The moment Abhimanyu stepped out of the airport, his chest began to tighten.
He hated the way he had spoken to her. The words tasted like ash in his mouth now, but in that moment, his anger had taken over—rage at her independence, her defiance, her ability to walk away from him without even looking back.
And maybe… rage at himself.
The car ride back to the palace was silent. His guards knew better than to speak. The temperature in the vehicle was colder than the Rajasthan wind.
But it wasn't until he stepped into his office that the storm truly broke.
With a loud crash, the crystal paperweight on his desk flew across the room. His laptop followed. Glass shattered, wood cracked. Chairs overturned.
His secretary flinched outside the door but didn't dare enter.
He stood there, chest heaving, hands shaking. What the hell is happening to me?
All he could see was her. Her face, pale and weak. Her eyes, rimmed red. The way she looked at him like he was the last person she wanted to fear but still did.
And worse—she didn't even fight back.
That destroyed him more than anything.
He sank into the leather chair, gripping his temples. His breath was ragged.
"She looked sick," he whispered to himself. "What did I just do?"
A minute later, he grabbed his phone and pressed speed dial.
"Yes, sir?" his secretary answered instantly, cautiously.
"Reschedule the Milan hotel summit," he said, his voice cold, low, but trembling underneath. "I don't care how. I want it on my desk by morning. I'm flying to Milan tomorrow."
"But sir, that meeting was—"
"I SAID reschedule it." He gritted his teeth. "Book the goddamn flight. I don't care which airline. First class. Private. Charter a jet if needed. Tomorrow morning. No delays."
"Yes, sir," she said quickly, typing as fast as she could.
He ended the call and stared out the giant glass window of his office. The sun was setting over the dunes.
But the only thing clouding his mind was her.
Meera.
The one woman he'd sworn to break.
And yet, the only one he couldn't stay away from.
MEERA
The city of Milan was cloaked in a silken midnight mist as the private car rolled up to the grand hotel.
Meera leaned against the chilled windowpane, her body wracked with fever. 102 degrees. Her temples pulsed, and every breath burned. But her eyes—dimmed, yes—but not defeated.
She had made a promise. And she never broke her promises.
Her manager hovered nervously beside her, watching her like she might collapse at any moment. "Meera, please," he urged, as the hotel staff helped them with the luggage. "You need to cancel this. One call, that's all—"
"No." Her voice was hoarse but unyielding. "Get me the painkillers. And a strong coffee. I'll take a hot bath and be ready for rehearsal in the morning."
"Meera, you're burning up. You need a hospital—"
"I said no." She met his gaze for a second, fierce even in her fragility. "Do not ask me again."
The manager sighed, defeated, and nodded before walking off to fetch what she asked.
Meera sat down slowly on the edge of the grand bed in her suite. Her bones ached. Her skin was cold, despite the raging heat inside her body. But all she could think of was the ramp, the lights, the cameras—and proving to herself that she wasn't weak.
That she was still herself.
Her suitcase lay open, and she began picking through it. Every movement felt heavy, but she kept going. She wouldn't let this break her.
Not after what he said.
She pressed a hand to her chest as the memory of Abhimanyu's words replayed—his voice laced with ice, his eyes void of warmth. The way he told her she wasn't even allowed to be his wife in name.
But she wouldn't let his cruelty define her.
Not now.
Not ever.
She looked in the mirror—face pale, eyes hollow, but her jaw was set.
"You made this choice, Meera. Now walk through it like fire."
The morning in Milan was cloaked in a sharp, biting cold. The skies were overcast, the air thick with fog, and the chill pierced through coats and gloves like knives.
Meera stepped out of the hotel in an oversized woollen jacket, her sunglasses hiding the dull red in her eyes, her lips pale but set with determination. She was burning from within, her fever still high, but no one could tell.
She wouldn't let them.
Inside the fashion house's private conference lounge, the funders and coordinators sat lined up at the sleek white table. Her manager sat beside her, tense and frustrated, still trying to get her to listen. But she remained focused, calm—even when her hands trembled under the table.
The lead coordinator opened a presentation and said, "Since the Milan Fashion Week's theme this year is 'Frozen Silence,' the showstopper shoot will happen tomorrow. Full ice theme. We've secured one of the frozen lakes outside the city. You'll be in couture—silver, sheer, sharp silhouettes. We need power, resilience, and pain in the eyes, Meera. You embody all three."
The room went silent for a beat.
Her manager immediately leaned forward. "She's sick. Running a 102-degree fever. I'm sorry, but this is not healthy. She can't pose half-naked in sub-zero temperatures—"
Meera raised her hand gently, cutting him off.
"I'll do it," she said, looking directly at the sponsors. Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn't flinch. "Send me the concept board. I'll be ready."
"Meera—" her manager started again, but she shook her head. Once.
"Do you think pain isn't beautiful?" she asked softly. "I'll make it look like art."
The funders exchanged glances—half impressed, half stunned.
One of them smiled. "This is why we chose you. You don't just wear the crown. You bleed with it on."
As the meeting wrapped up, Meera stood slowly, her body aching. Every step felt like walking through mud, but she held her head high. She was the showstopper. She had to shine, even if it broke her.
And it was already breaking her.
ABHIMANYU
The sun had long set over Milan, painting the cobblestone streets in shades of orange and gold as the car rolled past the Duomo. Inside the sleek black SUV, Abhimanyu Rajput sat in silence—his jaw clenched, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. His phone buzzed with messages, emails, updates, but he didn't care.
The only thing on his mind was her.
Meera.
As they pulled up in front of his private villa on the edge of the city—modern, glass-walled, overlooking the distant Alps—he finally broke the silence. "Get me her full itinerary," he said sharply to his secretary seated beside him. "The ramp schedule, the rehearsals, the shoot. Everything."
"Yes, sir. We've already secured the full rundown from her manager's office," she replied, handing over the tablet. "The main shoot is tomorrow morning. They've planned it outside, near Lake Tretino. She's scheduled to shoot in open couture wear, in the snow."
He said nothing, but the way his eyes narrowed was enough.
"And sir…" The secretary hesitated. "The security team we planted around her—without her knowledge—has been updating us. Ms. Meera is… not doing well."
Abhimanyu stilled. His gaze locked onto her.
"She's running a fever. Over 102, possibly more. She's not eaten much since the flight. Her manager tried to cancel, but she refused. She's forcing herself through everything—press, sponsors, fittings. She even refused heated accommodations for tomorrow's shoot."
His hand tightened around the tablet.
"She'll collapse before she even reaches the ramp," the secretary finished carefully.
Abhimanyu's eyes darkened.
His voice was low, but lethal. "I told her to return. I warned her. She chose to defy me…"
He didn't finish that sentence. Because no matter how much venom he tried to lace into those words, the pit in his chest only grew heavier.
She was sick. Burning with fever. Dressed in ice and snow, trying to prove herself to a world that didn't care. And he—he was here to punish her?
He leaned back, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to silence the storm inside him.
But it was already too late for that.
"Keep the doctor on standby," he muttered. "I'll decide what to do after I see her."
And as the villa doors opened, and the Milan night chilled the air around him, all he could think about was how fragile she looked the last time he saw her.
And how much more fragile she must look now.