Abhimanyu stood by the arched window of the palace study, phone pressed to his ear as his knuckles whitened against the glass.
"He did what?"
The guard on the other end responded with care.
"He grabbed her, sir. Tried to hurt her. But we intervened before he could go further."
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched so hard it cracked.
The veins on his neck pulsed, eyes darkening like a storm rolling in.
"I want his full name, lineage, who gave him permission to meet her, and which idiot let her enter the meeting without prior background checks."
"Yes, sir."
"And where is she now?"
"She's with Rizwan, sir. On her way back to the Airport."
A breath. One long, ragged breath escaped Abhimanyu's throat.
"Her wrist?"
"Bruised, sir. Deep enough to swell."
The silence on the line was heavy.
"Send two more guards to her location. Now. I want eyes on her until she's back in this palace. And not a single damn Rajput sets foot near her again."
He hung up, shoving the phone against the desk, cracking the edge.
And then — the part he wasn't prepared for — that wave of helplessness.
She had gone to Mumbai to clean up the mess he had created with his past.
And instead, she had to be defended — not by him — but by strangers.
He didn't even realize when he whispered—
"I should've never let her go."
NIGHT : UDAIPUR AIRPORT
The plane landed with a thud that mirrored the one in Meera's chest.
Her wrist still ached, her mind heavier than her carry-on.
She hadn't told anyone she was returning to Udaipur — not even Rizwan. Her plan was simple: slip away to her mother's old haveli on the outskirts, hide in silence, and breathe.
But as she descended the staircase from the private charter, the warm Udaipur air wasn't the first thing that hit her.
It was him.
Abhimanyu Rajput.
Leaning against the hood of his car. Sleeves rolled, anger half-swallowed behind his unreadable gaze. Arms crossed, hair tousled from the desert wind, and that same chain around his neck catching the golden sun.
She froze.
And for a moment, so did he.
Then he straightened.
No words. Not yet.
Not when his eyes landed on her face. Her eyes. Her wrist.
Her bandaged wrist.
Meera tried to steady her breath, tried to walk past him, maintain dignity — pride.
But she barely made it three steps.
"Meera…" he said, voice rough.
Just that. Her name.
And she cracked.
The tears came first — sudden, soundless. Then her shoulders started shaking. She tried to look away, but the weight of his gaze pulled her back like gravity.
She choked on the lump in her throat, voice breaking:
"Why are you here?"
He stepped closer.
"Because I knew you'd run to silence. To that haveli. And I can't let you heal in solitude anymore. Not after this."
She didn't reply.
But when he reached out slowly — gently — and placed his hand over her injured wrist, she flinched first… and then stilled.
He looked at the bruise, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
Then, quietly:
"You're not going back there alone."
Meera's lips trembled.
"He grabbed me. Like I was… a thing."
A beat passed.
Then Abhimanyu did something she didn't expect — he knelt.
Right there, on the tarmac.
Not out of guilt. But out of something that looked a lot like devotion.
"I wasn't there when I should've been. I'll never let that happen again."
Meera looked down at him, broken and shaken and held together only by this strange, unspoken bond between them.
She nodded.
Not with her head.
But with the step she took closer — enough for him to rise, for her to finally bury her face against his chest.
He didn't speak after that.
He didn't need to.
He just opened the car door, placed her inside, and sat beside her
The car hummed through the narrow roads of Udaipur, the sky dimming into a lavender dusk. The silence between them wasn't tense anymore. It was… comforting.
Meera had fallen asleep the moment her head leaned back against the seat, lashes fluttering down like the end of a war she'd fought too long.
Her body curled slightly toward the window, one hand resting over the wrist he couldn't stop glancing at.
Abhimanyu sat beside her, unmoving. Watching. The heaviness of regret still weighing his chest. Every time the car turned, he instinctively leaned slightly toward her — shielding, steadying. Silently guarding her even in sleep.
When they finally pulled up to the haveli — her mother's home, the quiet retreat surrounded by arched windows and faded sandstone — the guards stepped back, unsure if they should speak.
He shook his head. Not a word.
He opened her door softly, crouched to her level.
"Meera," he whispered.
She didn't wake.
Her face was peaceful for the first time in days. There was something heartbreaking about the way her breath rose and fell so gently — like she'd only allowed herself to rest because he was near.
So he didn't wake her.
Abhimanyu simply slid one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back, and lifted her against his chest.
