The door slams shut behind Meera.
Abhimanyu stands in the middle of the office, fists clenched, chest heaving.
For a moment, he doesn't move.
Then—
He exhales sharply, the weight of what just happened slowly crashing into him.
His eyes drift to the security monitor on the side wall.
A live feed plays from the corridor.
He sees her.
Meera. Sitting on the floor near the lobby corner, half hidden behind a column.
Her back against the wall.
Arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Head buried between her knees.
She's not crying. But that makes it worse.
It's the stillness that punches him in the gut.
He watches in silence.
A long silence.
Then, slowly, he brings his hand up to his mouth, runs it across his jaw, his expression unreadable. But the tension in his throat gives it away.
Abhimanyu (low, to himself):
"What did you do…"
His hand reaches for the desk intercom.
He presses a button.
Abhimanyu (cold but quieter than usual):
"Tanvi. Come in."
A few seconds later, Tanvi appears, cautious.
Abhimanyu (without looking at her):
"She's sitting in the lobby. Bring her back here."
Tanvi (surprised):
"Sir… she looked upset. Should I maybe—"
Abhimanyu (interrupts, firm):
"Bring her back. Now."
Tanvi nods and leaves, unsure.
Abhimanyu turns back to the screen. Meera hasn't moved.
He watches for another second.
His eyes betray something foreign — regret.
He presses his temples with both hands, leans forward onto his desk.
————————————————————
The double glass doors part open.
Meera steps in. Her eyes are downcast. Her steps are hesitant. Her pride is trying to hold her together, but her face gives her away—there's vulnerability in her every breath.
Tanvi silently leads her inside, then looks toward Abhimanyu for further instruction.
He doesn't take his eyes off Meera.
Abhimanyu (quiet, controlled):
"Tanvi… leave us."
Tanvi nods and steps out, closing the door behind her.
A moment of silence.
Meera stands just a few feet away, still not looking at him.
Abhimanyu takes a slow step toward her. Then another.
No arrogance. No command. Just the weight of what he did.
He stops just in front of her—his voice lower than she's ever heard.
Abhimanyu (softly):
"Are you hurt?"
(he hesitates)
"…By what I did?"
That one sentence—the calm of it, the weight of it—undoes her.
Her lips tremble as she tries to form words. But nothing comes.
And then—
She takes one small step forward.
Closes the gap.
And slowly rests her forehead against his chest.
Abhimanyu freezes. His hands hover awkwardly in the air, unsure.
Then they lower slowly, one brushing her arm, the other lightly resting near her back—not possessive, just present.
No words. Just breath. Just stillness.
After a long moment, Meera pulls back, her eyes not meeting his, and without a word, she turns around, walking to the couch and sitting down—quietly trying to compose herself.
Abhimanyu lets her go.
No force. No control.
He simply watches her, standing where she left him, and the guilt only deepens.
————————————————————
Meera sits quietly on the plush leather couch, her fingers laced, pressed tightly together in her lap.
Abhimanyu doesn't move.
He remains standing where she left him, arms folded, expression unreadable—except for the flicker of regret in his eyes.
The room feels full of silence. Full of words they both don't know how to say.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock above ticks mercilessly.
Meera leans her head back slightly, staring at the ceiling. Her chest rises and falls—controlled, but heavy.
Abhimanyu finally walks to his desk, slowly, almost cautiously. He pours himself a glass of water but doesn't drink it.
He doesn't speak.
She doesn't either.
Then—
A knock. Sharp. Precise.
Abhimanyu's jaw clenches.
Voice (from outside the door):
"Sir, urgent call from Rajasthan. It's the palace."
Meera lifts her gaze. Her body tenses subtly.
Abhimanyu doesn't look at her—just sets the glass down.
Abhimanyu (to the door, curt):
"Patch it through to the private line."
He turns slightly to Meera.
Abhimanyu (low voice):
"You'll be safe here. We'll talk… later."
He disappears into his private chamber, leaving Meera once again in that thick, wordless quiet.
She slowly gets up.
Walks to the window.
The city stretches before her. Tall, beautiful, alive—so different from the silence inside her.
Meera (murmurs):
"Mujhse durr bhi rehna hai… par paas bhi toh aate ho na, Abhimanyu."
(You want to stay away from me, but you still come close, don't you?)
She wipes at her cheek—not even realizing she was crying.
Her phone buzzes.
Text from Dhriti:
"Call me when you're free. We need to plan Zara's birthday."
Meera smiles faintly. That pull back to normal life, always right when she's about to fall apart.
She picks up her bag. Looks around the office one last time.
That warmth she had felt, just for a moment, resting her forehead against his chest—was now gone, tucked behind a cold door, and a man who had no idea how to express what he felt.
She whispers to herself as she walks out:
Meera (softly):
"This time, I won't wait for you to make space. I'll build it myself."
She straightens her spine. Lifts her chin. And walks out of the office—not defeated.
————————————————————
ABHIMANYU RAJPUT
The phone call ends. The office falls quiet again.
Abhimanyu turns around.
And for a second—just a second—he expects her to be there. Standing near the glass table. Looking out the window. Arms crossed. Waiting for him.
But the room is empty.
Too empty.
The hush settles heavy, like the calm after a storm. Only this storm had left behind no destruction. Just… absence.
