mine."
Dhrithi looked at her with a mix of admiration and fear. "You're walking a dangerous line, Meera."
"I've already fallen off the edge," Meera whispered. "Now, I might as well learn to fly."
Meera folded the last pair of heels into her suitcase, zipping it up with trembling fingers. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from the echo of every sacrifice she'd been forced to make. But not this. Not her career.
She looked around the royal chamber—the massive bed untouched by her, the ornate walls cold and foreign, her small suitcase the only thing that felt like hers. Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she took one last breath and stepped out.
The palace hallways were silent, gilded in morning light, the marble floors cold beneath her sandals. As she descended the wide staircase, the voices in the dining hall floated toward her—casual chatter, silver clinking on porcelain, laughter. The kind of calm that mocked her turmoil.
She entered.
The King and Queen of Rajasthan sat at the head of the long breakfast table. Beside them sat Rani Devika, swirling her tea with poise, a glint of judgment already flickering in her eyes. The others around the table—uncles, aunts, cousins—all turned to look at Meera the moment her heels clicked into the hall.
Meera bowed slightly toward the King and Queen in greeting.
"I came to inform you," she said calmly, "that I'm leaving for Milan tonight. I have a fashion week appearance and I'm booked as the showstopper. My flight is scheduled at 9:45 PM."
Silence followed. The kind that prickled the air with electricity.
"You're what?" Rani Devika's voice was sharp, unmistakably offended.
"I'm leaving for Milan," Meera repeated, clutching the strap of her handbag tighter.
Devika raised a perfectly manicured brow, setting her teacup down with a faint clink. "How quaint. You've been married for less than 48 hours and you think it's appropriate to parade down a ramp in front of strangers, half-dressed?"
Meera's lips pressed into a line. "I don't 'parade', Rani-sa. I model. And I do it fully dressed, with pride."
Devika scoffed. "You're now the wife of Abhimanyu Rajput, child. You have royal blood attached to your name. There are expectations. Protocol. Dignity. A woman of this household doesn't flaunt herself on foreign catwalks."
Meera's eyes flicked to the Queen, who remained unreadable, then to the King, who sat silently observing.
She turned back to Devika, her voice shaking slightly, but her will unbroken.
"With due respect, Rani-sa, my career was not built by this palace, or by my last name. It was built by me—every shoot, every rejection, every late night, every runway. It is mine. And I'm not going to give it up, not even for a crown I never asked to wear."
Devika stood slowly, as though scandalized. "You will embarrass this family."
"No," Meera said softly, tears now welling up despite her effort. "I will honor myself. For once."
She turned to the King and Queen once again. "I wanted to inform you out of respect. Not permission."
With that, Meera turned and walked away from the stunned table. Her vision blurred, but her pace didn't falter.
As the grand doors shut behind her, tears spilled freely down her cheeks. Maybe she was still broken. Maybe she was still unsure. But this—this she knew.
She would never abandon the woman she'd fought so hard to become.