The lights dimmed.
A hush fell over the audience as the music pulsed through the walls — low, seductive, powerful.
And then she walked out.
Meera.
Not the showstopper. Not the closing act. Just the second name on the roster.
But the moment she stepped onto the ramp, everything else faded. Her walk wasn't exaggerated, nor loud. It was elegant. Sharp. Impossibly fluid — like she wasn't walking but gliding through fire.
The crowd was watching the show.
Abhimanyu was watching her.
From his place behind the glass wall of the VIP box, his eyes were fixed. He hadn't blinked since her first step.
There she was — in a sculpted black gown that clung to her like a whispered secret. Hair pulled back into a tight twist. No smile. No fear. Just focus. Just power.
He'd seen Meera vulnerable — crying, drunk, shivering, hiding herself in corners she thought no one noticed.
But this Meera?
This was the Meera that haunted people long after they left.
Down below, the photographers clicked like machine guns. Every angle was captured. Every flash of her silhouette sent ripples through the audience.
And still — Abhimanyu didn't look away.
His friend nudged him.
"She's good, isn't she?"
Abhimanyu's jaw ticked. He didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Because at that moment, Meera looked up — just for half a second. And even if she couldn't see him clearly, he felt the glance hit him like a punch to the gut.
Like she knew.
Like she always knew when he was watching.
Then she turned away, made her final pose, and walked back as the crowd erupted into cheers.
The show was a roaring success. The designer was applauding, stylists were crying, and models backstage were hugging.
But in the middle of it all — Meera stayed calm, collected, like it was just another walk, just another night.
And Abhimanyu was still standing there, long after the lights came back on.
Silent. Frozen.
Like he'd just seen a ghost of everything he'd never let himself want.
————————————————————
INT. LUXURY BALLROOM – POST FASHION WEEK PARTY
The room shimmered.
Glasses clinked. Perfume hung in the air. Spotlights bathed the chandeliers. The music pulsed like a second heartbeat — low, rich, decadent.
Meera walked in with her team, head held high. Her black satin mini dress hugged her in all the right places. Her lips were red, her eyes smoky. She glowed — not from makeup, but from the afterglow of a show well-conquered.
She had slayed the ramp — poised, powerful, unforgettable.
And now, she walked in like she belonged here. Like the world owed her applause.
But then… she saw him.
Abhimanyu.
Standing with a circle of sharp-suited men — investors, businessmen, deal-makers, and a few too many sleazy eyes scanning the models like merchandise. He was in an obsidian black tux, hand tucked into his pocket, glass of whisky in his other hand. He hadn't noticed her yet.
Meera froze mid-step.
She didn't breathe for a second.
Her eyes ran over him — the sharp lines of his jaw, the lazy but lethal way he stood, like he could bring the world to its knees without lifting a finger.
How can a man be this sexy?
She blinked.
Then gulped down her champagne in one swift go.
It burned.
But so did he.
She turned quickly — back into the crowd of stylists, designers, and photographers — laughing at someone's joke a little too loudly, her voice higher than usual. Another drink was in her hand. She wasn't sure who gave it to her.
She kept drinking.
Smiling.
Spinning in her own dizzy orbit.
And yet — she felt it.
His eyes on her.
Across the room, Abhimanyu sipped his whisky, unblinking.
An older man beside him — Mr. Khurana, an oil tycoon with a belly of arrogance and a mouth full of cigar smoke — followed his gaze and chuckled.
"That one?"
He nudged Abhimanyu with a smirk.
"The Mira chick. Fiery little thing. Think I'll try my luck tonight."
Abhimanyu didn't smile.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even turn to him.
But his voice — cold, calm, deadly — sliced clean through the smoke.
"She's mine."
A beat.
"Back off."
Mr. Khurana blinked. Coughed. Chuckled nervously.
"Didn't know she was—"
"Now you do."
Abhimanyu's eyes never left Meera.
She didn't know what was being said. She was too lost in her drunken laughter, in the applause she still felt in her bones, in the high of finally being seen on the ramp.
But she felt something.
That hum in her chest, like safety just entered the room.
And though she didn't turn, her smile softened.
Like somewhere in her drunken haze, her soul knew he was watching.
He was near.
He was hers.
