The sun had barely risen when the convoy of black, gleaming SUVs rolled into the palace grounds of Raj Mahal, Jaipur. Royal guards lined the main courtyard, the sound of heavy boots and murmurs echoing across the stone floors as Abhimanyu Rajput and Meera stepped out of separate cars.
Meera's dupatta fluttered weakly against the early breeze, her face pale and her eyes dull. Her footsteps were silent, guarded. Still.
Inside, Raja Sa and Rani Sa were already waiting in the grand hall.
"Yeh sab kya ho raha hai, Abhimanyu?!" the Raja Sa thundered.
("What is going on, Abhimanyu?!")
"Tum baar-baar apni zimmedaariyon se bhaag nahi sakte ho!"
("You can't keep running away from your responsibilities!")
Rani Sa stepped forward, her voice sharp but laced with concern.
"Kis haalat mein laaye ho is ladki ko?"
("In what condition have you brought this girl back?")
Abhimanyu's expression didn't waver. His voice was low, almost cold, but firm.
"Main har sawaal ka jawab dunga. Lekin abhi Meera ko chain ki zarurat hai.
Koi usse kuch nahi poochega."
("I'll answer every question. But right now, Meera needs peace. No one will question her.")
Dhriti, Zahra, and Isha stepped forward to escort Meera away. But before they could reach her—
Daksh Rathore, silent until now, stepped down from the staircase, his voice like a sword slicing through noise.
"Nahi."
("No.")
The women stopped immediately.
Daksh's gaze locked onto Meera. His tone was royal, heavy, and without hesitation.
"Meera Rajput. Mujhe tumse kuch zaroori baat karni hai."
("Meera Rajput. I need to speak to you about something important.")
He took a step forward.
"Mere office mein. Akele mein. Abhi."
("In my office. Alone. Right now.")
Abhimanyu looked up at him, tensed.
"Daksh Bhai… abhi woh thak gayi hai—"
("Daksh Bhai… she's tired right now—")
Daksh cut him off with just a look. Calm. Immoveable. There was no room for defiance when Daksh Rathore had spoken.
The girls stepped back in silent obedience. Meera, silent and slow, turned and began walking toward the royal wing.
Abhimanyu watched her go, a tightness in his chest.
He'd protected her from everyone…
But not from what she was about to hear.
————————————————————
The door creaked open with a heavy groan, and Meera Rajput stepped into the dimly lit heart of the palace—the private office of Daksh Rathore.
The room was nothing short of majestic.
Tall, arched windows lined with brocade curtains filtered the late evening sun into golden rays. The high ceiling was adorned with hand-carved teak panels, echoing old Rajasthani royalty. A massive mahogany desk sat at the center like a throne of power, draped with dossiers, a vintage telephone, an antique dagger, and a glass decanter half-filled with deep amber scotch. The air held a subtle scent of leather, smoke, and secrets.
Bookshelves lined the walls—legal books on the outside, but Meera knew well enough now that this was no ordinary office.
This was the war room of a king.
Daksh stood behind the desk, towering in his calm. His voice was as composed as the ice clinking into the two crystal tumblers he poured.
Without asking, he held one out to her.
"Baith jao. Aur peeyo. Tumhein is raat ki zarurat padegi."
("Sit down. And drink. You'll need it for what this night is going to tell you.")
Meera, confused but compliant, took the glass. She didn't drink it. She just held it, eyes watching him cautiously.
Daksh circled his desk and finally took a seat across from her.
And then, with the gravitas of a man who had watched bloodlines rise and fall, he began.
"Abhimanyu lost both his parents before he was even old enough to understand what revenge meant," he said flatly, eyes locked on hers. "They were murdered."
Meera blinked.
"I… I know," she whispered. "He told me once. A fire—"
Daksh cut her off with a slight shake of his head.
"No. That was the lie we fed the world. The truth is uglier."
He leaned forward.
"Your father killed them."
The words hit like a whip.
Meera's fingers clenched the glass.
Daksh didn't pause.
"Your father, Singhania, was one of the twelve. The twelve wealthiest families in Rajasthan. Royals, industrialists, ministers… and yes—mafia. Our mafia. And your father ran with the worst of them."
Meera's lips parted but no sound came.
"It started when his wife—your mother—was shot during a crossfire. It was a high-stakes deal gone sideways. Abhimanyu's parents were there as doctors—they weren't part of the shootout. But they couldn't save her. She died on that operating table."
Daksh's voice dropped.
"And your father… lost his mind."
A pause. A long, deliberate sip of scotch.
"He believed they let her die. That they chose not to save her. That it was a ploy. So, he made his own."
Meera was frozen.
"He orchestrated their deaths. Burned them alive in a fake accident. Left a child to grow up alone in ashes."
Her breath hitched. "No…"
Daksh leaned back, his gaze unwavering.
"Yes. And that Haveli you ask about? It belonged to your mother. It was the only thing she loved more than your father. That's why your father took it after her death. And that's why Abhimanyu wanted it back."
Meera's chest constricted.
Daksh continued, calmly.
"He married you not because he loved you. But because you were the price. You were the final key to the Haveli. To revenge. To justice. And…"
He sighed.
"…to peace. For a boy who never got to grieve."
Silence.
Daksh stood now, slow and heavy.
"You want to know where you stand, Meera? You're part of this world now. A world of loyalty, of blood, of consequence. You're the daughter of the man who broke Abhimanyu. And the wife of the man he became because of it."
He looked at her with something softer—respect, maybe.
"And the choice you make next… will decide whether you stay broken in his story, or write a new one."
Daksh paced slowly behind his desk, the amber of the scotch catching firelight as he swirled it absently.
He finally turned to her, gaze as sharp as his words.
"Main yeh nahi keh raha ke Abhimanyu ka badla poora ho gaya. Par tum uski patni ho. Aur tumhe samajhna padega—yeh ladhai sirf uski nahi hai ab."
("I'm not saying Abhimanyu's revenge is complete. But now that you are his wife, you need to understand—this fight isn't just his anymore.")
Meera was still holding the glass, untouched. Her knuckles had gone pale from the pressure.
Daksh walked around, stood before her—not as a king, but as a man who had watched his younger brother's son be carved into steel.
"Abhimanyu… has never seen childhood. He's never known what it's like to laugh without weighing consequence. The only thing he held on to after his parents' death was revenge. Not healing. Not love. Just vengeance."
He paused, and for the first time, his voice wavered with emotion.
"I brought him into the mafia because I didn't want him to die chasing ghosts. I wanted to weaponize that rage—sharpen it, control it. So that he wouldn't burn out recklessly like so many do. And he did well. He became the best. But at what cost?"
Meera finally looked up. Her eyes were glassy but attentive.
Daksh leaned closer, lowered his voice—not because he had to, but because what he said now, mattered most.
"Abhimanyu tumhare aansuon ko nahi samjhega, Meera."
("Abhimanyu will never understand your tears, Meera.")
He continued, softly now.
"He doesn't know how to respond to pain that isn't physical. He was trained to break, not bend. You think your crying, your hurt will reach him? It won't. Not the way you hope. He wasn't raised for tenderness."
He placed his glass on the desk with a quiet finality.
"That's why you have to be strategic. Use your mind before your heart. He reacts to strength, not sorrow. You want to make space in his life? You fight for it. You earn it. Not by becoming like him… but by outlasting what made him like this."
Meera looked at him. All her illusions were stripped down to raw truth.
"So stop expecting him to come to you in softness. He doesn't know how. But if you stay… and fight smart… he'll learn."