The crowd fell silent.
And then—
She appeared.
Meera Singhania Rajput stepped onto the ramp like it had been carved beneath her feet. The gown shimmered like frost under moonlight, catching the eyes of every elite designer in the room—Versace, Armani, Dior, Elie Saab, all seated in the front row. The air shifted. Whispers stopped. Everyone looked up.
She didn't walk.
She ruled.
Each step was confident, slow, and deliberate—heels slicing through the artificial snow, the cold wind lifting her open trail like wings.
Her chin was high.
Her face expressionless.
But her eyes—they burned.
A statement. A storm.
You cannot break me.
The spotlight followed her alone. Cameras clicked furiously. The crowd was mesmerized, held in the palm of her poised silence. She paused mid-ramp. Turned. Lifted her gaze. And then—walked again.
Like a queen walking through her kingdom.
Unchallenged. Unshaken. Unforgiving.
Backstage, streamed on a private screen…
Abhimanyu Rajput stood frozen.
He had risen from his chair somewhere in the middle of her walk, his whisky glass long forgotten. His heart was pounding.
He hadn't blinked.
Couldn't.
This was not the girl who had curled up on his couch sobbing just days ago.
This was not the woman he left behind in pain and fever.
This was someone else.
No.
This was who Meera was all along.
And he had never really seen her until now.
The poise. The power. The grace. The rebellion that sat quietly in her spine but screamed from her stride.
In that moment, something shifted deep inside Abhimanyu.
Admiration.
Real, raw, unstoppable admiration.
This woman was forged from her own ashes.
And he—he had tried to bury her beneath them.
Never again.
No matter what war he was fighting with the ghosts of his past, he would never cage her.
Not her fire.
Not her brilliance.
Not her career.
Never again.
————————————————————
The lights dimmed as Meera made her final turn.
The crowd erupted.
Standing ovation.
The world had just witnessed the making of an icon—and she didn't even flinch. No smile. No falter. Only elegance carved in bone and fire.
But the moment she stepped behind the curtain, her body began to crumble.
She barely made it past the last spotlight before her knees buckled.
But strong arms caught her.
Not his.
Her manager and two doctors—already stationed there per Abhimanyu's orders—swiftly wrapped her in a warm cloak and supported her trembling form.
"No press," one of the guards snapped at a few paparazzi, blocking their view completely.
Meera didn't protest. She couldn't.
Her skin burned under her makeup, her heartbeat staggered, her limbs gone weak. But her eyes… they scanned the shadows—as if still looking for him.
"Get her in the car. No questions," the doctor ordered sharply. "Straight to the villa. She needs rest. Fluids. Warmth. Now."
Within minutes, she was in the backseat of the black car, curtains drawn, blankets draped over her trembling frame. Her head rested against the cushions, her breathing shallow.
Her fingers clutched at the edge of the designer coat someone had hastily thrown over her ramp outfit.
As the car drove through the cold Milan night, the city unaware of the quiet war in the backseat, her eyelids fluttered closed.
She had conquered the runway.
And now, she surrendered to the exhaustion.
_________________________________________
Morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains of the private Milan villa.
Meera stirred slowly, her limbs still heavy from the night before. Her head ached faintly, and her throat was dry, but the fever had broken. She blinked up at the high ceiling, taking a moment to remember where she was.
Then it all rushed back.
The ramp.
The cameras.
The applause.
And… him.
Her chest tightened as she sat up slowly, the silk sheets brushing against her skin. She looked around instinctively, as if expecting him to be there—on the couch, by the balcony, standing in silence with that usual storm in his eyes.
But there was no sign of Abhimanyu.
A quiet knock on the door broke her reverie. Her manager stepped in cautiously with a bottle of water and a soft smile.
"You're awake," he said gently. "How are you feeling?"
"A bit weak," she admitted, accepting the water. "But I'll survive."
Then she paused. Her gaze sharpened.
"Where is he?"
The manager hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Abhimanyu sir left last night… soon after your walk was over."
Meera's heart skipped.
"He… left?"
"Yes. He boarded his flight to Rajasthan around 2 AM. Said he had some urgent commitments to attend to."
Her fingers tightened around the water bottle.
Of course he did.
No goodbye. No waiting to see if she was okay. No conversation. Just vanished—like he had never been there at all.
But somehow, it didn't surprise her. It hurt… but didn't surprise.
She nodded quietly, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"Alright. Then tell them I'll be ready to leave by this evening."
"To where?" her manager asked.
"Home," she said, eyes fixed out the window.
"Rajasthan."
_________________________________________
The charter jet landed smoothly on the private airstrip nestled near the outskirts of Rajasthan. As the door to the aircraft opened, the golden evening light bathed the tarmac in a royal hue.
Meera stepped out, her black trench coat flapping slightly in the wind. Her sunglasses barely masked the exhaustion in her eyes. Yet her posture was upright. Composed. She wasn't returning defeated. She was returning stronger.
