Sunlight spilled gently into the room, filtered through sheer curtains. The air was still — heavy with warmth, with the scent of rain-soaked earth and something more intimate: closeness.
Meera stirred first.
Her head was tucked beneath his chin, her fingers still entwined with his. For a second, she didn't move. Didn't breathe too hard. Just listened—to his slow, deep breathing.
The night returned to her in waves. The storm. The shouting. The bath. The way his arms had held her without questions.
A lump formed in her throat.
She tried to shift, gently, to pull her hand away. But his grip tightened, instinctive. His thumb brushed hers.
"You're warm now," he said, voice gravelled from sleep. "Good."
It wasn't what she expected. Not softness. Not coldness either. Just that flat, low tone that hid too much behind too little.
She turned, facing him. His eyes were open now, unreadable.
"Why did you come last night?" her voice cracked slightly. "After all that… why?"
He stared at her for a long second. "Because you were out there alone. And I couldn't sleep knowing that."
She blinked. "You couldn't sleep?"
"No."
A pause.
"I haven't, in days."
She swallowed, her heart thudding. "Then why… do you keep doing this? Pretending I don't exist in your world?"
He looked away. The tension in his jaw returned. "Because when I look at you, I see everything I swore I'd never let myself need."
That hit harder than a slap.
She sat up, pulling the blanket around her, her wet eyes fixed on him.
"And is that such a terrible thing? To need someone who already belongs to you?"
His gaze met hers—stormy, exhausted, wrecked.
"You don't get it, Meera. You weren't the one who buried your parents. I did. And the man who caused it… was your father."
Silence.
Her breath caught. She wanted to argue. Defend. But this time, she didn't. She just looked at him, broken in his own way.
And yet… she reached out, almost without thinking, placing her palm over his chest. Over his heart.
"It's still beating," she whispered. "Even after all of that. So maybe… you haven't lost everything yet."
He closed his eyes. For once, he didn't pull away.
Then, wordlessly, he took her hand in his, and placed it firmly between them. Holding it there.
They lay like that—side by side, breathing the same air, haunted by the same past, and unsure if they were still enemies or something closer to… home.
A soft chime buzzed from Meera's phone. She jolted up, blinking fast, brushing sleep off her lashes.
"Oh no," she muttered. "Shit. My walk. Fashion Week. I have to be there by—"
She tried to wriggle out of the blanket, but before her foot even hit the ground, Abhimanyu's hand caught her wrist.
He didn't say a word. Just tugged—gently but firmly—pulling her right back onto the bed.
"You're not running off like that," he said. "You were shivering half the night."
"Abhimanyu—" she began, exasperated.
But he was already up. Shirtless, hair a mess, eyes still burning from sleep and something deeper. He crossed the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a thermometer.
"Open your mouth," he ordered.
"I don't have a fever," she groaned.
"We'll see."
Meera huffed, but obeyed, partly because arguing took energy she didn't have.
When it beeped, he checked it. Normal. Of course.
"Told you."
He ignored that. Instead, he sat down beside her and leaned forward, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear—his knuckles lingering on her cheek a moment too long.
Her breath hitched.
"You're fine physically," he said. "Emotionally? Can't say."
She opened her mouth, unsure whether to snap or cry, but he stood before she could decide.
"I've got meetings," he muttered, grabbing a shirt off a chair. "Do your job."
She stared at him. "And yours?"
He didn't look back. Just buttoned his shirt and said, "Someone has to hold this goddamn empire together."
The silence crackled between them.
Meera stood slowly, her heart still in pieces, but her spine straightening. She picked up the blazer he'd covered her with the night before and folded it neatly on the bed.
"I will walk the ramp today," she said quietly, "and I'll smile. Not for the cameras, but because even after everything, I still get up."
He paused at the door. For the briefest second, his shoulders tensed. Then he said, low and flat—
"I never doubted that."
And he walked out.
Leaving behind the echo of everything they still weren't saying.
————————————————————
By the time the sun climbed higher, the scene had changed.
Meera stood in front of a white backdrop, wearing the first outfit of the day — a high-necked pearl-stitched gown that shimmered like moonlight. Her makeup was being adjusted as the photographer clicked continuously.
"Chin up. Fierce eyes, Meera. You're not the princess. You're the queen," the photographer barked.
