The sun hadn't yet risen when the black van pulled up at the edge of the frozen Lake Tretino. The morning mist hung heavy over the expanse of ice, the snow on the banks untouched and cruelly beautiful.
Meera sat inside, arms wrapped around herself—not from cold, but from the quiet war inside her chest.
Her manager paced just outside the van's open door, frustration layered in his every breath. "Meera, for God's sake, you're not well. You can barely stand. If you step onto that ice in that—" he gestured helplessly at the translucent, sheer outfit she had to model "—you'll collapse within minutes."
"I'll survive," Meera replied softly, tightening the robe around herself as she looked down at the outfit draped on the rack. It shimmered like frost—icy silver, delicate, dangerous.
Her throat ached, her eyes burned, and her body trembled from more than just the fever. But none of that would stop her.
Not today.
"I won't back out," she whispered. "I've walked for international designers before. I've worked in worse conditions. If I back out now… it will only give him the satisfaction of being right."
"Meera—"
"I am not going to use Abhimanyu Rajput's name," she snapped, eyes meeting her manager's in quiet defiance. "I didn't marry him for favors. I didn't want to marry him. And now that I'm in this—" she looked out at the snow, then back at the outfit, "—I'll finish what I started. I've come this far without his money, his power, or his mercy. I'll go the rest of the way alone too."
Her manager didn't say anything else.
Because deep down, even in her feverish eyes, he saw it.
The same fire that had built her from scratch. From the local catalogues to the international stage. That hunger to earn everything.
Not inherit it. Not be handed it.
Earn it.
Still, when she stepped out of the van and slipped off her boots, placing her bare feet into the snow, even Meera's heart skipped.
The pain was immediate. A biting, burning cold that shot up through her ankles and into her chest. Her breath caught.
But she didn't stop.
Because even if she froze to death today—he wouldn't get to say that she failed.
The shoot had been going on for nearly two and a half hours.
The soft snow beneath Meera's bare feet was no longer just cold—it felt like needles stabbing into her skin. Her limbs were numb. Her lips quivered with each breath. The world swam in a daze of white and grey, her fever sharpening the pain until it turned dull—then sharper again.
"Hold that pose!"
Click.
"Now a half-turn!"
Click.
She forced her body into the angles, each shift of her frame stealing more strength than she had. Her head pounded. Her vision blurred. The photographer's voice echoed like it was underwater.
Her knees buckled once—but she caught herself.
Not yet.
She had to finish this.
No one saw the silent tears freezing against her cheeks, mistaken for frost. No one saw the clenched fists at her sides, the quiet tremble beneath her flawless posture.
But someone was about to.
Meanwhile, across the city…
Abhimanyu Rajput adjusted the cuff of his coat as he walked out of the private club, the last handshake of the meeting done, the Italian mob lord's words still echoing in his ears.
But his mind had been elsewhere the whole time.
His phone buzzed, and his secretary didn't even hesitate before stepping forward with urgency.
"Sir," she said in a low voice, "Mr. Rajput, she's still on set. Outdoor location. Three hours in. The temperature's fallen to minus four. She's not dressed for it. The guards say… she's not okay."
Everything in Abhimanyu stilled.
His eyes darkened, lips curling ever so slightly—not in concern, but in something sharper. Possessive. Vicious. Unsettled.
"She's sick. And she's still working?"
"She insisted."
He didn't reply. Just turned on his heel and growled, "Get the car."
"But—"
"I said get the damn car," he barked, already moving fast.
His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. The temperature outside was dropping, but the heat inside him rose with every step.
Only I get to break her.
Only I get to test her limits.
This world doesn't get to touch her like this.
He didn't understand what this was—this mess inside him—but he did know one thing:
She was his.
And she was going to be out of that snow in five minutes, or hell would break loose.
The car screeched to a stop at the edge of the snow-covered hill where the shoot was happening.
Before the driver could even get out, Abhimanyu Rajput had flung the door open.
His trench coat billowed around him as he stormed through the gust of wind, his boots crunching sharply over the frost-laced ground. The guard tried to follow but stopped when Abhimanyu raised a hand. His eyes were locked—like a laser—on one thing alone.
