Absolutely! Here's your next scene — charged with tension, tenderness, and a moment of reluctant vulnerability between Meera and Abhimanyu:
Scene: Abhimanyu's Room – Late Night
The heavy oak door creaks open as Meera walks in. She's fresh from the garden, cheeks a little flushed from the cool air and the laughter. The room, dimly lit, smells faintly of sandalwood and the sharp, metallic trace of antiseptic.
Abhimanyu stands near the mirror, shirt halfway off, back slightly arched as he tries to change the dressing on the side of his waist — the wound from the US. His muscles are taut, fingers fumbling.
Meera, softly:
"Tum… zakhmi ho?"
Startled, Abhimanyu jerks slightly, wincing.
"Tch… Why don't you learn to knock?"
Meera blinks, flustered. She'd stepped in without thinking.
"I–I thought you weren't here."
Just then, she sneezes, loud and sudden.
Abhimanyu, annoyed and defensive:
"Perfect. Just what I need. A sick nurse."
He turns away, trying to fix the bandage himself again, groaning under his breath.
Meera, taking a slow step forward:
"Let me help."
Abhimanyu, gruffly:
"No."
Meera, firmer now:
"Stop being stubborn, Abhimanyu. You're bleeding through it."
Abhimanyu, voice rising:
"I said no, Meera!"
Silence. Her eyes flicker — not with fear, but a quiet, icy defiance. She walks to the drawer, opens the medical kit, and sets it on the bed. Without waiting for permission, she grabs the antiseptic and the gauze.
Abhimanyu watches her, teeth clenched. But he doesn't stop her. Just looks away, jaw tight.
She kneels on the bed beside him, slowly tugging the gauze free. The wound isn't deep — but angry, red, and raw. She hisses softly under her breath.
Meera, gently:
"Kya zarurat thi is sab ki? Tum India mein hi deal kar lete."
Abhimanyu, not meeting her eyes:
"Kaam tha."
Meera, carefully dabbing antiseptic:
"Kaam ya bhagna?"
That makes him glance down at her. Their eyes meet. Something unreadable flashes between them — guilt, regret, maybe even longing.
He doesn't answer.
Meera, voice softening:
"You don't have to pretend with me, Abhimanyu. Mujhe dikh raha hai… kitna dard ho raha hai tumhe."
Abhimanyu, murmurs, almost reluctant:
"Main dard seh sakta hoon."
She doesn't respond. She finishes dressing his wound with quiet precision. Her fingers graze his skin just once, and he freezes for a second. Her proximity, the scent of her hair — it's all too familiar, too magnetic.
When she finally ties the gauze, she speaks again, but this time softly, like a whisper.
Meera (softly):
"Main chali jaoon?"
Abhimanyu, voice rough, tired — yet distant:
"No. Stay."
Her eyes lift, a faint flicker of hope glinting in them.
But then, without looking at her, his next words come like ice.
Abhimanyu:
"Medical kit rakh do… and then leave."
It lands harder than a slap.
Meera stills.
She says nothing — not a word, not a breath. Her fingers tremble as she sets the medical kit down quietly on the bedside table. Her expression barely changes, but her eyes betray her — disappointment, hurt, confusion.
She straightens up, adjusts the dupatta around her shoulder with quiet dignity.
Meera (softly, more to herself than him):
"Thik hai."
And she walks out.
The door clicks shut behind her, echoing in the silence.
Abhimanyu stares at the floor.
He exhales — slowly, shakily — and presses a palm over the clean bandage, guilt rising like bile in his throat.
_________________________________________
The grand room glows gently in the moonlight, shadows curling along the ornate furniture. Dhriti is fast asleep on one side of the bed, her breathing soft and steady, a half-finished novel lying open on her chest.
The door creaks open slowly.
Meera walks in, quiet and slow. Her steps are soft, careful not to wake Dhriti. She looks tired—physically worn, emotionally frayed—but there's a quiet storm building in her gaze.
She takes a long glance at Dhriti, then walks across the room to the large arched window. The drapes flutter faintly in the breeze. She sits by the window, curling her legs up beneath her, her forehead resting on the glass for a moment.
The coldness of the windowpane matches the chill inside her.
She thinks of Abhimanyu—his dismissiveness, the raw wound on his body, the way he ordered her to leave after letting her touch that vulnerability for a moment. The silence he surrounds himself with. The fortress of pride he lives behind.
And yet… the fact that he came to Milan. The fact that he saved her. The fact that he was there, even if he never admitted why.
Her lips tremble.
Meera (whispers, to herself):
"Main itni asaani se haarne waali nahi hoon…"
She straightens up, her eyes blazing now with purpose.
Meera (in a low, firm voice):
"He's my husband. I didn't come here to give up. Whatever this is, cold or broken, I'll fix it. Because if I've taken his name, I won't let it be empty. I'll make him love me—even if I have to break every wall around his heart."
A small tear slides down her cheek—but it doesn't weaken her. It seals her resolve.
Meera (quietly):
"I'm not going anywhere. Yeh rishtey se main bhaagne waalon mein se nahi hoon."
She glances once more at Dhriti, still fast asleep—then leans back against the window frame, her expression unreadable, the desert wind playing with her hair.
Tonight, something inside her has shifted.
She's not just a bride anymore.
She's a fighter.
———————————————————
NEXT MORNING...…
The golden morning sun filters through the sheer curtains, casting long streaks of light across the royal bedroom. Meera walks in quietly, her footsteps echoing slightly on the marble floor.
The room is… empty.
The bed is neatly made. His clothes are gone. The air feels untouched, still.
She stops at the doorway, staring at the space where Abhimanyu had been.
A slight, involuntary sigh escapes her lips. Her hand lingers on the edge of the door as she inhales deeply and steps fully inside.
She sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in her lap.
Meera (softly):
"Woh chala gaya… bina kuch kahe."
There's a pause. Her shoulders drop, not from defeat, but acceptance. And then, with a renewed steadiness in her voice:
Meera (to herself):
"No more waiting. No more hoping he'll make the first move."
She stands up, moving to the dresser, where she adjusts the dupatta over her shoulder. Her reflection stares back—determined eyes, a soft curve of resolve in her mouth.
Meera stands in front of her wardrobe, rows of royal lehengas, embroidered anarkalis, and silk sarees shimmering under the soft lights. But her hand doesn't reach for any of them.
Not today.
She slides the wardrobe door aside and picks out a pair of sleek black trousers and a white satin blouse, modest yet chic, powerful yet graceful. She pairs them with classic black heels—nothing too loud, but enough to click with authority when she walks.
As she stands before the mirror, she ties her hair back in a low ponytail, leaving a few strands to frame her face. Her fingers sweep over a light foundation, a touch of blush, and a soft nude lipstick. Her eyes are lined, but not heavily.
Simple. Strong. Elegant.
And as she looks at her reflection, something inside her shifts. For the first time in a while… she sees herself. Not the bruised girl from Milan. Not the fragile bride under scrutiny. But Meera—the woman who refuses to be defined by silence.
She tilts her head, a soft, appreciative smile touching her lips.
Meera (whispering):
"Abhimanyu Rajput… tumhare office mein aaj tumhari biwi aa rahi hai. Taiyaar rehna."
And with that, she turns around, heels clicking with quiet purpose, her heart set—not on confrontation, but on connection.