After the group hug finally broke, Meera wiped her eyes quickly and stood up, straightening her kurta. The laughter still echoed faintly in the room, a soft balm against the storm that had been raging inside her for days.
"Okay," she said, with a small smile. "Now I need to get dressed. Rizwan must be ready to throw a fit by now."
The girls nodded, and one by one, they stepped out, giving her space.
By the time Meera came down to the main lounge—dressed in a crisp ivory salwar with a flowy dupatta draped effortlessly—her phone buzzed. Rizwan.
She picked up.
"Finally, I've been calling since morning," Rizwan's voice came through, clipped but urgent.
"I know," Meera said, softly. "I needed the morning. What's up?"
"You've got everything back, Meera," he said without pausing. "The London endorsements, all of them. They want you back immediately—photo shoots, promos, prep for Fashion Week. You're scheduled to fly in five days."
Meera closed her eyes and leaned against one of the carved wooden pillars of the palace. Five days.
"Okay," she said. "Book the tickets. I'll be there."
Rizwan exhaled. "Good. And… one more thing."
"Hmm?"
"You're being called to Mumbai first."
Meera's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"After the Kunal Rajput incident—well, no one knows about your marriage to Abhimanyu. I never told anyone, like you asked. But Rajput Industries was a major client. And now they've pulled out of every deal. The agency is looking for a scapegoat. And guess who that is?"
There was a pause.
Meera didn't flinch. "Let them."
"Meera—"
She cut in, calm but fierce. "No, Rizwan. Let them. I'm done hiding, done bending. If they want a fight, they'll get one."
Rizwan was silent for a beat. Then quietly said, "Good. Because you're not just any model anymore. You're Meera Rajput. Make them remember that."
She hung up and slipped the phone into her pocket.
The war was coming.
But this time, she wasn't walking into it as a girl torn between pain and silence.
She was walking in as someone who had bled, burned, and now—was ready to rise.
After the call with Rizwan and a morning full of thoughts she couldn't quiet, Meera stood outside the grand hallway, facing one of the palace guards.
"Is Abhimanyu sir in the palace office?"
The guard straightened. "No, ma'am. He left early this morning. He's at the company headquarters."
Meera nodded once, her decision tightening its grip inside her chest.
"Alright," she said quietly.
She returned to her room and opened her wardrobe—not for something casual, but deliberate. Strategic. A navy-blue formal one-piece with sharp pleats and a fitted waist. She paired it with simple pearl studs, a clean sweep of eyeliner, and her signature nude lipstick. Every inch of her said composed, elegant, untouchable.
But inside, she was all heart.
As she slid into the backseat of the car, she told the palace guard who accompanied her, "Take me to Rajput Enterprises. Back entry."
The guard nodded.
She had been shown the private way in once by Tanvi—his assistant. Discreet, silent, never used by clients or press. Today, she would use it.
When the car stopped, she stepped out with quiet confidence. The building loomed high, a glass-and-concrete monolith of power. But Meera didn't hesitate. She walked in through the rear executive entrance, her heels echoing on the marble.
She reached the private elevator and rode it up to the top floor. As she stepped out, she was greeted not by Tanvi, but by someone unfamiliar.
A tall woman in a maroon sheath dress with a sleek bun, sharp jawline, and eyes that scanned Meera like she was an unscheduled delivery.
"Mrs. Rajput," the woman said coolly. "I'm Rhea. Mr. Rajput's personal office coordinator."
Her tone was polite—but the kind of polite that made it clear you weren't welcome.
Meera gave her a soft smile. "I'd like to speak to him. It's important."
"I'm sure it is." Rhea stood in front of the door, unmoving. "But Mr. Rajput is in a meeting. You can wait."
She gestured to a small couch outside the glass doors. A place usually reserved for nervous interns or suppliers with cancelled appointments.
Meera raised her brows for a second but didn't argue. She just walked to the couch and sat down. Legs crossed. Chin up.
If Rhea thought this would intimidate her, she had no idea who Meera Rajput truly was.
She was here to speak to her husband.
And no one was going to stop her.
But
The air-conditioning on the executive floor was far too intense. Meera folded her arms across her chest, subtly rubbing her palms up and down her sleeves to create warmth. Her dress—though formal—was sleeveless, and the chill of the air seeped deep into her bones.
Still, she sat still. Poised. Dignified.
But it was getting unbearable.
She glanced at Rhea, who hadn't so much as looked her way since seating her like a forgotten file on the edge of someone's desk.
"Excuse me," Meera said, her voice calm, "Would it be possible to get a blanket? It's a little too cold here."
Rhea looked up, gave the faintest nod.
"I'll have someone bring it," she said, tapping something half-heartedly on her tablet.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Meera's arms were now fully wrapped around her body, her fingers slowly turning pale from the cold. Her legs, though neatly crossed, were beginning to stiffen. And still—no blanket.
She glanced around.
Nothing.
No one.
Just her, the frost in the air, and the heavy silence of being unwanted in a place that technically bore her own last name.
She looked back at Rhea. "I'm sorry, I asked for—"
Rhea cut in without even raising her gaze. "He's still in a meeting. You'll be called when he's free."
It wasn't about the blanket anymore. It was about the message.
You are not welcome here. Not even as his wife.
Meera exhaled slowly, holding in the hurt that was slowly slipping through the cracks of her resolve.
But she didn't get up.
She didn't walk out.
She sat back.
Back straight, head high.
Because if this was what it took to be in his life—to fight for what they had, whatever broken, bruised, confused shape it had—she would wait.
Even if the cold felt like punishment.
————————————————————
ABHIMANYU
Inside his glass-paneled office, Abhimanyu stood facing the window, his phone pressed to his ear, his tone clipped and calculated as always.
"Push the Singapore meeting. No, I don't care—reschedule. I said what I said."
He ended the call with a swipe, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his eyes automatically flicking to the security feed on the side monitor.
And then he saw her.
Meera.
Sitting quietly in the lounge outside his office—arms wrapped around herself, dress elegant but thin, her posture trying its best to hide the shivering.
His jaw locked.
The soft chill of the office had never bothered him. But watching her like that, trying to stay composed even as she was clearly freezing, something inside him—something tight and coiled—unspooled.
What the hell was she doing here?
His eyes darkened as he reached for the desk mic connected to the internal comms.
"Rhea," he said coldly.
"Yes, sir?" her voice filtered through.
"Send Meera in."
There was a pause. Then a stiff, "Right away, sir."
Outside, Rhea's voice came without any warmth. "You may go in now. He's free."
Meera didn't thank her. She simply stood, her legs a little unsteady from the cold and the long wait, and walked silently toward the frosted glass door.
As she pushed it open, the warm interior of his office met her like a wave. But his eyes—his eyes were anything but warm.
He stood there, arms folded, watching her.
Her presence.
Her decision to come here.
Her silence.
Everything seemed to be grating against something he wasn't ready to name.
But he said nothing. Not yet.
And she stepped in.
Ready to speak.
Even if her voice trembled.