Meera was finally catching a few hours of sleep in her London suite. The journey had been exhausting—physically, mentally, and emotionally. The past 24 hours had drained her, and now, wrapped up in a cozy blanket, she lay fast asleep, oblivious to the chaos brewing around her.
In the living room, Tanvi sat cross-legged on the couch, a lukewarm cup of coffee resting on the table. Rizwan was going over their schedule, scribbling notes and time slots. The room was silent, save for the occasional rustle of paper, until Tanvi's phone buzzed. She picked it up and saw Raina's name flashing.
"Hello?" she answered, placing it on speaker without thinking.
"Hey," Raina's voice was laced with both amusement and warning. "Just giving you a heads-up before the storm hits."
Tanvi frowned. "Storm?"
"Sir is flying to London. Charter flight. He'll land by evening."
The words hit like a thunderclap. Rizwan paused mid-sentence, the pen slipping from his fingers.
"What?" Tanvi sat up straighter, glancing nervously toward Meera's closed bedroom door.
"He's pissed, Tanvi," Raina said, her tone suddenly grave. "He asked me to tell you—best of luck. Oh, and one more thing…"
There was a deliberate pause.
"He said not to inform Madam. He wants to give her, and I quote, a beautiful surprise in his own way."
Tanvi's blood ran cold. Rizwan, who had been silently absorbing everything, let out a soft groan.
"Raina, was he really mad?" Tanvi asked, almost whispering.
There was a dry laugh on the other end of the line. "Let's just say… the last time I saw him this calm, the Paris team resigned en masse the next morning."
The line went dead.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved.
Rizwan shook his head. "Iss baar toh band bajne wali hai…"
(This time, it's going to be a total disaster…)
Tanvi looked toward Meera's room, where the girl still slept peacefully, completely unaware of what was headed her way.
"Should we tell her?" she asked, her voice low.
Rizwan sighed. "Let her sleep. She's going to need all the strength she can get… when he arrives."
In the bedroom, Meera stirred slightly, blissfully unaware that the man she wanted nothing to do with was on his way—furious, determined, and ready to make her life hell once again.
A few hours slipped by in silence, but it wasn't peaceful—not for Tanvi and Rizwan. They sat in Meera's suite, barely speaking to one another, the air thick with anxiety. The knowledge that Abhimanyu was mid-air, heading straight to London, weighed heavily on them. Every minute that ticked by brought them closer to a storm they knew was inevitable.
Meera, still catching up on her much-needed rest, finally stirred and emerged from her room. Her hair was tousled, eyes heavy from sleep, but there was a certain clarity in her expression.
"Tum dono yahan ho?" she asked, stretching lightly. (You both are still here?)
Tanvi and Rizwan exchanged the quickest of glances.
"Yeah," Tanvi said, jumping up a little too quickly. "We just thought we'd go over the day's plan with you."
Meera walked over to the table and sat, frowning slightly. "What's going on? You both look… tense."
Rizwan immediately picked up a folder and began flipping pages with forced enthusiasm. "Meera, focus on today. You have that televised interview with Vogue London at 4 p.m. Then tomorrow's your international photoshoot, and the day after you walk the ramp. Your schedule is jam-packed. You don't have the luxury to think about anything else."
Meera narrowed her eyes at Tanvi, sensing the dodging. "Did Raina call again?" she asked pointedly. "Any update about the 'woman new' from AR Enterprises?"
Tanvi blinked. "Woman new?" she echoed, clearly caught off guard.
Meera's eyes lingered on her for a moment. She noticed the hesitation. But before she could press further, Rizwan loudly clapped his hands once, grabbing her attention.
"Chalo, chalo, superstar mode on!" he said, ushering her toward the bedroom. (Come on, come on, time to turn on your superstar mode!) "You've got exactly forty-five minutes to get ready and look like the face of India's next global fashion icon."
"Rizwan—" Meera tried again, a little suspicious now.
But he was already half-pushing, half-guiding her. "Nahi, no more questions! I'll have coffee sent up, and Tanvi will help with your outfit."
