It was just past noon when Meera heard the knock on the door.
She didn't move at first. She rarely did anymore. People had come and gone — delivery men, neighbors, even her landlord. She never opened the door. But something about this knock was different.
Firm. Graceful. Familiar in a way she couldn't place.
With heavy limbs and hollowed breath, Meera dragged herself toward the door and opened it slightly — only to freeze.
Standing outside, wrapped in an elegant cream shawl, was Rajeshwari Rathod, the Queen of Devigarh. Ranisa. The matriarch of the Rathod royal house. Abhimanyu's aunt. Daksh's mother.
The last person Meera expected in Finland.
Her lips parted in disbelief, the faintest whisper escaping: "Ranisa…"
Rajeshwari didn't speak right away. Her eyes scanned Meera's face, then dropped slowly to her frame — the once vibrant girl now nothing more than skin stretched over heartbreak. She looked at the way Meera was dressed — a thin cardigan hanging off her frail shoulders, her hair uncombed, eyes red.
A tear escaped the regal woman's eye. Just one. But Meera saw it.
Rajeshwari stepped in without asking for permission — the same grace and authority she carried back home trailing behind her, though softer now. Her presence filled the room like a mother's embrace and a monarch's storm.
"I came here for a trade convention," she said softly, placing her clutch on the table. "But I couldn't leave this city without seeing you."
Meera tried to speak — anything, but her throat burned. She lowered her gaze and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed. Broken.
"I heard nothing from you," Ranisa continued. "Not even a whisper. So I asked Rizwan."
Of course. He would tell her. Meera didn't blame him.
"Come," Ranisa said gently, guiding her to the couch. "Sit with me."
Meera obeyed, like a daughter too tired to rebel.
And as they sat side by side, the silence between them heavier than snow, Meera finally spoke — voice cracking.
"I don't know how to live without him."
Rajeshwari didn't flinch. "Then why are you trying to?"
And for the first time in weeks, Meera looked someone in the eye — and cried.
Meera wiped her tears, but they kept falling. She was too weak to hide them anymore.
Rajeshwari sat beside her, not offering platitudes, not pretending to understand heartbreak like some empty queen in a polished shell. She just sat there as a mother, a witness, and then… she spoke.
"Abhimanyu's life has been many things," she began, her voice low, steady. "But easy? Never."
Meera didn't react — not right away. Her hands were trembling. Rajeshwari reached for one of them.
"You know his parents were murdered in front of him, don't you?"
Meera nodded faintly. She'd heard pieces. But Abhimanyu never truly opened up.
"The boy who came to my palace after that wasn't a prince. He was fire in human form. The only thing that kept him alive was vengeance. Not legacy. Not ambition. Just… vengeance."
Meera looked down, lips trembling.
"And the man responsible for his pain…" Rajeshwari paused, the weight of what she was about to say settling deep in the room. "Was your father."
The silence dropped like a blade.
felt the breath leave her body. She looked at Rajeshwari with a mixture of shock, fear, guilt — and something deeper.
"He married you," Rajeshwari said softly, "not out of love, not in the beginning. It was revenge. He wanted to hurt the man who took everything from him — by taking you."
Meera covered her mouth. A choked sob escaped her throat.
"But in doing so… he lost his heart."
She looked at Meera with a strange pride. "He fell in love. Deeply. Desperately. Recklessly. With the woman he was supposed to use."
Meera closed her eyes tightly. "Then why did he say those things to me? Why did he say he can never love me?"
"Because he can't forgive himself," Rajeshwari said. "Loving you feels like a betrayal to his parents. It's not about you, Meera. It's about what you represent."
Mira sat there, every wound now bleeding again.
Rajeshwari gently held her hand again. "You left. But he never came home either."
"What?" Meera whispered.
"Since London, he hasn't stepped inside the palace. He hasn't slept in his own bed. He's been on missions — one after the other. The maharaja of shadows, burying himself in blood and silence. Not because he wants to. Because he can't bear to stop. Not while you're gone."
Meera was still shaking when Rajeshwari added quietly, "If you had looked closely… you'd have seen them."
"Who?" she asked.
"The guards," Rajeshwari said. "The men posted near the lobby, across the road. They look like commoners, students, drivers. But they're mafia. His mafia. Watching your building. Keeping you safe."
Mira's eyes widened.
"They're under one person's orders, Mira. Abhimanyu's. Not Daksh's. Not mine."
And then she broke.
Her sobs this time were different. Not confused. Not heartbroken. Just devastated by the truth — by the war he never spoke of, by the love she never saw blooming under layers of pain and vengeance.
Meera wiped her cheeks and composed herself, though the storm inside hadn't quieted. But when she looked at Rajeshwari, her eyes were no longer just full of pain—they held resolve.
"I understand him," she said softly. "More than he probably knows."
Rajeshwari stayed silent, letting her speak.
"I understand why he's angry. I understand why he's broken. And I even understand why he chose revenge over love," Meera continued, voice trembling yet firm. "But I will not let that destroy my self-respect."
Rajeshwari looked at her—there was no bitterness in Meera's tone. Only clarity.
"That's the only reason I'm here today," Mira said. "I didn't come to Finland to run away from him. I came here to protect what's left of me."
She stood up, wiping her face with the sleeve of her cardigan. "If he wants me… if he needs me that much… then he knows where to find me. And he knows what he has to say."
Rajeshwari's lips parted, but Mira gently held up a hand.
"I won't return to the palace unless he comes to me himself. Unless he looks me in the eye and tells me I'm not a mistake. That I'm his wife. That I matter."
A beat passed. Then she took a breath and said with respect, "And with all due reverence, Rani Sa… I think you shouldn't be here either. You're a queen. You have a kingdom to look after. You have duties far more important than visiting a girl your nephew threw away."
There was no sarcasm—just honest, unfiltered dignity.
"You're wasting your time here. And I know you don't have a lot of it to waste."
Rajeshwari's eyes filled with emotion—pride, admiration, a tinge of guilt.
Meera gave her a small, respectful nod and turned away. For the first time in a month, her spine was straight.
She was still broken. Still bleeding. But no longer begging.
As soon as the door shut behind Rajeshwari, Mira stood frozen in place.
The silence in the room felt louder than ever before.
Her breaths came sharp. Too sharp. Her chest tightened. Her eyes burned.
And then—it broke.
She collapsed to the floor, like her legs could no longer hold up the weight of pretending to be strong.
Sobs racked through her—raw, aching, uncontrollable. She clutched at her cardigan, her nails digging into her arms as if trying to hold herself together.
But there was no holding back this time.
She wept for the boy who couldn't love her.
She wept for the girl who had.
She wept for the shattered dream, the empty promises, the unbearable silence that followed his rejection.
Her cries echoed through the quiet apartment, curling into the corners of the room like ghosts of everything she had tried to bury.
She had been so strong. So dignified.
But now… now she was just Meera again.
The Meera who loved Abhimanyu.
The Meera he didn't choose.