He left her standing there — in that office now stained by rage and blood.
The door slammed behind him.
Meera stood still for a long moment.
And then… she just sank.
First to her knees.
Then to the cold floor.
Her hands brushed the sticky pool of blood, still warm, as she sat exactly where he had left her — right there in that mess — the wreckage of his fury, the stain of everything unspoken.
She didn't weep.
She didn't flinch.
She just stared — wide-eyed, glassy — at the nothingness ahead.
Tanvi's voice came like a siren, far away.
"Meera ma'am?!"
The sound of her heels on the marble. Rushed. Terrified.
She dropped beside her. "What are you doing here?! You need to get out!"
Tanvi tried to pull her up by the arms, but Meera's body hung heavy, limp.
"Madam please, chaliye yahan se… yeh jagah safe nahi hai."
("Ma'am please, let's leave… this place isn't safe.")
Still nothing.
Tanvi's voice cracked, and she looked toward the door. "Get someone!" she barked at the guard outside. "Now!"
Two guards rushed in, exchanged a grim glance, and carefully lifted Meera from the floor — her arms hanging at her sides, her eyes still open but unfocused.
In the car, the silence was suffocating.
She didn't speak.
She didn't move.
The blood on her palms had dried, but she didn't seem to care.
Tanvi sat beside her, watching with a clenched jaw, helpless. She reached out once, to wipe a smear off Meera's wrist — but Meera didn't even blink.
The city passed by through the windows in a blur of light and motion, but for Meera… it might as well have been a blank screen.
Nothing touched her.
Because right now, she wasn't there.
Only her body was.
———————————————————
Hotel Suite
The hotel suite was dimly lit when they brought Meera in.
She hadn't said a word. Hadn't resisted. Hadn't reacted.
Tanvi helped her into the room, dismissing the guards quietly, and guided Meera into the bathroom. The silence was bone-deep.
She gently removed the ruined clothes. The bloodstains were still fresh. Her hands shook as she filled the tub with warm water and began dabbing at Meera's arms with a wet towel.
Meera sat on the stool — unmoving. Her eyes stared into the tiled wall. No resistance. No words.
Just… nothing.
"Meera Maam," Tanvi whispered, voice cracking, "please… just say something."
Not even a blink.
Tanvi's fingers trembled as she wrapped a towel around her, dried her hair, and helped her into a soft cotton robe. She tucked her into the bed like she was a porcelain doll — fragile, breakable.
Still, no response.
She stepped away quietly and walked out of the suite, heart racing. Her hand hovered over her phone before she pressed his name.
"Tanvi?" Abhimanyu's voice was rough, exhausted.
She swallowed. "Sir… I cleaned her up. She's in bed now."
"And?"
"Sir… woh… she hasn't spoken a word since. Not even blinked properly. Jaise—" she hesitated, "jaise uski saans chal rahi hai bas… aur kuch nahi."
("Like she's only breathing… nothing else.")
Silence from his end.
And then he cut the call.
After the call She settled into the couch in the corner, arms crossed, posture alert despite the late hour. But every few minutes, she glanced up at the bed. Meera hadn't moved an inch.
No tears. No sounds.
Just breathing.
Tanvi swallowed her worry. This wasn't just shock. This was something deeper. A collapse without noise. And the girl on that bed wasn't going to sleep — not tonight.
And both of them lay awake for the entire night. Thinking about the consequences of the next morning.
————————————————————
The early morning haze lay heavy over the London airstrip. A convoy of sleek black cars cut through the airport's private lane, flanked by guards on motorcycles. Tension swirled as thick as the mist around them.
From the first car, Tanvi stepped out and carefully opened the rear door. Meera emerged slowly, dressed in neutral beige, her hair neatly tied, face pale but composed. Too composed.
From another car behind, Abhimanyu stepped out, straightening his cuffs. The moment his eyes found Meera, he faltered. Just a second. But enough.
He expected a flicker of emotion — a glare, a sigh, anything. But she didn't even glance at him. Her gaze was fixed ahead, like he was just another presence in the noise of her life.
They walked toward the chartered flight together, feet aligned but hearts miles apart.
When The engines hummed steadily as the jet soared above the Atlantic and Inside, silence stretched — fragile, deafening.
Abhimanyu turned slightly toward her. Meera sat perfectly still, her body language tight, closed off. But the bruises betrayed everything she wouldn't say.
His gaze fell on her jaw — the discolored skin now a deep blue, bordered by fading violet. The guilt hit him again, this time sharper.
Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his hand.
"Meera…"
His voice was lower than a whisper.
He reached out, brushing her jaw with the back of his knuckles, ever so lightly — like if he touched too hard, she might break.
The moment his fingers grazed the bruise, she flinched.
Not violently — just enough.
Her head turned, and for the first time since they'd boarded, their eyes met.
His throat tightened.
There was no anger in her eyes.
No hatred.
Just… a hollow space where her trust had once lived.
"I didn't…" he started, but his words died in his throat.
She kept looking at him — her expression unreadable.
"You said it yourself," she whispered finally, her voice hoarse.
"I'm just a reminder of your hate."
He swallowed hard.
"That's not—"
"I flinched when you touched me," she interrupted softly. "That should be enough of a reminder for both of us."
And just like that, she turned back to the window.
Leaving him holding the weight of his own silence.
And the sting of her words.
He didn't try to touch her again.
Not this time
So he exhaled sharply, stood up, and walked away — leaving her in that seat, in that silence…
that she never asked for,
but he created.