The door to the bathroom creaked open minutes later, steam rolling out gently, but the man who stepped out of it was anything but calm.
Abhimanyu, now in a simple black t-shirt and track pants, ran a towel through his hair as he walked back into the room, only to freeze at the sight in front of him.
There she was.
Meera.
Still in the same wedding saree, draped heavily around her like a suffocating reminder of what the day had brought. Her body was curled up tightly on the edge of the couch, her back slightly exposed through the deep cut of her blouse. But it wasn't her posture that made his stomach twist—it was the soft, unmistakable sound of her shaking.
She was crying.
Not the pretty, delicate kind of crying he was used to seeing women do in front of him to manipulate or earn sympathy.
No, this was something raw. Quiet. Guttural. A kind of pain that wasn't just emotional—it was physical.
Her shoulders trembled with the effort of keeping herself together. Her breathing was choked, uneven. A tiny muffled sob escaped her lips. Then another. Then another.
Abhimanyu's grip on the towel tightened.
His eyes lingered on her back, on how small and breakable she looked, and something—somewhere deep, too deep—stirred inside him. A strange ache, masked instantly by fury.
He couldn't handle it.
Not this.
Not her tears. Not her silence. Not the way her pain invaded his skin like a virus.
He turned around sharply, walked to the door, and yanked it open.
The door slammed shut behind him with a force that echoed down the long marble hallway.
But the moment the echo faded—
Meera shattered.
She let out a sound. A low, strangled sob that tore through the air. Her body folded even tighter, as if trying to disappear into itself. The couch beneath her trembled slightly as her hands covered her mouth and her cries came harder, faster, unrelenting.
She cried for her father.
For the Haveli.
For her shattered dignity.
For this terrifying stranger she now had to call her husband.
For herself—because even her own voice no longer comforted her.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time lost all shape.
And somewhere between two broken sobs and three fractured breaths, her vision dimmed. Her head fell heavier against the cushion. Her palms slackened from her face. Her body went limp.
The fatigue, the grief, the dehydration, the emotional hemorrhage—all of it took its toll.
Meera passed out.
Still in her wedding attire, still clutching the edges of the couch.
And the room once again fell into silence.
A silence far too loud for what had just unfolded inside it.
It was close to four in the morning when Abhimanyu finally returned to the room.
The palace corridors were asleep—only the guards and chandeliers remained awake, casting tall shadows on the marble floors.
His steps were light, measured, as though the weight of the day had crept into his limbs. He had spent the entire evening and night finalizing business contracts, scheduling funding pipelines, and speaking with Daksha over secure calls about shifting operations closer to Rajasthan.
But none of it held his focus the way the quiet guilt in his chest did.
He unlocked the door with a silent twist of the knob and entered. The room was dimly lit by the wall sconce above the bookshelf.
His eyes immediately fell on her.
Meera.
Still in her wedding saree.
Still curled up on the couch like she had frozen in the same moment he had left.
Her bangle-adorned hands were folded under her head as a makeshift pillow. The intricate gold work on her dupatta shimmered faintly under the light, and her feet, bare and delicate, peeked out from beneath the fabric. Her breathing was soft now, rhythmically slow—but not peaceful. Even in sleep, her body looked strained. Her brows were faintly furrowed.
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched as something foreign twisted in his chest.
Why hadn't she changed?
He had assumed Dhrithi or someone would've come up to check on her. But clearly, Meera hadn't moved. She must've passed out shortly after he left.
His eyes scanned the room and landed on the bed—his bed. The mattress looked untouched, the pillows still neat.
He glanced back at the couch.
She was so unbelievably uncomfortable.
The cushion was too firm. Her posture too rigid. She was going to wake up sore, dizzy, possibly worse. A girl who had barely eaten, barely drunk water, had cried herself unconscious—and he'd left her like this.
He wanted to scoop her up. Take her to the bed. Cover her. Let her sleep like a human being and not like a discarded object.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Because if he did that—if he even tried—he would break the one rule he had promised himself.
No softness for Meera Singhania.
Because she was the daughter of the man who had his parents' blood on his hands. Because she was the heir to the Haveli where his family's tragedy had taken root. Because this girl—this innocent-looking girl—was a living reminder of everything he had lost.
He stepped toward the bed, but then paused.
Looking at her like this… it wasn't satisfying.
It wasn't revenge. It wasn't justice. It wasn't peace.
It was cruelty.
He turned away from the couch and went to the single-seater chair in the corner of the room. He sat down, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The clock ticked behind him, filling the air with time he couldn't seem to escape.
His mind wouldn't rest.
He had married her. Taken everything. Her name, her home, her dignity—stolen it all in one stroke.
And now?
Now she was here in his room like a broken doll, too exhausted to speak, too shattered to resist.
He should've been proud.
Isn't this what you wanted, Abhimanyu?
To make her suffer?
To make the Singhania name bleed?
To crush the last thing they left behind?
And yet…
That small, irrational voice inside him kept whispering:
She didn't do anything to you.
But louder than that was the voice of grief and vengeance:
"She bears the name."
"She gets the punishment."
His fingers raked through his hair as he leaned back in the chair, his eyes drifting back to her sleeping form.
He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.
Not because of her crying. Not because of the guilt.
But because for the first time in years, he was afraid.
Afraid…
That Meera Singhania might not survive his hatred.
And even worse—
That he might not survive what she made him feel.