As Meera disappeared into her dressing room, Tanvi let out a silent breath of relief. Rizwan leaned toward her and muttered under his breath, "We're just delaying the explosion, yaar."
Tanvi nodded grimly. "God help us when she finds out he's here."
And outside that plush hotel suite, the city of London hummed quietly, oblivious to the tension brewing behind closed doors.
————————————————————
By the time Meera arrived at the studio, she was perfectly dressed—sleek, striking, and composed like only a seasoned public figure could be. Dressed in an elegant monochrome pantsuit that screamed global fashion mogul, she settled onto the plush interview couch under the warm studio lights.
The show had already begun broadcasting live across multiple platforms.
The host, a charming Brit named Daniel, leaned toward her with a wide grin. "Ladies and gentlemen, the woman making waves from Mumbai to Milan, the one and only Meera Singhania!"
The crowd erupted. Meera walked in gracefully, dressed in an ivory-white power suit with a black corset top underneath, her hair sleek, eyes sharp. She gave a brief wave and shook Daniel's hand before settling into the seat opposite him.
Daniel: "Meera, welcome. First things first—you look ravishing tonight."
Meera (smiling calmly): "Thank you. Your team made sure there was no way I could show up looking average."
Daniel: "I doubt you've looked average a day in your life. You've come a long way from that first pop-up show in Delhi to closing the Milan Fashion Week. How's the ride been?"
Meera (nodding thoughtfully): "Ruthless. Exhausting. And yet, the best thing I've ever done. Every stitch, every failure, every late night built something bigger than me."
Daniel: "You've always been bold with your designs—fierce silhouettes, gender-fluid styles, unapologetic statements. Where does that fire come from?"
Meera: "From the silence I was once pushed into. Every time someone told me I couldn't, I embroidered that 'no' into my next collection. And the world applauded."
Daniel: "So, fashion as rebellion?"
Meera: "Fashion as revenge. Style with soul."
Daniel (grinning): "God, you're dangerous. Okay, now tell us—everyone's been wondering. Are you single?"
Meera (with a soft, knowing laugh): "Yes. Very much so."
Daniel: "And why is that, if I may ask? Surely there's a line of hopefuls outside your door."
Meera (smirking): "Because I'd rather be alone than misunderstood."
Daniel: "Wow. That felt… personal."
Meera: "It is. I've been with men who thought 'love' meant control. Who confused dominance with devotion. I've outgrown that now."
Daniel: "So, describe your ideal partner. You know, for… research purposes."
The audience chuckled. Meera raised a brow, playing along.
Meera: "Someone calm. Who doesn't shout to prove a point. Someone secure, who doesn't get threatened by my ambition. Who understands that I don't need to be tamed—I need to be trusted."
Daniel (mock gasping): "So not a toxic alpha?"
Meera: "Nope. I've had enough of that. I want a man who knows love is not loud. It's consistent."
By now, Rizwan and Tanvi, watching from backstage, exchanged nervous looks. Meera had just described the exact opposite of Abhimanyu Rajput on international TV.
Daniel (leaning in with a grin): "And if someone like me, say, casually asked you out for dinner after this interview?"
Meera (playfully): "I'd say… let's see how well you behave through the rest of this conversation."
Daniel: "So there's hope for the rest of us!"
Audience: cheers
Daniel: "Now, quickfire round! Career or love?"
Meera: "Career. I can buy my own flowers."
Daniel: "London or Mumbai?"
Meera: "Home is where I create."
Daniel: "One regret?"
Meera (pauses): "Letting someone else narrate my story for too long."
Back in his car, just minutes from his London suite, Abhimanyu Rajput was watching it all unfold on his phone—his jaw tight, his fists clenched. His eyes darkened when she said "control," when she smiled at Daniel, when she owned her story without a single trace of him in it.
And that smirk?
That smirk meant war.
Daniel (wrapping up): "Meera Singhania—fierce, fabulous, and finally free."
Meera: "Always was. Just quieter before."
Applause thundered. Cameras panned to the logo of the show. But Meera stayed still, calm, glowing.
Unaware of the storm that had just stepped off a private jet… headed straight for her.