She posed, blinked, turned. The rhythm was familiar. But the exhaustion under her skin still lingered.
Near the tent, Rizwan was already making notes on her outfits, checking the lineup for the ramp.
"Tell them not to do pink eyeshadow again. Doesn't suit the next gown," Meera called out between poses.
"I already told them," Rizwan replied.
After the shoot, she climbed into the car with Rizwan, rubbing her eyes.
"Don't nap now," he said. "You'll miss hair and prep."
She nodded.
As the car rolled toward the venue, she stared out at the blur of traffic, her hand still smelling faintly of his cologne. Abhimanyu hadn't said goodbye — but she had felt his eyes follow her till she left the driveway.
She didn't look back.
————————————————————
The black car pulled up to the venue's drop-off point — a flurry of lights, murmurs, and camera shutters already echoing through the glass doors.
The minute Meera stepped out, the wind caught her hair, tossing it back like a crown. She wore a sleek black trench coat over her rehearsal outfit — a skin-toned bodysuit paired with oversized joggers. Casual, but still commanding.
For a moment, the paparazzi paused. Then a flash. Then another.
"Meera! Meera, one look here!"
She didn't smile. Didn't stop.
Behind her, Rizwan swiftly got out, holding a garment bag, a water bottle, and her coffee order — low sugar, extra espresso. He passed it to her wordlessly as they walked inside.
As soon as they entered the marble foyer of the venue, the tone changed. Assistants with headsets darted around, models in partial makeup lined the corridor, and designers argued about last-minute tweaks.
Someone handed her a clipboard. Someone else took it back. A girl bumped into her by accident, muttering a rushed apology.
But Meera walked with stillness, as if her spine were made of iron.
As she turned a corner, a junior designer ran up to her.
"Ma'am, the jewelry for your third look — they've sent a different choker, not the diamond one."
"I'll wear what they send. I'm not the showstopper," she replied, voice crisp.
The girl blinked, startled. But Meera had already passed her, walking through the velvet curtain into the chaos of backstage.
The music from the ramp vibrated through the floor. It had begun.
————————————————————
INT. FASHION WEEK BACKSTAGE – EVENING
The heat behind the curtain was suffocating — not from temperature, but from pressure.
Meera stood in front of the mirror as the first model hit the runway. The makeup artist quickly dabbed foundation over her neck while another pinned the back of her dress.
Rizwan crouched beside her, opening the next pair of heels she'd have to wear.
"You're second in line after this walk, then again after six. The third look is heavier. Save your breath till then," he muttered, threading in her earring with the speed of a surgeon.
Meera didn't speak. Her lips pressed tight, her posture perfect. She just nodded, checking her reflection. The bruises from the rainstorm last night were gone — but her eyes still held the ache of something that hadn't been spoken out loud.
"Water," Rizwan whispered, holding the bottle to her lips.
She sipped, adjusted her straps, and the coordinator shouted her name.
"Meera — 30 seconds!"
With a practiced breath, she walked to the curtain, waiting behind the first model. Her fingers itched. Her spine tensed.
INT. LUXURY VIP LOUNGE – UPPER BALCONY
Abhimanyu stood behind the thick one-way glass of the exclusive lounge, hands tucked into his pockets. His jaw was clenched, but his face unreadable.
He wasn't here to celebrate. He wasn't even sure why he'd come.
He'd told himself it was a business obligation — a designer friend had invited him. But now, as the spotlight shifted and Meera took the ramp, he couldn't look away.
Her walk was sharp, poised. Not as dramatic as a showstopper — but somehow more grounded, more powerful.
The crowd clapped. His friends murmured beside him. He didn't hear any of it.
He watched only her.
Down below, Meera walked past the front row, head high — completely unaware that his eyes were tracing every step.
INT. BACKSTAGE – MOMENTS LATER
Meera came off the stage, breathing heavily. Rizwan was already waiting with a robe and the second outfit.
She barely had time to sit before he was unzipping the dress and tossing it aside.
"Arms up," he said, already holding the next one.
"Back's sweaty," she muttered, trying not to wince as cold fabric kissed her skin.
"I'll fix it," Rizwan whispered, dabbing her skin with powder and adjusting the new neckline.
From the ramp, someone called out. Her cue again.
This was the rhythm now — sweat, silence, steps, spotlight.
And somewhere above, he was still watching.