Even if neither of them ever said it out loud.
Not yet.
Just as Meera reached for another drink, she felt it.
A hand—brushing lightly against her arm.
Not a touch.
Just a graze.
But it was his.
Her breath caught.
Her laughter stilled.
She turned instinctively—but he was already walking away. Abhimanyu.
Smooth. Controlled. Like nothing just happened.
Like he didn't just set her skin on fire with the most casual flick of his hand.
She stood frozen for a beat. And then… followed.
Without knowing why. Without questioning.
Through the glittering crowd.
Past the velvet curtains of the ballroom doors.
Into the dimly lit corridor that led to the lobby.
But he wasn't there.
She scanned the empty hallway — heart racing, heels clicking softly against the marble.
"Abhi…" she whispered.
And then — she gasped.
His hands gripped her waist, pulling her back.
Her spine collided with his chest.
His breath, warm against her ear.
She trembled.
Before she could even turn, he spun her — gently, but with the authority only he could command — and now her back met the cold wall.
He caged her in.
One hand on the wall beside her head.
The other trailing lightly down her waist.
She couldn't look away.
His eyes were dark, unreadable. Burning.
"Why are you following me, Meera?" he asked, voice dangerously low.
She tried to speak. She couldn't. Her throat was dry.
Her lips parted, but only a breath escaped.
He took a step closer. Their bodies almost touching, but not quite. The heat between them was unbearable.
"Do you have any idea," he whispered,
"what you do to me on that ramp?"
She swallowed hard, her eyes flickering to his lips and back to his eyes.
Her hands clenched her clutch tighter. She didn't trust them not to reach for him.
"You looked…"
He leaned in.
"Like sin dressed in velvet."
Her knees almost gave out.
And yet, she didn't flinch.
Didn't move.
Didn't look away.
"Then why didn't you say anything inside?" she whispered.
He smirked — barely.
Something feral flashed in his eyes.
"Because you deserve more than a drunken crowd watching you come undone."
And with that…
He leaned in again, his lips brushing just the corner of her mouth.
Not a kiss.
A promise.
A warning.
And then he whispered — "Let them think they own you for tonight. But you and I both know, who you'll come undone for."
She gasped. But then she was loving the way Abhimanyu was obsessing over her so she slowly lets her gaze trail from his lips down to the tight fit of his shirt across his chest.
"Do you know what you look like right now?"
Her voice is husky, drunk with desire.
"Like every damn fantasy I've ever had with the lights off."
Abhimanyu clenches his jaw.
"You're drunk, Meera."
"I'm drunk, yeah. Drunk on you," she whispers, biting her lower lip.
"And the way you're looking at me? You're not exactly sober either, Mr. Sexy-Husband-I-Can't-Publicly-Mention."
He groans under his breath.
"You need to stop talking like that."
"Why?" she murmurs, fingers sliding up his chest.
"Afraid I'll make you hard in a hallway?"
Her hand rests boldly over his belt.
"Too late."
He catches her wrist — but not fast enough. She smirks, leaning in till her lips brush his.
"You don't want to be the man who protects me from those sleazy men… you want to be the man who ruins me before they even get a chance to blink."
"Meera…"
"Say it," she challenges, breath hot against his mouth.
"Say you want to f*** me right here. Say you're dying to feel my legs around you again. Say you miss the way I moan your name when your mouth is—"
He grabs her before the last word, lifts her up with an audible growl.
"You won't be walking out of here with that mouth," he mutters.
"That's fine," she whispers.
"I don't plan on walking at all."
He strides through the hallway, doors blurring past, ignoring everything and everyone — his hand gripping her thigh tighter with every step.
He slams open the private men's suite restroom — elegant, dimly lit, empty.
Locks the door.
Presses her against the granite counter.
Her legs wrap around him instantly.
"You want dirty, baby?" he rasps.
"You'll get it. Right here. Right now."
"Good," she pants.
"Because my panties were soaked the second you brushed my arm back there."
He growls again — and this time?
He doesn't hold back.
The air turns thick with need, lips clash, hands roam, and all that tension between them finally… combusts.
And for a few stolen, heated moments…
There was no room.
No reality.
No hate.
No name.
Only two bodies — desperate, addicted, claiming what's always been theirs.