Her.
Meera.
She stood in the middle of the clearing, wrapped in a shimmering pale gown, sleeveless, delicate… inadequate.
Her arms were visibly trembling now. Her lips blue. Her eyes glassy.
She didn't even see him.
"Meera, look here!"
Click.
"Pose again!"
Click.
She was about to lift her foot to step forward again—but she staggered. Fell to one knee.
That was it.
"Enough!"
The shout boomed across the clearing like a shot fired.
Everyone froze.
The camera lowered. The makeup artist gasped. The manager's phone slipped from his hand.
Meera turned, slowly, hearing only a roar in her ears… and then her eyes met his.
Abhimanyu.
His expression was lethal—pure fury. Not loud. Not wild. But controlled. Dangerous.
He took long strides toward her, not bothering to explain himself to anyone.
As he reached her, she tried to stand—but her legs didn't listen.
So he did what no one expected.
He lifted her.
In one swift, almost violent motion, he scooped her into his arms. She was too stunned to even protest.
Her breath hitched. Her body went rigid.
"Wha—what are you—?"
"You want to kill yourself?" he said sharply, his voice inches from her ear. "Fine. But not like this. Not in front of the world. Not while wearing my name."
"Put me down," she whispered weakly, humiliated, "I told you—"
"No," he snapped. "You don't tell me anything. You cry, you pass out, you pretend like you don't matter. And now you want to be some martyr on a frozen damn hill for a shoot?"
"I had a contract," she said, voice barely audible, trembling in his arms.
"And I have you," he growled back. "Which means no one gets to watch you suffer—not even me."
Her body went limp in his arms. Fever and exhaustion finally taking over. Her head leaned against his chest unintentionally.
She hated him.
But god, how it felt—safe.
And he hated himself more for needing her to be in his arms to feel at peace.
By the time Abhimanyu laid her gently in the backseat of the car, Meera had already passed out.
Her head lolled to one side, hair plastered to her face with sweat despite the freezing air outside.
He stared at her for two seconds too long—and then panic surged.
"Drive!" he barked at his driver, slamming the door shut. "Take the route through Viale Monza. No traffic. No stops. Full speed!"
The car roared to life, slicing through the Milanese roads with flashing fury.
In the backseat, Abhimanyu hovered over Meera, one hand behind her head, another pressing his coat over her shivering form.
"Meera…" he called softly, voice thick now, "Meera, don't you dare pull this."
Her eyes didn't open.
Her lips were pale. Fingers cold. Her body burned with fever.
"Damn it, Meera!" he swore under his breath, his voice cracking for the first time.
When they reached the villa—a sprawling private estate tucked just outside the city—the security guards had already flung the gates open. The doctors and nurses were waiting at the door, as he had instructed mid-drive.
He carried her again. Not letting anyone else touch her.
Not even flinching as he walked past them all, eyes fixed only on her feverish face.
He placed her on the giant white bed of the master suite—his suite—and only then did he step back as the doctors swarmed in.
"What the hell happened to her?" one of them demanded, as another began checking her vitals.
"She's running a 103.2 fever! Has she eaten? When was the last time she had water?"
"Is this a case of exhaustion? Exposure? Dehydration?" another one asked, as they placed her on fluids and connected her to monitors.
Abhimanyu didn't answer.
Because he didn't have any.
He just stood there—guilt twisting in his gut like a slow, merciless knife—watching her frail body fade into the bed that looked too large for her now.
"This isn't just fever," the head doctor said sharply, looking up at him with cold fury. "Her body is crashing. She's been starved, overexerted, emotionally shocked. You brought her to Milan like this?!"
Abhimanyu didn't say a word.
Because what would he say?
That he didn't bring her—she left.
That he told her not to cry.
That he threatened her at the airport.
That every bruise on her skin was etched by his silence.
And now, her body was paying the price of a war she never deserved to fight.
His jaw clenched.
He turned away from the room for a moment, shutting his eyes. But Meera's face followed him even there.
The last time he saw her conscious—she was standing on snow, alone, half-frozen… and still refusing to fall.
Because she never did.
Until now.
And now that she had fallen, why did it feel like he was the one breaking apart?