The music was still loud. The lights still low. The air smelled of perfume, ambition, and expensive alcohol.
Meera reentered the party with practiced poise — her back straight, dress clinging like second skin, eyes glossed with restraint.
People turned.
They always did when she walked in.
But tonight, the air shifted. Something in her eyes had gone cold.
Rizwan caught her gaze from across the room and immediately walked up to her.
"Meera…" he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, "You okay?"
She gave the smallest of nods, her lips forming a polite smile.
Not real. But enough to silence questions.
"All good. Just needed a moment of air."
Before Rizwan could say more, a tall, blonde model — with legs for days and ego to match — stepped up. The unmistakable accent rolled off her tongue like champagne.
"So…" she tilted her head, circling Meera slightly like a cat. "You really think you can woo Abhimanyu Rajput over all of us?"
Her voice dripped mockery.
Meera simply looked at her. Calm. Silent.
"I mean, come on," the British model continued, letting out a low, rehearsed laugh. "You're… sweet. But we've walked for Versace, darling. And you — you've barely crossed London's editorial."
She took a step closer and tapped her perfectly manicured finger right at the center of Meera's chest.
"Bibi," she smirked, the word rolling off her tongue like a taunt. "I'm better than you. Whatever games you're playing… they won't work."
The room seemed to hush slightly, a few glances turning toward the growing tension.
Meera's lips curled into the faintest smile.
"That's adorable," she said softly, brushing her hand off her chest.
"But I'm not here to play games. Especially not over a man I'm not interested in."
She leaned in, so close her words were only for her.
"And just for your peace of mind — if I ever did want him… you'd be gone before your next runway."
The model blinked.
Meera pulled back, straightened her shoulders, and turned to walk away — leaving behind not just the confrontation, but every ounce of the hurt from earlier.
Rizwan exhaled, half shocked, half amused.
"Bloody hell," he murmured, eyes following her. "That's my girl."
Meera had barely walked ten steps away when it happened.
A sharp, sudden jolt—
The heel of a leg shot forward between the hem of her gown.
She stumbled.
There was no time to steady herself.
No time to recover with grace.
Her knees hit the marble first—hard, painfully, followed by her elbows. The gasp that went through the crowd was sharp and sudden.
For a second, the music drowned out.
Meera remained on the floor, eyes closed, breath trapped in her chest as the pain flooded in. The skin on her knee had scraped, blood already beginning to seep through the thin fabric.
Laughter — low and venomous — followed.
"Oops," the British model said sweetly, stepping closer. "So sorry. Must've tripped…"
She bent slightly, whispering in mock concern.
Then, deliberately, unknowingly, the back of her sharp heel pressed right into Meera's shin as she walked past — a slow, cruel dig.
Meera flinched, but she didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
Didn't let her pride crack open.
She remained there, breathing slowly, as silence stretched around her.
No one moved.
No one helped.
The models just exchanged smug looks. A few investors awkwardly turned away.
Except Rizwan. He was already moving toward her, eyes blazing, but Meera lifted her hand—still trembling—and stopped him.
She pulled herself up slowly. First to her knees, then her feet. Her palms stung. Her shin throbbed. Her pride burned.
But her face?
Stone cold. Regal. Unshaken.
She smoothed her gown as though nothing had happened, raised her chin, and looked the British model right in the eye.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "Now I know what desperation looks like up close."
Then she walked away—limping slightly, but walking nonetheless—straight toward the private lounge.
She didn't go back to the lounge.
She couldn't.
The moment the doors closed behind her, Meera turned a sharp right and headed straight for the washroom at the far end of the hall. Her limp was more noticeable now. The sting on her shin was unbearable. Her knees throbbed. But nothing — absolutely nothing — compared to the way her heart ached.
She slammed the door shut behind her, bracing both palms on the marble counter, her chest heaving.
The tears didn't come right away.
They waited. They hovered.
Until she looked up…
And saw herself in the mirror.
The blood on her knees.
The bruises beginning to bloom on her elbows.
The red imprint of a heel on her shin.
The perfect hair, the painted lips — a mask.
She looked like a queen.
But tonight, she felt like prey.
The dam broke.
One sob — just one — escaped her throat before she quickly pressed her hand to her mouth, as if ashamed to even let her pain be heard. The next came harder, messier.
