The lift chimed.
As the doors opened, Saharsh was already waiting at the far end of the corridor. Stylish as ever — sleek linen jacket, dark circles under his eyes, and a tablet in his hand — pacing like a man on fire.
He looked up. Froze for a second. Then smiled.
"Well, well, look who finally remembered India exists."
Meera raised a brow. "I go where the shows take me."
"And now they want to bring you back here."
He pulled her into a half-hug. Familiar. Brotherly. Then turned business-like, motioning her into the boardroom.
Inside, Avantika, the agency's creative director, and Saharsh's partner-in-chaos, sat at the table with a latte and three phones.
"Darling Meera," Avantika said, eyes gleaming, "India is hungry for your face again. The press is still going nuts after the Milan photos."
Saharsh nodded. "You've been a ghost for two years. Now you're back and your walk's gone viral. Every luxury brand wants a taste of you. But one's already made the first move."
He tapped his tablet. The screen lit up.
"RAJPUT INDUSTRIES – Heritage Redefined."
Meera froze.
Avantika leaned in. "It's a new luxury lifestyle vertical — traditional fabrics, redefined couture, Indo-modern crossover wear. They want you as the face of it.**
Her voice was even. "Who's the brand director?"
Rizwan blinked. "Some executive from London. The proposal was mailed in from there. Why?"
Meera shook her head slightly. "No reason."
Her mind was racing. Abhimanyu? No, it didn't feel like his move. But someone from his world was pulling strings.
"Look," Avantika said, "this is big. India doesn't get many muses like you. They want this campaign shot in Udaipur. You'll lead a full winter couture line."
Meera nodded slowly. "When do we start?"
Saharsh smiled. "You tell us. Your story is no longer just on the runway. Now You are gonna shoot in India so....
She looked out the glass window, Mumbai skyline glittering like a promise.
"Then let's give them something worth remembering."
As soon as her meeting got finished she returned back to Rajasthan.
RAJPUT INDUSTRIES something just didn't feel right to her, so deciding on catching flight to Bombay again tomorrow she came back to Rajasthan the same night.
The palace gates opened with their usual mechanical grace, but the silence beyond them was almost too loud.
Meera stepped out of her car. Her heels clicked against the marble, a sound she had grown used to in Europe. But here, back in Rajasthan… everything felt heavier.
The sun had dipped behind the sandstone arches, casting long shadows in the corridor as she walked in. Dhrithi and Isha were lounging with Zara near the inner courtyard, laughing about something when they saw her.
"Finally!" Isha ran up, half-twirling her long dupatta. "We thought you got lost in Mumbai forever."
"Or got adopted by a designer," Zara added.
Meera smiled faintly. "Sort of happened."
She dropped her bag and joined them on the divan, tucking her hair behind one ear.
Dhrithi narrowed her eyes. "You're glowing."
Meera paused. "I have news."
They leaned in. She took a breath.
"I've been offered a campaign. A big one. India-exclusive. I'll be the face of Rajput Industries' new couture vertical."
Dead silence.
Zara blinked. "Rajput Industries? You mean—?"
"Yes," Meera nodded. "The same Rajput family. From here. But the proposal came from London. They don't know I'm married into the family yet."
Dhrithi whistled. "That's… either cosmic fate or a ticking bomb."
The sound of measured footsteps made them turn.
Daksh stood near the threshold, arms folded.
"You've taken the campaign?" he asked, voice crisp.
"They offered it. I haven't signed yet." Meera met his gaze evenly.
"Decline it."
Meera stood up slowly. "Why?"
"Because people will talk. The media will dig. It brings attention we don't need."
"Or," she said softly, "it brings respect to the Rajput name on an international scale. Not just power. But influence."
Daksh's jaw tightened. "Speak to Abhimanyu it's not what it looks like!"
"I haven't told him yet," Meera replied.
"You should," he said. "Before the rest of the world finds out."
He turned and walked away.
The girls were quiet. Then Zara muttered, "Well, that was cheerful."
Meera picked up her bag again.
"I'll tell him," she said. "But not because I'm asking permission."
And she walked back to the room that wasn't fully hers yet — where silence and tension sat heavier than gold.
The air in the room was still when Meera walked in, her heels silent against the stone floor.
Abhimanyu stood near the open window, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. His coat was off, sleeves rolled up, shirt slightly crumpled from a long day. He didn't look at her right away.
"You didn't take a nap?" he asked, casually.
She shook her head, placing her bag on the side table.
"I couldn't. I was finalising some Mumbai work."
His gaze flicked to her.
"Still planning to go?"
She nodded. "My team's expecting me tomorrow. I've said yes."
He exhaled, not pleased. But he said nothing.
"There's something else," she said, approaching a little cautiously. "I received a new campaign offer. It's huge. The creative heads flew down from London. They want me to be the face of their couture launch in India."
He raised a brow, curious now. "Which brand?"
"Rajput Industries."
Silence.
Stone silence.
Abhimanyu slowly turned.
"What did you say?"
"Rajput Industries," she repeated, slower this time. "Why?"
His jaw clenched. A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes.
"You're joking," he said, barely audible.
"No… why would I joke—"
"You seriously thought it was okay to stand as the face of that family? The same Rajputs who abandoned a grieving child the moment his parents died? Who left me to rot like I never belonged?"
His voice was rising, words cutting like razors.
Meera blinked. "I didn't know—Abhimanyu, I swear I didn't—"
"You didn't care to know," he barked. "You didn't ask. You saw the name, you saw the cameras, and you said yes."
"It's work—"
"It's betrayal!"
She stepped back as he stepped forward, his voice no longer calm.
"Do you even know who they are to me? They are my father's people. His blood. After he and my mother died in that accident, they didn't even show up to the funeral. They told the Rathores to 'handle the mess.' I was ten, Meera."
"Abhimanyu—"
"Ten. Alone. Watching my mother's family take me in while the Rajputs wiped their hands clean of me. And now you want to wear their fucking label?"
She froze.
This wasn't just anger. This was trauma — cracked open, bleeding raw in front of her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, unable to say more.
He looked away, jaw tight.
"Don't take the campaign."
She swallowed. "And if I already said yes?"
His silence was answer enough.
Meera stood frozen, the silence of his pain wrapping around them both like smoke.
Slowly, gently, she reached out — her fingers trembling — and placed her hand on his shoulder.
He flinched.
Then without warning, he swatted her hand away like it had burned him.
"Don't touch me."
His voice was low. Cold. Final.
"Not after this. Not ever."
He didn't wait for her reaction. He picked up his phone, slipped on his jacket, and walked out of the room.
The door slammed behind him.
Meera's knees nearly gave out.
She sank into the couch, her breaths shaky. She didn't know whether she was shaking from shock or heartbreak. She grabbed her phone and dialed the one number she could think of.
"Rizwan?" Her voice cracked.
"Meera? Hey, everything okay?"
"Cancel it. The Rajput campaign. Cancel it now. I'm not doing it."
There was silence on the other end for a second too long.
"Meera, the Rajput Industries coordinator is flying in tomorrow morning from London. The team's already booked everything. You have to be in Mumbai for this. We'll sort it there, okay? Just come."
"Rizwan—"
"No more decisions over the phone. Come to Mumbai. We'll talk in person. I promise."
Meera wiped her tears with the back of her hand, nodding even though he couldn't see it.
"Fine. I'll be on the flight."
"Good. Thank you, Meera. Just breathe."
She ended the call and looked up at the ceiling.
How did one moment of honesty break something that was only just beginning to heal?