The soft light of morning filtered through the tall arched windows, brushing everything in a cold, golden haze.
Meera stirred.
Her eyes blinked open slowly, her lashes damp, her mouth dry. The high ceiling above her was unfamiliar. The sheets smelled of cedar and luxury. And her body—well, her body felt like lead.
But before she could register anything else, her gaze fell on the man slouched in the chair beside her.
Abhimanyu Rajput.
Still in last night's clothes. Tie loose. Sleeves rolled up. His head bowed, elbows on his knees, palms clasped like he'd been sitting there for hours. Or like he hadn't moved at all.
She shifted ever so slightly.
And immediately, his eyes snapped up to hers.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word.
Just silence. Just the weight of everything unspoken, thick between them.
"You shouldn't be awake," he said quietly, voice hoarse, like he hadn't slept. "You have a fever. You were unconscious for almost twelve hours."
Meera licked her lips. "I have a ramp walk."
Abhimanyu's jaw locked.
She sat up, ignoring the sharp pull in her muscles. "I have a show to close. I gave my word. I'm going."
"No, you're not."
"I am."
A beat. Then—
"You'll collapse."
"I'll finish."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it had iron in it. And it stunned him.
He stood, pacing away from the bed for a second before turning back to her, eyes flashing with a storm he hadn't named yet. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because this is mine." Her words came quietly but fiercely. "My career. My name. My dignity. I'm not your wife in Milan, Abhimanyu. I'm Meera Singhania—and I won't let your hatred or your threats make me small in the one world I built on my own."
He stared at her.
And for a moment… he didn't see the fragile girl from the couch.
He saw fire. Exhausted, flickering—but fire nonetheless.
Something about that undid him.
He dragged a hand down his face. Walked to the window. Silence stretched for what felt like hours.
And then, his voice came low, reluctant—almost defeated.
"Fine," he said.
Her brows lifted in surprise.
"I'll allow it," he added, turning back to face her. "You'll walk. You'll do the damn ramp. But you'll do it under my conditions."
She tilted her head. "Which are?"
"You'll eat. You'll take the damn medicine. You'll be monitored every hour. And there'll be guards with you. Not negotiable."
Meera considered for a moment—and then nodded.
That was all.
And he hated how much relief he felt.
————————————————————
The door opened quietly.
Abhimanyu turned his head and gave a sharp nod to the doctors. They entered wordlessly, one of them carrying a new chart and thermometer, the other adjusting the IV drip beside Meera's bed.
Meera sat upright now, her back supported by pillows, her eyes more alert but still faintly glazed with fatigue.
Abhimanyu stood nearby, arms folded, watching every movement like a hawk—his eyes betraying the worry that still lingered beneath his composed face.
"She's stable," the head doctor announced after a thorough check. "The fever's dropping. But she's severely dehydrated, malnourished, and overexhausted. She needs to eat and rest for at least forty-eight hours."
Abhimanyu's lips pressed into a line. "She'll eat. She'll rest."
The doctor shot him a look—mildly disapproving, subtly accusing. But he said nothing and exited with his assistant.
As soon as the door closed, Abhimanyu walked to the other end of the room and opened the second door.
"Come in," he said curtly.
Meera's manager, Riyan, stepped inside, visibly nervous. His eyes darted between the two of them—one sitting pale and weary in bed, the other looming like a storm in designer wear.
"Sir, thank you… for bringing her here," Riyan said quickly, then turned to Meera. "Mimi, how are you feeling?"
"Tired," she whispered. "But better."
Riyan nodded, then glanced at Abhimanyu for silent permission before continuing.
"The shoot—you almost finished it," he said gently. "Even though sir pulled you out midway, the crew already captured more than enough. They said it's stunning. Ice, drama, intensity—you nailed it."
Meera blinked, relieved. "So it's done?"
"Done," he confirmed. "But the ramp—"
"They want an answer?" she asked.
He nodded. "The coordinators are waiting for confirmation. They still want you as the showstopper. They're giving us until tonight."
She leaned back slowly, exhaling, her gaze flicking briefly to Abhimanyu, who had moved to stand by the window, saying nothing.
It was her decision now.
Not his.
Not Riyan's.
Hers.
And for the first time in a long while, she felt the weight—and the power—of that truth.
She looked back at Riyan and said calmly, "Tell them I'll walk."
Abhimanyu's eyes snapped to her.
And though his face gave nothing away…
His fingers clenched into fists at his sides.
———————————————————
The villa was buzzing.
The designers were wide awake, threading crystals, steaming gowns, adjusting last-minute fittings under the soft white lights that bounced off the chandelier above Meera's head. Stylists, makeup artists, assistants—everyone moved like clockwork.
It was nearly 11 PM.
The walk was at midnight.
Meera sat in front of the mirror, her skin still pale, but her eyes fierce, lined in cold kohl and determination. The gown was custom-made—ice blue, hugging her figure like frost lacing over a midnight lake. It shimmered under the studio bulbs, embroidered with hand-stitched diamonds and translucent pearls.
Her fever hadn't returned. But her body still ached, her limbs heavier than usual, her breath shallower than she'd like.
And yet, she didn't falter.
She was Meera Singhania Rajput.
Whether or not the world knew that name… didn't matter.
What mattered was that she knew who she was—and she had built that name with fire, frost, and her own bare hands.
"Hair up?" her stylist asked hesitantly.
"No," Meera replied softly. "Let it fall. Like snow."
And so it did—soft waves cascading behind her, threaded with diamond clips and frosted pins.
Meanwhile… at the other end of Milan
Abhimanyu Rajput sat in the shadows of his Milan office.
The glass of whisky sat untouched in his hand.
He hadn't left for the venue.
His laptop was open. The livestream was set. But he hadn't hit play yet.
His thoughts weren't steady.
She hadn't backed down. Even after nearly collapsing, even after he threatened her—she still chose to walk that runway.
For herself.
For her name.
Not for him.
And for reasons he could not admit, that truth stung deeper than any insult ever thrown at him.
His secretary knocked softly on the door. "Sir, the show begins in twenty."
He didn't answer.
He just stared at the screen.
Waiting.
Back at the runway…
The crowd was gathered. Press lined the barricades. Models stepped out, one by one, pacing through the faux-snow path laid across the catwalk.
Spotlights swirled overhead, and a cold wind blew in carefully constructed waves to mimic the frostbitten Alps.
Then the music changed.
Dramatic. Heavy. Orchestral.
And the announcer spoke:
"Showstopper: Meera Singhania."
The lights dimmed.
Then brightened.
And Meera stepped out.
Every camera flash went off at once.
The world stopped spinning for just a second.
And in that moment, Abhimanyu Rajput finally hit play.
His heart clenched.
Because there she was—walking, ethereal and unshaken, across a stage carved of ice.
For once, he wasn't in control.
And he couldn't look away.