Abhimanyu stumbled slightly as he entered the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The whisky still burned in his veins, but not enough to numb the ache in his chest. The room was dim, shadows licking the walls, the only light spilling in from the balcony behind him.
Meera stirred from the bed, blinking at the sudden noise. She sat up slowly, her hair loose, lips parted slightly in confusion… and concern.
"You're drunk," she said softly.
He looked at her.
Not with drunken detachment.
With fire.
With something darker.
"You're here," he muttered, more to himself. "Still."
And then he crossed the room in a few strides and dropped to his knees in front of her. It startled her. Not because of the gesture, but because of the rawness in his eyes.
He didn't speak. Just reached for her wrist. The bruised one. His thumb ghosted over the skin, and his jaw clenched.
"You didn't put the ointment," he said hoarsely.
She tried to pull her hand away.
He didn't let go.
"Let it go, Abhimanyu."
"No," he snapped. "I won't."
His fingers curled tighter around her hand. Not hurting, but holding. Possessing.
She yanked it back. "You don't get to act like you care. Not when you can't even say you're married to me in front of the world."
He stared at her like she'd slapped him.
Then, voice sharp as broken glass:
"Tum meri ho, Meera."
(You are mine, Meera.)
"Not in front of anyone," she bit back, eyes shining. "Not to yourself. Only when it's convenient for your rage."
He exhaled, violent and broken, and stood. She stood too.
"Say it, Abhimanyu," she challenged. "Say what you really want."
His eyes darkened. His body trembled — not from weakness, but restraint.
And then he lost it.
He grabbed her face, pulled her in, and kissed her like he needed her to survive. It wasn't tender. It was consuming. Desperate. Devouring.
Her back hit the wall. His hands were everywhere — her jaw, her waist, the curve of her spine. He lifted her slightly, forcing her to feel the weight of his need, his fury, his confusion. She responded with equal madness — clawing at his collar, pressing her body into his as if daring him to take all of her or nothing.
Their breath was ragged between kisses. He tore his mouth away, gasping against her skin.
"I hate this," he growled. "I hate what you do to me."
"Then stop," she whispered, lips brushing his.
He didn't.
He kissed her again — harder.
"Main tujhe choosna nahi chahta tha," he murmured against her neck, biting down gently.
(I never wanted to want you.)
"But you do," she breathed, arching into him.
His hands slid beneath the layers of her dress, dragging it up over her thighs. She shivered. Not in fear — but because of how completely he held her.
There was no hesitation. No gentleness. Only fire.
Clothes came off in pieces — tossed, pulled, ripped. Every movement deliberate. Every touch left a mark.
And when they finally collapsed into bed, the silence was heavy. Sweat on their skin. Her chest rising fast against his. His arm still draped over her waist, possessive even in aftermath.
She didn't speak for a long time.
Then softly: "I thought maybe… if you touched me like that… something in you would change."
He didn't answer.
He just got up, picked up his shirt from the floor, and walked to the balcony. Lit a cigar. Blew out smoke into the night.
And behind him, Meera lay staring at the ceiling — touched, taken, and yet… lonelier than ever.
————————————————————
THE NEXT MORNING
The morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, too soft and golden for a heart this heavy.
Meera sat up slowly in bed, the sheet clinging to her bare skin like a reminder. Of what they did. Of what it meant.
Or… what it didn't.
Her body ached. Not from pain — but from intensity. From how desperately she had let herself believe, for a moment, that maybe what happened between them meant something.
But now she sat alone.
He wasn't there.
The pillow beside her was cold. Unused.
She glanced at the nightstand — a glass of water, untouched. Her clothes from the night before were folded and placed neatly on a chair. That stung more than anything.
He'd left her in bed and folded her clothes.
As if putting a period at the end of something temporary.
She wrapped the sheet around herself, walked to the window, and let her forehead rest against the glass.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She just stood there — empty.
She had offered him her most vulnerable self. Not out of weakness, but out of trust.
And in return, he had offered her… silence.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn't turn.
But she knew it was him by the way her heartbeat shifted — skipping and clenching all at once.
Abhimanyu stepped inside, fresh from a shower, wearing a new shirt. His eyes were unreadable, as always. Cold. Precise.
"You're awake."
She didn't respond.
He walked toward the bed, picked up his watch, and fastened it.
Then:
"Last night was a mistake."
Her breath hitched. Not loud. Not visible. But it cracked something in her.
He didn't stop.
"I don't regret it. And I don't mind if this continues. But don't start expecting anything emotional or romantic from me."
Pause.
"I don't love you, Meera. I never will."
Her eyes closed. Just for a second.
Then she turned around slowly to face him. Still wrapped in the sheet. Still holding whatever was left of her dignity.
And she smiled — soft, broken, tired.
"I know."
But what she didn't say was:
You didn't have to say it out loud.
He gave a final glance — not apologetic, not cruel, just indifferent — and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
And this time, Meera didn't stop the tears. She just let them fall, quietly, onto the marble floor of a palace that never really wanted her.
He didn't love her.
He never would.
And she had known it. But hearing it had split her open in places she didn't even know existed.
Her phone rang.
A shrill vibration against the wooden side table.
She reached for it with trembling fingers. Rizwan.
She cleared her throat, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and answered.
"Hello?"
"Meera…" His voice was tight, hesitant. "We have a problem."
She didn't even blink. "What now?"
"I just got confirmation that your London Fashion Week walk has been dropped. Cancelled without explanation. I've been trying to get in touch with the coordinator, but no one's responding directly."
She inhaled sharply. Then exhaled, slow and steady.
"Kunal," she said, her voice flat. "It's him."
"I think so too. He's well-connected in those circles now."
For a moment, she stared at the far wall, the outline of her suitcase still sitting in the corner. The one she hadn't unpacked.
Her jaw tightened.
"Call them," she said finally. "Not the assistants. Not the team managers. Call the main coordinators. The ones who sign the models personally."
"Meera—"
"Do it, Rizwan. And book me a flight to London today evening."
She stood up, shedding the weakness with every step toward her wardrobe.
"I'm not going to let some entitled man ruin the one thing I built on my own."
There was a pause on the other end. Then Rizwan simply said, "Done."
She hung up.
Tears dried.