"Why do I keep letting this happen…" she whispered to the mirror. "Why do I keep thinking he'll see me?"
She slid down to the floor, the cold tiles against her bare legs. Her gown pooled around her. She pressed her forehead to her knees and let herself feel — just for a moment.
The betrayal.
The humiliation.
The ache of loving a man who weaponized her every emotion.
"You're just a mistake to him," she reminded herself, choking back the sob. "Always a mistake."
And yet…
She had begged him in the bathroom, hadn't she?
"You're my sexy husband…"
The way she'd spoken, touched him, looked at him. She had craved him like air. And he had let her.
Only to go back out and mock the very idea of them.
Her fists clenched.
She sat there for several minutes, gathering herself piece by piece — because Meera Rajput did not let anyone see her break.
When she stood up again, her hands were trembling… but her back was straight.
She washed her face. Covered the scrape on her knee with the edge of her dress. Wiped the shine of tears from under her lashes. And then she left the washroom like nothing had happened.
The queen was back.
Bruised — but unbroken.
———————————————————-
The lights in the ballroom glimmered over polished floors and crystal glasses, but Meera sat quietly at the bar — heels off, one ankle tucked behind the other. A drink in hand. A thin stream of blood had dried down her shin, barely hidden by the fall of her gown.
Rizwan stood beside her, visibly worried.
"This is not okay, Meera," he muttered, bending slightly to look at the bruised skin. "She stomped on you. You fell. She humiliated you in front of everyone."
"She didn't win," Meera whispered back, eyes locked on her drink. "I won't leave because of a petty woman in heels. I've faced worse."
"Still, let's go—"
"I said no, Rizwan."
He sighed and straightened, ordering a napkin and ice from the bartender.
That's when the doors opened.
Abhimanyu Rajput entered.
Tall. Composed. Deadly in a midnight blue tux that made half the room shift attention his way. His presence was never unnoticed. He joined a group of investors who welcomed him with indulgent grins.
One of the older men — Saxena, a telecom tycoon — leaned toward him and chuckled, "We took care of that… distraction, Rajput."
Abhimanyu, mid-sip, stilled. "What distraction?"
"The model. The one hanging on you earlier? These women think beauty gives them power. But we handled it. She was getting too smug. Told her off and… someone put her in place." He winked, then tilted his glass in Meera's direction at the bar. "Quite the show."
The words landed like a blade.
Abhimanyu's eyes snapped toward Meera — sitting alone, leg scratched, eyes distant, lips pressed thin.
Realization punched him in the gut.
They had meant Meera.
Not the model. Meera. His wife.
The glass in his hand nearly cracked under his grip.
Without another word, he turned — sharp, fast — cutting through the crowd like a storm about to break loose.
The heels of his shoes echoed. The scent of his cologne hit before his voice did.
"Meera."
She turned slightly on the barstool, just enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to give him the power of her full attention.
He stopped a foot away. Close enough to see the dried blood. The shimmer of pride still in her eyes despite it all. The woman he kept breaking — and who kept standing taller every time.
"Who did it?"
She arched a brow. "Does it matter?"
"It matters to me," he said — not loudly, but deadly quiet. "Who touched you?"
She tilted her head. "Why, Mr. Rajput? So you can punish the very people you laughed with five minutes ago?"
His jaw clenched. "Don't test me, Meera."
"You're the one constantly failing the test, Abhimanyu."
Rizwan stood up now, alert.
Abhimanyu's gaze flickered to him. "Stay out of this."
"She fell. She bled. And you were nowhere," Rizwan snapped. "You keep hurting her, and then act like her pain bothers you. Pick one."
Abhimanyu's eyes never left Meera.
"I'm asking for the last time… Who did this?"
Meera stared at him, defiant and heartbreakingly calm.
Then, softly:
"One of your friends. One of those investors. One of those women you keep around to remind me I don't belong in your world."
He said nothing — but his expression changed. Fury. Guilt. Something darker.
Then she got off the stool, steady despite the limp.
"But guess what, Mr. Rajput?" she added, brushing past him. "I may not belong in your world… but I won't crawl out of it, either."
And she walked away — bleeding, brilliant, and unbroken.