He walks slowly to where she had stood.
His fingers hover mid-air, replaying that moment—that breath between anger and silence—when she leaned forward and rested her forehead lightly on his chest.
It was… nothing.
It was everything.
Something about the way her body had unconsciously sought his—like it was safe there—claws into his mind.
After all these years.
After all the walls.
That one gesture had silenced something sharp inside him. That gesture had made him still.
And now, she was gone.
The hollowness crawls in his chest. Quiet. Cold.
He presses his fingers to the place she had touched.
It's not supposed to matter.
But it does.
He doesn't understand this feeling. Can't name it.
But for the first time in years, someone had leaned on him.
And he hadn't stepped away.
Royal Palace – Afternoon
Meera walks into the palace, the weight of the morning still somewhere in her spine — but the cool marble floors and the familiar scent of roses bring her some strange comfort.
As she turns toward the central lounge, her eyes land on Dhrithi and Isha, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by fabric swatches, catalogues, and two half-eaten bowls of pomegranate seeds.
Dhrithi (excitedly):
"Listen, Isha wants to go all gold for the palace garden soirée, but I think emerald green will slay with the lighting—"
Isha (rolling her eyes):
"Green is for people who need attention. I command it."
Meera (smiling softly, walking in):
"Oh god, who let you two run a kingdom of sequins and sass?"
The girls light up as they see her.
Isha:
"Queen is back. You okay?"
(Then, mock suspicion)
"Or did your royal husband breathe fire again?"
Meera (sitting with them):
"Long story. Let's just say I needed a detox from CEO-level testosterone."
They all laugh. It's easy — this bond between them — like growing up in different cities, yet speaking the same chaotic language of ambition, eyeliner, and loyalty.
Dhrithi gently rests her head on Meera's shoulder.
Dhrithi:
"Next time someone bruises you, tell us. We'll bruise them harder."
Meera (grinning):
"I'm starting to think Zara's temper is contagious."
Just then, a hush falls. The warm chatter stills slightly.
Daksh Rathore walks into the lounge, his footsteps crisp, posture tall, carrying the authority of his crown without needing to flaunt it.
He looks at the three girls, expression unreadable, though his sharp eyes flicker slightly toward Meera—acknowledging, but not soft.
Daksh (stern, efficient tone):
"The elites of Rajasthan have been summoned for a closed-door meet in three days. Post that, there will be a formal gathering at the palace — military, business, political. Presence is not optional."
He pauses, gaze moving to Dhrithi.
Daksh:
"Make sure the decor is nothing less than exemplary. This isn't just a party. It's positioning."
Dhrithi (nodding, standing up):
"Understood, Your Highness."
Daksh gives them a final glance, then walks off — no extra words, no lingering.
Isha (murmuring as he leaves):
"Why does he talk like he eats ice cubes for breakfast?"
Meera (dryly):
"Because he probably does."
The three girls break into laughter again, a beautiful contrast of softness and steel beneath royal ceilings.
Royal Palace – Afternoon
Meera walks into the palace, the weight of the morning still somewhere in her spine — but the cool marble floors and the familiar scent of roses bring her some strange comfort.
As she turns toward the central lounge, her eyes land on Dhrithi and Isha, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by fabric swatches, catalogues, and two half-eaten bowls of pomegranate seeds.
Dhrithi (excitedly):
"Listen, Isha wants to go all gold for the palace garden soirée, but I think emerald green will slay with the lighting—"
Isha (rolling her eyes):
"Green is for people who need attention. I command it."
Meera (smiling softly, walking in):
"Oh god, who let you two run a kingdom of sequins and sass?"
The girls light up as they see her.
Isha:
"Queen is back. You okay?"
(Then, mock suspicion)
"Or did your royal husband breathe fire again?"
Meera (sitting with them):
"Long story. Let's just say I needed a detox from CEO-level testosterone."
They all laugh. It's easy — this bond between them — like growing up in different cities, yet speaking the same chaotic language of ambition, eyeliner, and loyalty.
Dhrithi gently rests her head on Meera's shoulder.
Dhrithi:
"Next time someone bruises you, tell us. We'll bruise them harder."
Meera (grinning):
"I'm starting to think Zara's temper is contagious."
Just then, a hush falls. The warm chatter stills slightly.
Daksh Rathore walks into the lounge, his footsteps crisp, posture tall, carrying the authority of his crown without needing to flaunt it.
He looks at the three girls, expression unreadable, though his sharp eyes flicker slightly toward Meera—acknowledging, but not soft.
Daksh (stern, efficient tone):
"The elites of Rajasthan have been summoned for a closed-door meet in three days. Post that, there will be a formal gathering at the palace — military, business, political. Presence is not optional."
He pauses, gaze moving to Dhrithi.
Daksh:
"Make sure the decor is nothing less than exemplary. This isn't just a party. It's positioning."
Dhrithi (nodding, standing up):
"Understood, Your Highness."
Daksh gives them a final glance, then walks off — no extra words, no lingering.
Isha (murmuring as he leaves):
"Why does he talk like he eats ice cubes for breakfast?"
Meera (dryly):
"Because he probably does."
The three girls break into laughter again, a beautiful contrast of softness and steel beneath royal ceilings.