The sleek black Maybach moved smoothly through the rainy streets of London, but Abhimanyu Rajput was anything but calm.
He sat alone in the backseat, his screen casting a cold glow on his face as the interview played again—this time, the unedited full version Tanvi had forwarded him moments ago.
The moment Daniel leaned forward on screen and asked:
"So Meera, are you single, or do we all stand no chance?"
Meera had smiled—that radiant, practiced yet honest smile.
Meera:
"I'm very single, Daniel."
(beat)
"And very uninterested in distractions."
The audience had laughed. Daniel had smirked.
"Distractions like love, or like possessive men with control issues?"
Meera:
"Especially those."
(smirks)
"I think any man I'd be with… should understand boundaries. And dreams. And not try to own me."
"And if you had to describe your ideal husband?"
Meera didn't flinch. She looked straight into the camera.
"Calm. Respectful. Supportive. Someone who listens. Someone who doesn't raise his voice just to feel powerful."
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched.
Then Daniel's next line, so smug it might as well have been a knife:
"Basically, nothing like the usual alpha billionaires, huh?"
Meera (with a sly smile):
"Exactly."
The car pulled into the private garage of The Rosemont London, where the Rajputs always stayed. But Abhimanyu didn't move.
Not until the video ended.
And not until Meera's light laugh echoed again in his ears.
Now, in his suite—
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the London skyline twinkling before him like it had no idea it had just hosted his humiliation.
His phone was face-down on the table. Silent now.
But his mind was screaming.
"She thinks I don't respect her?" he muttered.
A crystal glass in his hand—half-filled with whiskey—trembled.
"She says she wants someone calm?" His laugh was bitter, sharp.
He turned abruptly, his voice rising.
Abhimanyu:
"Supportive? Respectful? You want a doormat, Meera. Not a husband."
He downed the drink.
For a moment, silence.
Then, cold and calculating, he walked to the wardrobe and opened it.
A crisp, tailored three-piece suit waited. Midnight black.
He reached for it.
Because if Meera Singhania thought she was safe in London—
If she thought distance and cameras and flirtatious hosts could protect her—
Then she had forgotten who exactly she had married.
And Abhimanyu Rajput had arrived to remind her.
————————————————————
MEERA
Meera was already half-asleep, curled up in her satin pyjamas with a damp cotton pad in one hand, smudging away the last traces of foundation. Her eyes were heavy, her limbs aching from the long, chaotic day—press interviews, fittings, back-to-back appearances. She had just unhooked her earrings when Rizwan knocked.
"Meera?" he called gently, poking his head in. "You've been invited."
She blinked. "To where?"
He stepped in, visibly excited. "An exclusive evening hosted by Lord Benedict Ashbourne. He's the man in luxury branding—old British money, runs Ashbourne House and three international fashion labels. He doesn't invite just anyone. Meera, this is… major."
She exhaled, tired but alert now. "Rizwan… I really don't think I can go tonight—"
"No," he cut her off gently but firmly. "You have to. This isn't optional. This is the kind of room that changes the game."
There was a pause. Meera looked at her reflection—barefaced, exhausted—and then nodded once. "Then bring me my best dress."
Minutes later, she emerged wearing that gown.
The dress was pure poetry.
A nude, champagne-toned body-hugging silhouette, delicately embroidered with intricate beading that shimmered like soft stardust under warm light. The sheer full-length sleeves flared out gracefully at the wrists, each thread of embroidery whispering elegance. The bodice, sculpted to perfection, clung to her curves with grace—neither vulgar nor coy, just commanding. The neckline was an illusion plunge—subtle, sophisticated, and sensual, giving her an ethereal glow.
Her soft curls framed her face, falling in loose waves, and the gown moved with her like silk wrapped in moonlight.
She didn't need a crown. That dress was the crown.
————————————————————
THE PARTY
The Ashbourne estate was everything you'd imagine old British wealth to be—ivory pillars, velvet curtains, fireplaces lined with vintage decanters and eyes of oil-painted ancestors watching from above.
Meera stepped into the hall like a ripple of light—graceful, silent, unfamiliar. Her heels clicked softly against the marble, but the elite inside barely glanced her way. Pearls, tuxedos, laughter floating in private bubbles—all made her feel like an outsider crashing a carefully curated world.
She kept walking, shoulders squared, head high.
Rizwan leaned in from her left. "That's him," he whispered discreetly. "Lord Ashbourne."
She turned slightly and saw a tall, silver-haired man by the piano, holding a glass of whisky with the ease of someone who owned not just the drink, but the distillery too.
She made her way toward him.
Lord Ashbourne's eyes lit up the moment they met hers. "Ah, Miss Meera Singhania. I saw your interview earlier today—quite the captivating young woman, aren't you?"
Meera gave him a soft, polished smile. "That's very kind of you. Thank you for having me here tonight."
He nodded with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes—it was the kind of charm passed down generations. "Do enjoy the music… and the liquor. I believe both are quite excellent tonight."
She nodded, murmured another polite thank you, and allowed Rizwan to guide her to the bar section.
And that's when she saw him.
Abhimanyu Rajput.
He was seated casually at the end of the bar, a glass in hand, his black suit impossibly well-fitted. The minute she stepped into his line of vision, his eyes found her—dark, unreadable, and ice-cold. But he didn't blink. Didn't smirk. Didn't nod.
Nothing.
He simply turned his face away… as if she didn't exist.
Meera's breath caught in her throat, but she said nothing. Her fingers grazed the bar counter as if grounding herself.
And then, a girl—beautiful, radiant in emerald satin—walked up behind him, playfully wrapped her arm around his, and he smiled at her.
That smile, that Meera has never known.
He leaned in, said something in the girl's ear, and she laughed as she took the seat beside him, like she'd always belonged there.
Before Meera could make sense of what she was feeling, Lord Ashbourne stepped beside her again.
"My daughter," he said, gesturing to the girl beside Abhimanyu. "She's rather fond of Abhimanyu. They've known each other for some time now. He's one of my key partners in Ashbourne International."
Meera smiled faintly, eyes still locked on the man who is her husband.
Ashbourne placed a gentle hand on her back. "Come, I'll introduce you."
They walked the short distance. Meera could feel the tremor in her fingers but held herself steady.
"Abhimanyu," Lord Ashbourne said, "this is Miss Meera Singhania. She's one of India's rising stars in fashion and happens to be gracing my guest list tonight."
Abhimanyu looked straight at her. No warmth. No hate. Just the blank, unaffected stare of a stranger. Then, as Meera raised her hand for a polite handshake, he casually turned his attention to the girl beside him.
he said with a smirk to the girl besides him. "Let's get some air."
Without even glancing back, he walked away—her hand still mid-air.
Meera slowly lowered it.
There was a pause.
Ashbourne exhaled with a short chuckle. "That's Abhimanyu Rajput. He's not the type to take things personally… or let others take him personally either."
Meera gave a tight smile. "Noted."
He nodded, and with a quiet pat on her shoulder, drifted back into the crowd, leaving Meera alone by the bar—with a bruised pride, a full glass, and a storm brewing behind her eyes.