Meera stepped inside the glass-walled office—silent, but not hesitant. Her arms still slightly wrapped around herself from the cold, but her eyes firm. Focused.
Abhimanyu didn't stand up. He didn't soften.
His gaze snapped to hers like a whip.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, voice low but biting.
She didn't blink.
"I'm your wife. Don't I have the right to be here?"
His laugh was dry. Bitter.
"You have zero right over me, Meera. That should've been clear after yesterday." He stood now, slowly, his presence looming as he walked around the desk. "Whatever happened between us… was a mistake. A lapse."
He paused. Looked at her like she was a problem that refused to be solved.
"If you want to keep doing that," he gestured vaguely, sharply, "I'm fine with it. But keep your heart out of it. I'm not interested."
Meera's breath shook, but her voice didn't.
"For you, it might have been a mistake," she said, holding his eyes, "but not for me. I love you, Abhimanyu. And I'm going to make you fall in love with me too. That's my decision."
Something snapped.
In one swift move, he closed the distance between them—too fast, too sudden. His hand wrapped around her arm, tight enough to make her flinch.
But then—he froze.
Her skin was freezing. Her arms, her wrist—ice-cold to the touch.
He let go abruptly, fury flashing in his face—not at her, but something deeper. Something he didn't know how to name. He ran a hand through his hair roughly, stepping back.
And then he collapsed onto his leather chair behind the desk, palms dragging over his face in frustration.
"What do you want from me?" he muttered, his voice cracking faintly at the edges. "Why are you doing this? Please, Meera… leave me alone. I'm not someone who wants love. Especially not—"
He stopped himself.
But Meera stepped forward.
"Especially not from a person like me?" she asked quietly.
And then louder. "Really? So I'm only good in your bed, but not in your heart?"
The sharp slam of his hand on the desk made the pens and papers jump.
"Don't. Don't you dare raise my fucking temper, Meera," he said, voice dangerous. "Leave before I say or do something I'll regret."
But she didn't move.
And neither did he.
Abhimanyu's breathing was uneven now. His jaw flexed. Hands clenched.
But Meera didn't step back.
"If you think I'll walk away just because you scare me… then try me," she said softly, lifting her chin. "I'm ready to face whatever you've got."
Something feral flickered in his eyes.
He moved.
Slow, deliberate, controlled fury.
In a heartbeat, he was in front of her—his tall frame towering over hers. He slammed his hand against the wall beside her face, the sound reverberating through the room like thunder.
His voice was a growl. Low. Deadly.
"Get the fuck out of my office."
But Meera didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
She looked him dead in the eye and said, with steel in her voice—
"No."
Then, slower—"Try me."
The tension between them coiled tighter than ever. Electricity buzzed between inches of air. Her defiance was gasoline, and his fury was already ablaze.
His jaw clenched. Something in him snapped.
He grabbed her wrist—not cruel, but desperate—and pulled her into him, slamming his lips onto hers. It wasn't soft. It wasn't romantic. It was a storm. A violent, messy collision of every word they'd never said. A claim, a warning, a cry for help all at once.
She gasped into him, but didn't pull away.
Instead, she pushed back just as hard. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her lips matching his urgency, her defiance fueling the fire between them.
But then she tasted it—metallic, sharp.
He'd bitten her lip.
Blood.
And still, neither of them pulled away.
The moment teetered on a dangerous edge — not because of what they were doing, but because of what they weren't saying.
He pulled away just for a second, his forehead pressing to hers, both of them breathless.
"I don't do hearts," he muttered.
"You've already broken mine," she replied.
Silence.
And then, without a word, he lifted her — not gently, not harshly — with the desperation of someone who didn't want to feel but couldn't stop needing.
As he carried her toward the far side of the room, toward the leather couch tucked into the shadows, the office lights glinted off the storm outside — but neither of them noticed.
————————————————————
The silence that followed was thick — not awkward, but weighty. A storm had passed between them, and what remained was stillness. Raw, stripped silence.
Abhimanyu had pulled on only his pants, his back turned to her as he stood by the open window, lighting a cigarette with slow, practiced fingers. The soft click of the lighter echoed too loudly in the aftermath. The smoke curled around him, escaping into the chilled evening air.
From the couch, Meera watched him — sheets tangled around her, skin still flushed, but it wasn't desire she felt anymore.
It was something else entirely.
The light from the moon caught on something near his shoulder blade — jagged, pale.
A scar.
She slowly got up, wrapping the soft grey blanket around herself. Barefoot and quiet, she approached him. He didn't turn around, but his posture tensed when he felt her behind him.
Her fingers reached out, tentative but certain, tracing the scar just below his shoulder. He flinched at her touch but didn't move away.
"What… is this?" she asked softly, her voice barely louder than the breeze.
