Meera didn't realize when the first drink disappeared.
Or the second.
The crystal glass trembled slightly in her hand, catching slivers of golden light as the jazz quartet in the corner swelled into something hollow and faraway.
Rizwan, loyal and concerned, leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Meera, stop. This isn't the place. You're at his party. With his circle. These people… they notice everything."
She looked at him slowly—almost like she was waking up.
And then she laughed.
A dry, bitter laugh that didn't belong in a place with chandeliers and Champagne.
"Do you know who the fuck I am?" Her voice cut through the noise like a blade wrapped in silk.
Rizwan froze.
"I am a fucking Singhania," she said, stepping closer. Her eyes glittered—anger, pain, pride all bleeding into one. "And now, by name, I am a Rajput. You think I don't belong here?"
"Meera, I didn't mean—"
"I chose this life, Rizwan," she snapped. "I chose to walk away from boardrooms and inheritance and headlines. But if I go back? I don't just belong in this room—I own it. I was born elite. So don't you ever tell me again that I don't belong."
She downed the rest of the amber liquid in one clean, burning gulp—head tilted back, unflinching.
The glass hit the bar top with a decisive thud.
Silence, for a beat.
Then she turned, heels clicking fast, anger pulsing through every step as she stormed out of the grand hall, past men in silk ties and women in diamonds who didn't dare stop her.
Outside, her car stood waiting at the curb—driver alert, door open.
She waved him off with one irritated flick of her wrist.
"No."
And just like that, in a midnight-blue satin gown and heels made for red carpets, Meera walked down the cobbled driveway like she was fleeing a kingdom that had never been hers to begin with.
Rizwan was at her heels, calling her name, begging her to wait.
She stopped for a second.
Turned.
And shoved him—hard.
"Leave me the fuck alone, Rizwan," she hissed, eyes glistening now. "Just… leave me alone tonight."
And with that, she walked into the night—wounded, beautiful, raging quietly against a man who refused to look at her and a world that once begged for her.
————————————————————
ABHIMANYU
The ice in Abhimanyu Rajput's glass had begun to melt. He swirled it slowly, eyes fixed ahead—but he hadn't heard a word Ashborn's daughter had said in the last three minutes.
He was too aware of her presence.
Or rather, her absence.
Meera.
She'd been standing at the bar just moments ago—wearing a stormy expression and that damn dress that made her look like temptation bottled in satin. She had looked at him like she wanted answers.
And he had given her nothing.
A refusal to acknowledge. A girl on his arm. A smirk he didn't feel. Anything but the truth.
He lifted his drink again—but before it could touch his lips, Rizwan appeared beside him, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and panic in his voice.
"She's gone."
Abhimanyu didn't move.
"She left the party," Rizwan continued, not waiting for permission. "Just walked out. Refused the car. She's on foot, alone. It's bad out there, Abhimanyu sir, Cameras. Press. It's London, not a safe corner of Udaipur."
Abhimanyu's fingers tightened around his glass.
"She was drinking," Rizwan added, more hesitant now. "A lot. I tried to stop her. But… you hurt her. Bad."
Silence.
Then: the glass shattered in Abhimanyu's hand, shards falling onto the tablecloth, blood pooling beneath his fingers—but he didn't flinch.
"She didn't take the car?" he asked, his voice low. Dangerous.
Rizwan shook his head. "She refused it."
Abhimanyu was already on his feet, slipping his phone out, barking at his security team to locate her now—the mask of indifference slipping from his face like it had never been there.
"Find her," he ordered. "Track the street cameras. Call her phone until she answers."
Rizwan blinked. "You're bleeding sir."
Abhimanyu glanced at his hand like it didn't matter. "If a single picture of her crying ends up in the tabloids, I'll bury this fucking city."
And just like that, the cold, controlled partner of Ashborn—the man who hadn't even shaken Meera's hand—threw his blazer on and stormed out of the hall.
Leaving behind everything that glittered.
To find the only thing that mattered.
————————————————————
The windshield wipers were working overtime, but they couldn't match the urgency in Abhimanyu Rajput's pulse. The sky above London had burst open without warning, thunder crashing like it shared his fury.
His phone lit up. A message from one of his men.
"Regent's Park. Bench. She's alone."
He didn't wait. "Faster," he barked at the driver, eyes fixed on the flood-drenched streets. "I don't care if it's illegal. Just get me there."
By the time the car screeched to a halt in front of the park gates, the rain was falling like judgment.
And there she was.
Sitting alone on a soaked wooden bench, her arms wrapped around herself. Her hair, once perfect, now clung to her face like trembling vines. The nude satin dress she had worn for the gala clung to her like a second skin — wet, see-through, vulnerable — and yet she sat with the spine of a queen.
Abhimanyu cursed under his breath, flung the door open, and sprinted toward her, shrugging off his blazer mid-run.
She saw him. And stood up instantly.
"Don't you dare touch me," she snapped, stepping back when he tried to drape the blazer around her.
His hand froze mid-air.
"You couldn't even shake my fucking hand in front of those people," she bit out, her voice breaking under the weight of unshed tears. "Now suddenly I matter again?"
But he wasn't in the mood to let her freeze in the damn rain out of pride. He moved closer. "Meera, just shut up and sit in the car—"
"I'm none of your business," she hissed, stepping back again, drenched, shivering. "Go back to your beautiful parties. And your beautiful girls. You seemed more interested in them anyway."
He gritted his teeth. "I saw the interview."
She froze. Just for a second. But it was enough.
"I saw the calm man," he said, voice low. "The one you flirted with. The one you touched. The one you let lean in close."
She swallowed, hard. Her voice cracked. "I did it to trigger you," she said, her chin trembling. "Because you triggered me."
His jaw tightened. "What the fuck do you think I did tonight?"
And for a beat, the storm around them was no match for the storm between them.
Then she looked away. Her shoulders drooped. "You humiliated me," she whispered. "You… you broke me in a place I didn't even know I could still break. You looked through me like I was nothing. Like we never mattered."
His eyes burned, watching the tears slip down her rain-slick cheeks. He took a step closer.
But she turned away again.
Abhimanyu exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his wet hair.
"It's raining," he said, voice calmer now. "Get in the car."
"No," she said, lips trembling. "I'll walk."
And then she began to.
He was done with this.
Before she could take three steps, he caught her wrist, spun her around, and without another word, bent down and threw her over his shoulder.
"Abhimanyu!" she shrieked, kicking. "Put me down!"
He ignored her.
Then, as if to make a point, he slapped her ass—just once, sharp and fast—eliciting a surprised gasp from her.
"You're being a stubborn brat," he muttered as he walked, blazer still dangling from his other hand. "You can yell at me all you want inside the fucking car. But out here, you're mine to protect."
He opened the door, plopped her into the leather seat—still fuming—and slammed it shut before circling to the other side.
The car sped off into the storm.
Silence inside. Except for the sound of her soft sobs… and his heart still beating like war drums.