She stirred faintly, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. Her cheek fell into the hollow of his shoulder.
But she didn't wake.
He walked through the haveli gates like that — steady, purposeful — as the old caretakers and staff looked on in hushed surprise.
And when he entered the guest room prepared for her, he didn't turn on the light.
He just lowered her onto the bed with the care of someone handling something sacred. Tucked the blanket around her. Brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.
He stood for a long time, just watching her breathe.
And then he was gone
The door clicked softly behind him.
NEXT MORNING
The warm sun filtered through the jaali windows of the haveli, casting honey-gold patterns on the floor.
Meera stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the soft light. For a moment, she didn't recognize where she was.
The ceiling wasn't familiar.
The bed felt too comfortable.
And then it hit her — not in memory, but in sensation.
The weight in her chest.
The tenderness in her wrist.
The dried salt on her cheeks.
She sat up abruptly.
Her blouse was slightly wrinkled, but someone — he — had removed her heels and covered her with a blanket. Her hair was still knotted from travel. The bruising on her wrist had darkened into a violet bloom.
She cradled it gently in her other hand and exhaled.
"Why does it still hurt… even after it's over?" she whispered to herself.
There was a soft knock on the door.
Before she could answer, it creaked open slightly — and there he was.
Abhimanyu.
Showered. Dressed in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Silent, unreadable.
He didn't enter fully. Just leaned against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets.
"You're awake," he said quietly.
Meera gave a small nod, her eyes flicking down, unsure what to say.
He noticed her wrist before she could hide it.
And in that moment, his jaw clenched — tight. He took a breath and stepped forward.
"Let me call the doctor."
"It's fine," she said too quickly.
He didn't reply. His gaze lingered on her for another second before turning toward the window.
"Your manager called. Said the shoot's been postponed indefinitely."
A pause. Then, almost like it slipped out:
"You didn't have to cancel it for me."
Meera looked up, finally meeting his eyes.
"I didn't cancel it for you. I canceled it because someone grabbed me like I was nothing. Because I was bruised for saying no."
He looked at her then — really looked.
Her voice was calm. But the fire behind it was unmistakable.
"And because that someone didn't know I'm your wife."
He stilled.
No response.
No denial either.
Meera stood slowly, brushing her hands on her pants and walking past him toward the window.
"Anyway, I thought I'd start the day here… quietly. Away from Mumbai. Away from all of it."
"Stay," he said softly behind her.
She turned to face him.
"Why?"
A beat.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked over — slowly — and placed something on the side table.
A tube of ointment. A crepe bandage. And a bottle of water.
Their eyes met.
No apologies.
No explanations.
The silence between them was fragile, like something hanging by a thread.
Abhimanyu had just placed the ointment beside Meera. His fingers hovered over it for a moment longer than necessary — as if unsure whether to say something, or to leave again.
His phone rang, cutting through the quiet.
Daksh Bhai.
Abhimanyu immediately answered, voice firm, respectful.
"Haan, Daksh Bhai."
On the other end, Daksh's voice was calm, clipped — as always.
"Kal shaam ko party hai. You need to be there."
Abhimanyu exhaled slowly, turning slightly away from Meera.
"I'll come."
A beat of silence.
"Aur Meera?" Daksh's voice sharpened. "Are you introducing her as your wife?"
Meera's spine straightened involuntarily.
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched. He didn't respond right away. Instead, he stared ahead at the far wall, his face unreadable. Meera watched him, heart thudding.
"Nahi, Daksh Bhai," he said finally. "Main duniya ke liye unmarried hoon. Aise hi theek hai."
(No, Daksh Bhai. I am unmarried to the world. Let it stay that way.)
Another silence.
"Samajh gaya," Daksh replied curtly. "Time par pahuchna."
(Understood. Be on time.)
The call disconnected.
Abhimanyu lowered the phone, still not turning to Meera. He rubbed his forehead for a second, exhausted — more by himself than by her — and finally faced her.
Her eyes were lowered.
But her face… he could see it.
She wasn't crying, but she looked like someone who had just lost the final shred of hope.
And that silence — the one she didn't break — hurt far more than any scream.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything — but the words didn't come.
So instead, with practiced coldness, he said:
"Ointment laga lena. Don't let the bruise swell."
And he walked out.
The door closed with a quiet click.
Meera sat still for a long while. And then, slowly, her fingers curled into fists in her lap.
The ointment tube sat beside her on the bed, untouched.
She didn't even look at it.