The palace gates slowly creaked open as Meera and Dhrithi sat silently in the backseat of Dhrithi's black sedan. The moment they crossed the threshold, Meera finally let out a breath she'd been holding since breakfast.
Neither of them spoke. The weight in the air was heavy, but for now, it was hers to bear.
Dhrithi gripped the steering wheel tight as she looked at her cousin from the rear-view mirror. "Are you sure you can face this all by yourself, Meera?"
Meera looked out the window, her voice low but resolute. "I'd rather face Milan than stay caged in a palace built on silence."
The engine revved, and they sped away—past the manicured gardens, past the prying eyes of the guards, past the weight of royal judgment.
At the Rathore Corporate Tower – Present Time
Abhimanyu's eyes scanned the contract in front of him, but his mind wasn't there. He hadn't slept properly in two nights—not that he would admit it.
The knock on the glass door was sharp.
"Yes?" he snapped.
His secretary stepped in with her phone in hand, face visibly tense. "Sir… there's something you need to see."
She placed her phone on the desk, the screen playing a short clip—paparazzi footage. Meera Rathore—still in her sindoor, in a crisp designer co-ord set—walking confidently through the VIP terminal, flanked by Dhrithi and her manager, her suitcase trailing behind.
"She's leaving for Milan," the secretary said quietly. "The security team at the palace confirmed she left without notice twenty minutes ago."
The silence that followed was terrifying.
Abhimanyu slowly leaned back in his chair, eyes darkening as the clip replayed itself.
"She didn't inform me," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "No text. No call. No message."
"She's booked on a private charter at 6:30 PM. But I thought I should tell you, sir… she didn't request permission from the royal aviation desk either."
He was still. Controlled. Too controlled.
Then, with a swift movement, his hand knocked the tablet from the desk, sending it crashing to the marble floor.
"Call the aviation authority," he barked. "Block every goddamn charter flying out of India in the next 6 hours. Now."
The secretary blinked. "Sir—"
"Now!"
He stood up abruptly, grabbing his coat. "Have the car brought around. Cancel the next three meetings. I need to have a very serious conversation… with my wife."
The quiet hum of the private lounge at Rajasthan's Royal Terminal was interrupted only by the ticking of an antique clock and the soft clink of a glass in the corner. Only three people sat inside—Meera, Dhrithi, and Meera's manager. The marble flooring reflected the golden lights overhead, but everything felt cold, suffocatingly still.
Meera sat stiffly, fingers clenched around her passport, eyes staring ahead—but seeing nothing. Her face was pale, lips dry, and dark circles under her eyes betrayed the exhaustion she refused to acknowledge. Her red saree looked regal, but she was crumbling beneath it.
Then the double doors swung open.
The sound echoed sharply through the silence, and in strode Abhimanyu Rajput.
Black suit. Unbuttoned jacket. Eyes like steel.
Guards flanked him from behind, his secretary two steps back, struggling to keep up as Abhimanyu cut across the lounge like a storm given form.
He didn't look at Dhrithi.
He didn't glance at the manager.
His eyes were locked on one person.
His wife.
Meera's throat went dry. Her heart began to thud wildly in her chest—not out of fear, but because she knew this man. And she knew this walk. This silence. It never meant good.
Abhimanyu stopped in front of them and spoke without taking his eyes off Meera.
"Everyone. Out."
The tone was lethal. A quiet command cloaked in danger.
Dhrithi opened her mouth. "Abhimanyu—"
"Out," he said again, more sharply. His secretary didn't hesitate. Neither did the guards. Dhrithi gave Meera one last helpless look before leaving the room.
The doors clicked shut.
Silence.
Then he spoke.
"You have guts," he said, voice calm but slicing like glass. "You decided to fly out of the country. Without informing your husband."
Meera's lips parted, but her voice failed her.
Abhimanyu stepped closer. "I don't care where you walk, what brands you wear, what stage you stand on."
He leaned in.
"What I care about… is my name."
His voice dropped even lower. "You are a Rajput now. You bear my name. You don't get to ruin it. You don't get to publicly associate yourself with me. From this moment on, no one knows you're my wife."
Her eyes widened.
"And if you open your mouth and let even a whisper of your marriage out," he said, tilting his head slightly, "I will burn down everything that you love. Everything you built. Every person that made you smile. Do not test me, Meera."
Tears filled her eyes—fast, involuntary. But she didn't blink. She just stared at him.
Because this wasn't hatred.
This wasn't coldness.
This was… destruction. Weaponized into a man.
"But…" she finally whispered, voice trembling, "you're the one who put your name on me."
"I did. And now you'll carry the weight of it quietly," he said. "Because if you don't come back after Milan—if you even think of running—I'll make sure you regret everything you've ever cared about."
That broke her.
The sob escaped before she could stop it, raw and cracked.
He didn't flinch.
Meera's knees gave way, and she fell back onto the plush velvet seat behind her. Her vision blurred. Her head spun. She tried to breathe, but nothing entered her lungs. Her hands gripped her saree as though it would hold her together.
Abhimanyu stared at her.
She looked sick. Her skin pale, her body trembling. Her hair undone, sticking to her temple. And suddenly, a flash of guilt tried to crawl into his chest.
He crushed it.
He reminded himself of why he was doing this.
Mr. Singhania is dead.
This girl is his daughter.
If Meera breaks, the past dies.
And yet, when she curled into herself, crying like she had no one left… for one sharp second, Abhimanyu Rajput wanted to step forward and hold her.
But he didn't.
He turned, shoved the door open, and left.
After that, it was all a blur.
The door shut behind him, his words still echoing in her ears, searing themselves into her skin.
Meera couldn't tell how long she sat there, unmoving, tears drying where they'd traced her cheeks. Her vision swam, and her body ached from days of neglect—no food, no rest, only the storm she had been forced to swallow.
When the door opened again, it was Dhrithi and her manager. Dhrithi rushed to her side immediately, panic lacing her voice.
"Meera… what happened? Are you okay?"
But Meera had already rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. The redness wouldn't fade, but she could at least stop the tears. Her back straightened as she pulled what was left of her strength together.
She didn't want pity. Especially not from Dhrithi.
"I'm fine," she said hoarsely. "Just tired."
Dhrithi didn't believe her. She sat down beside her, holding her hand tightly.
"Let me cancel the flight. We can go back. Talk to Bhai. I'll handle Zara and Isha. We'll figure this out."
Meera shook her head.
"No," she said softly but firmly. "You go back to the palace. Tell Zara and Isha I'm okay… and that I'll call them once I reach Milan."
"Meera—"
"I'm going," Meera cut her off. Her voice didn't shake this time. "I've worked too hard for this. My career isn't something I'll sacrifice, not even for him. Especially not for him."
She turned to her manager. "We'll leave on schedule."
Dhrithi hesitated, still visibly worried, but Meera forced a small, bitter smile. "I promise I'll be fine. Just… handle everything there. Please."
Dhrithi swallowed hard. She knew better than to argue with Meera when her voice went that still. With one last hug—tighter than necessary—she stood up.
"I'll make sure Zara and Isha don't storm the palace," she whispered.
Meera smiled again—barely.
And just like that, her best friend walked away, glancing over her shoulder until the lounge doors closed.
Meera turned to the window, watching the horizon.
She didn't know what waited for her in Milan.
But at least… it wasn't him.
Not for a few days.
Not until the next storm returned wearing his name.