The hot water fell in sheets, fogging up the glass, but it did little to soothe her aching body.
Meera stood under the shower, unmoving, eyes downcast as rivulets of water traced the map of bruises across her skin. The steam clung to her like silence, but her body told a different story—one of collision, of surrender, of blurred lines.
Her eyes locked onto her reflection in the fogged mirror when she stepped out. Slowly, she wiped the mist with her hand.
And then she saw.
A faded mark along her collarbone. The purpling imprint of fingers on her wrists. A constellation of darkening bruises on her hips. Her shoulder bore the rough shadow of where he had held her—possessive, almost desperate. Her ribs ached when she inhaled too deeply, and the sharp soreness between her legs made her wince as she reached for the towel.
She hadn't noticed it in the moment. Or maybe she had, but she had wanted to feel something—anything—that wasn't the emotional cold Abhimanyu had left her in.
But now… in the aftermath… it stung.
Not just the bruises.
The silence.
The aftermath of his words still echoed louder than any touch: "Don't expect love from me. This was a mistake."
She pressed her hand against the edge of the sink, steadying herself, trying to hold in the waves of emotion threatening to crash through her all over again.
She wasn't ashamed of her body. She wasn't ashamed of wanting him.
She was just tired of feeling like she was nothing more than a mistake he kept making.
The towel clung to her damp skin, droplets still trailing down her spine as she stepped into the walk-in wardrobe. Her hair was wrapped up carelessly, eyes distant, jaw tight. The bruises were hidden now—but they still burned beneath the fabric.
And then the door clicked.
She turned, startled.
Abhimanyu stood there.
His hand still on the doorknob, his gaze locking onto her like a jolt of electricity had surged through the air. For a beat too long, he didn't move. Didn't blink. His jaw tensed. His eyes dropped—slowly, deliberately—from her eyes to the curve of her collarbone peeking out from the towel… to the water trickling down her leg.
A flicker of something primal flared in his gaze.
Heat. Hunger. And something darker.
Meera froze, pulse spiking.
He stepped in without a word, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. She took a small step back, clutching the towel closer to her chest—but her voice held steady.
"You should've knocked."
He didn't reply. His breath had changed—deeper, slower. His hands were clenched at his sides like he was restraining himself, fighting an urge that had surfaced without warning.
"Tch," he finally muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair as if to shake the thoughts loose. "You walk around like this, and then act like I'm the one who's out of control."
Meera's eyes narrowed. "I didn't ask you to come in."
He moved closer—one step, then another. "You didn't need to."
The silence between them now pulsed with something tangible. Her throat went dry.
She wasn't sure whether to move… or stay.
He wasn't sure whether to step back… or break the distance completely.
But then, he exhaled. Low. Tired.
And turned away.
His voice, rough and bitter, came as he paused at the door.
"I don't even like you… but God help me, I can't stop wanting you."
And with that, he left—leaving her trembling, not from fear, but from the confusion he always left her with.
The door had barely shut when it opened again.
Meera turned sharply, heart thudding, still wrapped in the towel. Abhimanyu stood there—his face unreadable, his restraint in tatters.
"I said I don't love you," he rasped, stepping back inside. "But I never said I didn't need you."
His voice wasn't loud—but it landed like thunder.
Meera didn't move.
Her breath was shallow. She should push him away. She should. But when he crossed the room in two long strides and pulled her to him, her body betrayed her before her mind could catch up.
The towel fell to the floor.
His fingers brushed her damp shoulder. She flinched, not out of fear—but because of the bruises underneath. He saw it. His hand lingered anyway.
"You bruised me," she whispered.
"You didn't stop me," he replied, voice low, thick with something dangerous.
"And you didn't ask."
Silence.
Then his voice—razor-edged and raw—"You still want me to?"
She didn't reply.
Because her silence was already an answer.
He spun her around in one swift move, one hand gripping the towel at her waist, the other cupping her jaw—not tenderly. His mouth crushed down on hers, rough, hungry, like he was trying to devour the parts of her that haunted him.
