Meera sat still on the bed, the ointment tube untouched beside her. Her heart hadn't slowed since Abhimanyu's words — "Main duniya ke saamne akela hoon, Meera. Shaadi ka na koi matlab hai, na zarurat."
She didn't cry. But she hadn't blinked either.
Her phone buzzed.
Zahra calling.
She picked it up, her voice barely a murmur. "Haan, Zahra?"
"Oye, tu kahan gayi hai? Party toh aaj raat ko hai! Sab planning mein lage hue hain, aur tu gayab hai?"
Meera rubbed her temple. "Mujhe nahi lagta mujhe aana chahiye."
"Drama mat kar, Meera. You're coming. Period. Dhrithi aur Isha already plan kar rahe hain ki kaun kya pehnega. Tera wardrobe bhi dekhna hai. Jaldi aa palace, warna hum tere kapde chhant lenge bina puche."
Meera sighed. "Main aa jaungi. Par… party ke liye kuch keh nahi sakti."
"Tu aa ja, baaki sab hum dekh lenge," Zahra said, her tone softening. "Aur Meera… mat bhool, tu bhi iss duniya ka hissa hai. Don't let anyone make you feel invisible."
Meera smiled faintly. "Thanks, Zahra."
She changed into a soft white kurta with blue threadwork and matching pants — something between casual and elegant. Her makeup was minimal, hair loosely tied. She looked like herself again — not the wife of a man who wouldn't name her.
As she walked into the main hall of the Haveli, the golden lamps cast long shadows.
The hall was quiet, lit only by the flickering antique chandeliers and the crimson hue of dusk slipping through the jharokhas (traditional Rajasthani windows).
Abhimanyu sat at the far end, one arm resting along the back of the chair, a half-burnt cigar nestled between his fingers. His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, his jaw set in that sharp, unreadable way Meera was beginning to recognize far too well.
She walked in slowly, her footsteps echoing.
Her hair was pinned up, her outfit simple yet striking—a nod to Zahra's insistence. She had skipped the ointment.
And he noticed.
His eyes trailed to her wrist.
Then rose to meet hers.
"Tumne ab tak woh ointment nahi lagaya?"
"You still haven't applied that ointment?"
His voice was low, but edged with restrained anger.
Meera stilled.
"Kyun lagati? Aapko kya farak padta hai?"
"Why would I? Why does it matter to you?"
Abhimanyu leaned forward, stubbing out the cigar into a crystal tray. The sound was sharp. Final.
"Main keh raha hoon, lagao. It's bruised."
"I'm telling you, apply it. It's bruised."
Her patience cracked.
"Aur main keh rahi hoon, aapko koi haq nahi."
"And I'm saying, you have no right."
"Jab duniya ke saamne main kuch nahi hoon, toh yahaan pe bhi kyun farak padta hai aapko?"
"When I'm nothing in front of the world, then why does it matter to you here either?"
He stood now, slow and imposing. His gaze pinned her to the spot.
"Biwi ho tum meri."
"You are my wife."
His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
She laughed bitterly.
"Contract wali biwi, hai na?"
"A wife on paper, right?"
"Sirf is haveli mein. Sirf jab aapko mera hona yaad aata hai."
"Only inside this haveli. Only when it suits you to remember I'm yours."
"Baaki waqt toh… duniya ke liye toh aap unmarried ho."
"The rest of the time… to the world, you're unmarried."
"Toh fir, kis haq se?"
"So then, by what right?"
He stepped closer. Too close.
His next words sliced through her.
"Tumhare pita ne meri maa-baap ki maut ki wajah banayi thi."
"Your father was the reason my parents died."
"Tum chahe jitna bhi badal jao, Meera, tum usi insaan ki beti ho."
"No matter how much you change, Meera, you are still that man's daughter."
He paused.
"Aur tumhein unhi gunahon ki keemat chukani padegi. Har roz. Har jagah. Mere saath."
"And you will have to pay the price of those sins. Every day. Everywhere. With me."
She didn't flinch this time.
Her voice trembled, but her words didn't.
"Mujhe laga tha… ki shayad hum uss dard se nikal aaye hain."
"I thought… maybe we had moved past that pain."
"Ki… main sirf unki beti nahi hoon. Main main hoon."
"That I'm not just his daughter. I'm my own person."
She paused.
"Shayad main galat thi."
"Maybe I was wrong."
He didn't reply.
He just looked at her for a moment too long, as if searching for something.
Then walked past her, leaving behind only the faint smell of tobacco… and a silence heavy with everything unsaid.
On the way back to the palace
The silence in the car was not just heavy—it was suffocating.
Abhimanyu drove like a storm barely contained. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles pale, and the car swerved through the winding Rajasthani roads with speed that bordered on recklessness.
Meera sat beside him, back straight, fists clenched on her lap. Her wrist still ached, but she didn't flinch anymore. She had closed her eyes long ago, whispering silent prayers—not out of fear of dying, but fear of falling apart completely in front of him.
She didn't say a word.
Neither did he.
Not when they stopped at the palace gates. Not when the guards opened the door. Not even when they walked side-by-side into the grand entrance of the Rathore Palace, where the elite of Rajasthan were already swirling in silks and secrets.
But Abhimanyu left Meera behind and
walked straight down the marble corridor toward the east end of the haveli, past portraits of long-dead kings and generations of Rajput valor etched into the sandstone. The door to Daksh Bhai's private study was already half-open, voices murmuring within.
Abhimanyu entered without knocking.
Daksh looked up from the layout of the seating chart. "Good," he said, without looking surprised. "We need to finalise the entries. And your security detail needs briefing."
Abhimanyu didn't respond. He just picked up the guest list and focused, but his mind—unknowingly—kept drifting back to a pair of tear-bright eyes and a wrist that still hadn't healed.
Meanwhile, Meera stepped into their room. The door clicked shut behind her like the end of a chapter.
She didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
Didn't say a word.
She just sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers playing with the fabric of her dupatta. The silence in the room was louder than any argument. Her body was exhausted, her heart worn thin.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispered to no one.
The party. The games. The pretending.
She wasn't going.
Let them gossip. Let them speculate. Let the world spin outside without her for one night.
She lay down on the bed, curling onto her side—not even bothering to change out of her outfit.
She closed her eyes, trying to breathe through the storm inside her, and made a decision:
"Main us party mein nahi jaa rahi hoon."
"I'm not going to that party."
And for the first time in days, she let herself feel tired… not strong, not put-together. Just tired.