He exhaled a long drag, then replied without looking back, "My first mafia deal. I was nineteen. It was supposed to be clean. It wasn't."
He took another drag. "Got shot while trying to cover our exit. Didn't tell Daksh bhai till the bullet was already out."
She didn't say anything. Her fingers slowly followed the line of the scar — not out of curiosity, but reverence. As if memorizing the price he had paid.
Then she noticed another scar, lower — near the base of his spine. Thicker. Angrier.
"And this?" she asked, her voice even softer.
He paused.
"That one," he said, tapping the ash into the tray, "That one I'm proud of."
He turned to face her — not fully, but enough for the smoke to frame his sharp profile.
"Twelve years ago, Daksh Bhai was supposed to die in that warehouse. A knife to the back. I took it instead."
He let out a bitter chuckle. "He was yelling at me even while I was bleeding out. Said only an idiot would risk their life for a king who didn't want to be saved."
Meera didn't smile. She didn't tease.
She simply stepped closer.
Her hand came up to that lower scar again, her palm flat, feeling the raised skin against her warmth.
"You were just a boy," she whispered.
"I was what the family needed me to be," he said quietly. "No space for being a boy."
His eyes finally met hers — cold, unreadable, but something in them wavered for a split second.
And for the first time, Meera didn't feel sorry for him.
She felt proud.
Proud to know this side of him.
"You're more than you pretend to be, Abhimanyu Rajput," she said, her thumb brushing that scar like a silent vow.
He didn't answer. Didn't smirk. Didn't push her away.
He just looked at her.
But then in a snap The tension in his shoulders had returned, as if everything she touched — even his scars — had gotten too close.
"I have a flight to catch," he said flatly, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Leaving for the US tonight."
Meera gave a soft, ironic smile to herself. He was always like this — cold the moment vulnerability slipped through. His walls were rebuilt within seconds.
"I'll be leaving for Bombay day after tomorrow," she said, her voice steady, "and then straight to London. I'll be staying there for two weeks for the Fashion Week and campaign shoots."
That made him turn.
His eyes snapped to hers. "Two weeks?" he repeated, tone sharp. "Out of the country? Without protection?"
Meera blinked. "Why do you care?"
His jaw tightened.
"You told me yourself," she continued, "that this marriage doesn't exist for the world. So why would your guards trail behind me like I'm royalty?"
He stepped forward, slow and menacing.
"Don't test me, Meera. Just because I haven't announced you to the world doesn't mean you aren't mine."
His voice dropped. "And you don't have the faintest idea what kind of people I deal with."
"Oh, so now suddenly I'm your wife again?" Her tone cracked, frustration rising. "Only when it suits your ego?"
"You think this is about ego?" he snapped. "This is about survival. My world is not red carpets and designer heels. It's blood and power. If word gets out — and it will — that I have a wife walking around unguarded in London…"
He stopped, eyes boring into hers. "I won't risk that."
Her nostrils flared as she crossed her arms. "And what if I say I don't want Tanvi or anyone following me around like I'm in some gilded cage?"
He stared at her for a long second. "Then if I hear — even once — that you left your security behind, Meera…"
He stepped even closer, his voice lowering into a dangerous whisper.
"I will come to London myself. And believe me, you won't like how that ends."
Her breath caught. Not out of fear — but out of rage. And maybe, somewhere underneath it all, something else.
Challenge.
But she didn't back down. "Then maybe it's time you decide what I really am to you — a burden? Or someone you can't afford to lose?"
They stood like that — inches apart, heat rising between them like sparks over gunpowder.
Meera stared at him, jaw clenched, fury brimming beneath her skin.
"You don't get to order me around," she snapped. "Not when you treat me like I don't even exist outside these walls."
Abhimanyu remained unbothered. Cold. Composed.
"And yet, you do exist. As my wife. Which means I decide how and where you go. And you're not going anywhere without protection. Period."
"Fine!" she burst, throwing her hands up. "You want guards? You want Tanvi glued to me like a shadow? You got it. I'll do it—because God forbid I give you another reason to yell at me!"
She stormed toward the door, snatching her handbag, turning back only once to hiss, "I don't even know what the hell this is between us anymore."
He didn't reply. Just watched her with that unreadable gaze as she slammed the door behind her.
A moment later, he picked up his intercom.
"Tanvi," he said coolly, "I want two security teams prepped. They'll follow Meera everywhere for the next two weeks. You will personally accompany her."
"Yes, sir," Tanvi replied. Then after a pause, her voice softer, more curious, "Sir, you'll be back from the US in three days. Are you… going to London after that?"
Abhimanyu didn't respond immediately. His eyes flickered to the large glass window, jaw tight, mind racing.
"No," he said finally. Firm. Final.
But his voice wasn't as certain as his words.