Meera responded—tangled in him, torn in herself. Her fingers curled into his damp hair as his hands explored her back, her hips, her bruises—as if he was both sorry and addicted to the damage.
"Yeh… galat hai," she gasped against his lips. This is wrong.
"Toh hone do," he growled. Let it be wrong.
He didn't carry her to the bed. He didn't slow down. It was unrelenting—the way his mouth traced her collarbone, the way his fingers left marks to match the old ones.
It was rough. Fast. Breathless.
But never forced.
She could have stopped it. He would've stopped. But she didn't. Because somewhere in the ache, in the madness, she wanted to be wanted—even like this.
And when it ended, their bodies tangled in the sheets, Meera stared at the ceiling. Silent tears slipped down her temple.
Abhimanyu turned to look at her—eyes unreadable. "Don't expect softness from me."
She blinked, jaw clenched. "I've stopped expecting anything from you, Abhimanyu."
And then she turned away, pulling the sheet over her shoulder.
"I'm leaving tonight."
Abhimanyu, still lying on his back, turned his head slightly toward her. "Where?"
"London," she said flatly. "I was supposed to walk for Fashion Week. I've been dropped."
His brow furrowed. "Dropped? Why?"
She let out a soft exhale—somewhere between a bitter laugh and a sigh of resignation.
"Rizwan thinks Kunal might be behind it. Maybe he is. Maybe he's not. I'll know only when I talk to the coordinators myself. So I'm taking tonight's flight."
The moment the words left her mouth, he sat up.
Rigid. Silent. Processing.
For a second, Meera thought he might say something—ask her to stay, maybe even offer to help. But no.
He just stood up, bare-chested and unreadable.
With mechanical precision, Abhimanyu picked up his shirt, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and began buttoning it up—each movement tighter, more rigid than the last.
No words.
No glance.
No protest.
Only silence that screamed more than his voice ever could.
And then, without so much as a look back at her, he walked out the door—leaving behind the scent of sweat, smoke, and bruised dignity… and a woman who wasn't sure if she wanted him to stop her or let her go.
Just like that… he was gone.
The door shut behind him, but no part of Meera moved. Not her eyes. Not her lips. Not her chest that rose and fell so softly it was like she wasn't even breathing.
No tears came.
There was nothing left inside her to cry out.
She got up slowly, like a woman too familiar with pain, walked to the bathroom, and let the shower run over her till the bruises stung again—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her that she was still alive.
By the time she changed into a soft pink kurta and white palazzos, her decision was already made.
She pulled out her suitcase, folded her essentials, and zipped it shut.
She didn't look back.
As she walked down the grand haveli steps, the hush of marble under her sandals felt surreal. The golden sun was still hanging above the courtyard, casting a gentle warmth that felt ironic against the cold in her chest.
She reached the girls' wing, where Zahra, Dhriti, and Isha were lounging in the room, talking excitedly about the party, still half-dressed and fussing over outfits.
Zahra looked up first. "Oh my God, Mira! You're glowing—" Her eyes landed on Meera's collarbone. The fabric had shifted just enough to reveal a faint purplish mark blooming over her skin. Her words trailed off, replaced by a mischievous smirk. "Well, someone had a night."
Isha laughed, "Did he even let you sleep or just kept you up till dawn?"
Dhriti, always the boldest, chimed in with a mock gasp. "That's why you're walking like a wounded kitten, huh?"
Their laughter was light, teasing, but it hit Meera like knives.
She gave a soft smile. Not forced. Just… empty.
"I'm flying to London tonight," she said softly, folding her hands in front of her.
The laughter stopped.
"What?" Zahra frowned. "Now? But—why?"
Meera gently adjusted her dupatta over the faint hickey, eyes distant. "Work. Walk got cancelled. Need to fix it."
They exchanged glances.
No one asked more.
Meera didn't offer more.
She gave them a small nod, then turned and walked away—one hand clutching the strap of her bag, the other hiding the fresh bruise on her wrist.