While the palace slowly lit up with warm lights and live music tuning in the distant courtyards, Meera remained exactly where she had been an hour ago—on the bed, motionless, dressed yet withdrawn from the world. Her phone buzzed once.
Zahra.
Zahra: "Arey Meera, tu ready nahi hui abhi tak? Guests are almost here! Where are you?"
Meera didn't respond.
A few minutes later, a knock echoed on the door.
"Meera?" Zahra's voice was muffled through the carved wooden panel. "Kya ho gaya hai tujhe? You said you'll be back. Tune bola tha. Come out, yaar."
Meera finally sat up, walked to the door, and opened it halfway.
Zahra gasped softly. "Tu toh… you're still in the same clothes?" She looked Meera up and down, her eyes catching the slight swelling on her wrist. "Tu theek hai?"
"I'm fine," Meera said quietly.
Zahra's brows furrowed. "Phir party mein chal, please. Everyone's asking, and—"
"I'm not going," Meera replied, her voice flat. "Mujhe nahi lagta main kisi cheez ka hissa hoon yahaan. Main sirf ek mask hoon. Ek naam. Bas. Na rishta poora hai, na jagah."
("I don't think I belong to anything here. I'm just a mask. A name. Nothing else. Neither the relationship is whole, nor my place here.")
Zahra blinked. "Yeh sab… Abhimanyu ne kuch kaha kya?"
Meera didn't answer. She just looked away.
Zahra touched her hand gently. "Meera, tu chal na. Forget everyone. Come with me. Tu meri best friend hai, and tonight, we go together. Duniya gayi bhaad mein."
Meera smiled faintly—grateful, but tired.
"Tu ja. Main bas… main bas aaj chhod doon sab kuch. Please."
Zahra studied her for a long moment, and then nodded, though it hurt her to walk away. "Theek hai. But if you change your mind… I'll be right at the entrance. Wearing blue."
She left.
And Meera… just stood there, still in the doorway, watching Zahra walk down the corridor. The distant sounds of celebration began to swell—the echo of a party beginning without her.
————————————————————
ABHIMANYU RAJPUT
The palace grounds were aglow with opulence—chandeliers strung like constellations above, silver platters gliding through the air, and the echo of classical instruments blending with polite laughter and crystal clinks.
Abhimanyu stood near the courtyard entrance, clad in black with a traditional bandhgala sharp enough to match his gaze. He looked like he belonged here. But even he couldn't ignore the space beside him.
Daksh walked up, sipping his drink.
"Sab kuch on schedule hai," he said, scanning the crowd. "But where's your wife?"
Abhimanyu's jaw tightened for a brief second. "She's not attending."
Daksh raised an eyebrow. "Not attending? Tum dono mein kuch hua kya?"
"Woh jaayaz baatein karti hai kabhi kabhi," Abhimanyu muttered, sipping his drink. "She'll be fine."
Daksh didn't push further. But he gave him that older-brother look—stern and knowing. "Is baar log expect kar rahe hain tumhari introduction. Especially after that London murti project. Rajput-Rathore alliance is being speculated. Don't make silence look like weakness."
Abhimanyu didn't reply. His eyes wandered—everywhere, but nowhere.
Zahra approached them next, her face unreadable.
"She's not coming, Abhimanyu."
Abhimanyu turned to her. "Mujhe pata hai."
"No, I don't think you do. She's not coming because of you."
His fist clenched around the glass. "Zahra—"
"She's sitting alone. In a room. In this very palace. While you're out here pretending she doesn't exist. She's hurting, and you're letting her."
Zahra didn't wait for his response. She turned and left.
Abhimanyu stood there for a moment.
Still.
And then
he walked away.
Away from the marble terrace. Away from the accusing eyes. Away from everything that demanded he feel something tonight.
He slipped into the bar at the far end of the hall — dimly lit, almost empty — and pulled out the stool closest to the back. The bartender looked up at him.
"Scotch?"
Abhimanyu shook his head.
"Something stronger."
The man blinked. "Sir… stronger?"
He looked up, jaw tight. "Everclear. Neat."
The bartender stilled — even he looked nervous.
But Abhimanyu wasn't kidding.
Everclear — the drink most bartenders don't dare to pour neat. At 190 proof (95% alcohol), it wasn't made for sipping. It was made for forgetting. For cauterizing something deep and bleeding.
The glass clinked softly as it was placed before him. Transparent. Odorless. Deadly.
He downed it in one go.
The burn hit instantly — from throat to stomach to bone. But Abhimanyu welcomed it. Finally, something that hurt more than this evening.
He poured himself another.
And another.
Because right now, facing his wife… or his family… or the fact that the only woman who had stood beside him despite the hatred — was curled up alone somewhere in his Haveli — was unbearable.
He didn't need words.
He needed silence.
And this glass — this brutal, unforgiving glass — was the only thing that understood that.
The room spun gently now.
Abhimanyu had lost count of how many Everclears he'd poured. He didn't even grimace anymore. The fire in his throat had numbed. His jaw was slack, tie loose, hair slightly tousled.
He looked like a man who'd been at war — not with people, but with the weight in his chest.
He was halfway through another pour when a shadow loomed behind him.
"Abhimanyu."
The voice was iron. Calm. Not loud — it didn't need to be. It was Daksh.
Abhimanyu didn't turn immediately.
Daksh stepped closer. His eyes scanned the bottles on the counter, then the half-empty glass in Abhimanyu's hand.
"Yeh koi college fest nahi chal raha hai. You're drunk."
Abhimanyu chuckled bitterly and raised the glass in mock salute. "To your excellent hospitality, Daksh bhai."
Daksh didn't smile. Didn't blink.
"Put the glass down. Now."
Abhimanyu looked at him, eyes slightly bloodshot, but still sharp enough to understand that this wasn't a request.
Daksh's jaw tightened.
"This party is full of ministers, business alliances, press liaisons — and your absence is already being questioned. If I see even a whisper of a scandal, Maharaj Raghuvendra Rajput will have my head."
He lowered his tone, deadly.
"And if you cause it—I'll have yours."
The glass wobbled slightly in Abhimanyu's fingers before he finally put it down.
"Go to your room. Shut the door. Lock it. Sleep. That's not a suggestion, it's an order."
Abhimanyu rose, unsteady but still dignified. His pride wouldn't allow him to stagger in front of Daksh, so he held his chin high and walked toward the corridor.
Daksh didn't watch him leave.
He just sighed quietly, rubbed his temples, and murmured,
"Kya kar diya hai is ladke ne apne saath…"
And the party, glittering and glorious, continued — unaware that one of its hosts had already burned out for the night.