Lined up in perfect formation was the convoy—sleek, black SUVs adorned with the insignia of the Rajput royal family. Guards saluted her as she walked toward them. The respect was customary. But this time, she felt it settle heavy on her shoulders—not as a burden, but as a reminder.
She had returned as Abhimanyu Rajput's wife. And this time, she chose to carry that weight.
Back at the palace, the hallway echoed with hurried footsteps.
The girls had heard of her arrival.
Inside Meera's chamber, the door burst open just as she stepped in—and the very next moment, she was engulfed in warmth.
Dhrithi, Zara, and Isha clung to her tightly. Not caring for formality, not caring for titles. Just relieved that she was back.
"You idiot," Dhrithi choked, tears welling in her eyes. "You scared the hell out of us."
Meera smiled weakly, her arms looping around them. "I'm fine. Really."
As they settled around the room, warm blankets and tea brought in by a servant, the story poured out. Meera told them everything—her illness, the shoot, the ramp… and Abhimanyu.
At first, Dhrithi was stunned into silence. "He was in Milan?" she whispered. "He… he saved you?"
Meera nodded, her eyes lowering. "He did. But he left before I could even say anything. He didn't tell me. He just… left."
Dhrithi's brow furrowed. "If he cared, he wouldn't have left. Meera, I'm telling you. If you're not happy—if this is hurting you—leave. Go to Finland. Take that design fellowship, remember? Start fresh. You don't owe anyone anything."
Zara and Isha watched silently, waiting for Meera's response.
Meera looked up.
Her voice was soft, but unwavering. "I'm not leaving him."
Dhrithi blinked. "What?"
"I'm not the kind of person who runs the moment things get cold. Yes, he's complicated. Yes, I don't understand him most of the time. But I've started… liking him."
A beat of silence passed.
"I don't know if it's love," Meera said, "but when he's around, I don't feel empty. And when he's not… I miss him. And that has to mean something."
Dhrithi stared at her for a moment. Then exhaled slowly. "Then you better be ready for a war, Meera. Because loving Abhimanyu Rajput isn't going to be easy."
Meera smiled faintly. "Good. I've never liked easy anyway."
_________________________________________
The grand drawing room of the Rajput Palace shimmered in the soft hues of morning sunlight. Lavish arrangements of white orchids lined the hall, and the air buzzed with quiet chatter. It wasn't every day a Rajput bahu walked as the showstopper at Milan Fashion Week—and came back owning every headline.
As Meera entered, her cream saree cascading gracefully and her chin held high, a hush fell over the room.
Raja Sa, seated with his newspaper and monocle, looked up and let out a rare smile.
"Ah, the Rajput lioness returns," he said, the pride in his voice barely veiled.
Rani Sa, elegant in pearls, rose from her chair and walked toward Meera, taking her hands.
"You made us proud," she said softly, pulling her in for a warm embrace. "Even from a continent away, you carried our name with grace."
Meera simply nodded, a tight smile on her lips, her eyes scanning the room unconsciously. He wasn't there.
Zara, Isha, and Dhriti were already rushing to her side, hugging her tightly. "You were fire, Meera! Literal fire on that ramp," Isha whispered excitedly. Meera chuckled.
But just then, a chilling voice cut through the warmth.
"Quite a spectacle," came the sharp tone of Rani Devika, leaning near the antique fireplace, her arms crossed and her eyes cold.
Dressed in a maroon silk saree with an emerald choker, she looked like authority wrapped in disdain.
"Legs on display, head held high. Very Milan. Very modern. But remember, you're now a Rajputani. Your place is beside your husband, not strutting for foreign cameras."
The room tensed.
Meera turned slowly. Her voice calm, clear.
"Thank you for the reminder, Rani," she said, a smile barely touching her lips. "But for me, dignity comes from doing what I said I would—standing tall, on my own merit. Not hiding behind a name."
Raja Sa let out an amused chuckle. "Well said."
Devika's lips thinned, but she said nothing more.
Meera was guided to the central divan, where tea and sweets awaited. Everyone crowded around her, showing her her own pictures in fashion magazines, excitedly discussing the walk, the theme, and the impact she made.
But still—no sign of Abhimanyu.
Just then, Daksh walked in, his phone still in hand, his jaw set in that quiet way of his.
He came straight to her. "Meera," he said, gently. "Abhi left early this morning for the U.S. An urgent deal in New York got preponed."
Her eyes froze for a moment. "He didn't say anything."
Daksh gave her a look—a little sympathetic, a little knowing. "You know him."
Meera's throat felt dry, but she nodded. Of course she knew. She was starting to learn him more with every silent storm.
But this time, her chin didn't drop.
This time, she didn't crumble.
She just smiled, softly, and said, "It's alright. He'll come back. And I'll still be standing."