Dim lights. Faint echo of bass from the afterparty. The air still smells like sandalwood cologne, desire, and sin.
Meera is slouched against the marble counter, hair a disheveled halo, skin flushed, legs trembling as her heels barely touch the floor. Her dress is haphazardly pulled down to her waist. Marks bloom across her collarbone — evidence of the war they just lost to each other.
Abhimanyu stands in front of her, still inside her shirt, sleeves rolled up, belt loosely hanging off one loop. His chest rises and falls, still heavy from the aftermath.
He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, chest glistening faintly with sweat. Then — his voice low, a soft rasp laced with something dangerously possessive —
"You really like playing with fire, don't you?"
Meera lets out a breathless laugh, sliding her fingers down his stomach lazily, still drunk off him.
"Only when the fire has your hands."
Abhimanyu's jaw ticks. His eyes drop to where her thighs are still parted, and he pulls her closer by the hips — one hand gripping tight, the other smoothing down her thigh, almost calming it.
"You say the filthiest things when you're drunk."
She grins, drunk and drowsy, resting her forehead against his.
"That wasn't filthy. That was foreplay."
He chuckles — low and rough — but there's a flicker of conflict in his gaze. She doesn't miss it.
Her tone softens, slurs just slightly:
"You're still pretending like this means nothing."
He says nothing, just breathes out hard and presses a lingering kiss at her shoulder. When he finally pulls away, he helps her fix the strap of her dress, then crouches slightly to adjust her heels.
"We need to go back."
"And pretend?"
He pauses.
"And survive."
Before she can speak, he grabs a few tissues and gently wipes her smeared lipstick, then kisses the corner of her mouth.
"I'll walk two minutes after you."
She blinks, suddenly vulnerable.
"Why do I feel like I'm always leaving first, and you're always catching up?"
He doesn't answer. He just takes her hand briefly, presses a kiss to her wrist — then lets go.
"Go, Meera."
She fixes her hair in the mirror, swallows the ache in her throat, and walks out — heels clicking, soul heavy.
And as she leaves, he leans against the wall, chest still rising, guilt warring with want, and whispers under his breath:
"You're not a mistake. But I can't afford you to be anything else."
————————————————————
The crowd is drunk on glitter and champagne. Meera walks back in — lips still kiss-bruised, body still aching from what Abhimanyu did to her in the bathroom. She smooths her dress, exhales, and rejoins the room like nothing happened.
Five minutes later, Abhimanyu Rajput enters.
Dressed to kill. Composed like a king walking into court.
He joins a circle of investors and high-society men, most of them flaunting models clinging to their arms like accessories. The men grin as Abhimanyu approaches.
INVESTOR 1 (grinning)
"Rajput! Thought you'd never show. You're late — but as always, worth the wait."
INVESTOR 2
"Look at these beauties, eh? This city never fails. Which one's got your attention tonight?"
A couple of models, overhearing, smile suggestively at Abhimanyu. One even walks closer, brushing past his shoulder.
He turns to face her — cold, indifferent.
His eyes rake over her once — not with interest, but contempt.
ABHIMANYU RAJPUT (dry, razor-sharp)
"I don't fuck mannequins who confuse posing for personality."
The group goes quiet. One man laughs awkwardly.
The models' smiles falter. The one closest to him visibly recoils.
ABHIMANYU (not done yet)
"And if I wanted to spend my night with someone who mimics intimacy for a photo-op, I'd hire better lighting and shoot a wall."
The brutality in his tone stuns them all.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, utterly unmoved.
What he doesn't know is — Rizwan heard everything.
He had just walked in, heading toward the bar when he heard the tail end of that venomous comment.
His heart drops. He sees Meera across the hall — glowing, laughing, believing something beautiful happened tonight.
And she has no idea what he just said.
So Rizwan walks straight to her.
RIZWAN (carefully)
"Meera… listen… I think you should know something."
MEERA (smiling, tipsy)
"Hmm? What?"
RIZWAN (hesitant)
"I heard Abhimanyu. With the investors. They were talking about the models… and he said something. Cruel. Really cruel."
MEERA (a flicker of confusion)
"What… what do you mean?"
RIZWAN (quiet)
"He said he doesn't fuck mannequins who confuse posing for personality."
The world tilts.
Her fingers tighten on the glass.
Suddenly, every rush of heat in her body turns into cold betrayal.
They had sex.
Not just sex — it felt like something real. Like he needed her.
And now… that's what he thinks of her?
She doesn't cry.
She stares across the ballroom, finds him.
He's standing with those men, drink in hand, relaxed as ever — and she wants to scream.
Instead, she finishes her drink, wipes the corner of her lips, and walks past him without even glancing his way.
But as she walks by, he turns — his gaze locking on her face for a split second.
And something in her dead eyes flickers.
Just enough to make his fingers clench around the glass.
Because that's when he realizes: she knows.
Meera walks past Abhimanyu without a glance.
But halfway across the hall—
Something in her halts.
Her feet stop.
She closes her eyes for a second.
And then turns around.
The music is loud, the laughter louder. But when she walks back toward him — heels clicking against the marble, spine ramrod straight — the world feels like it's gone silent.
Abhimanyu is still surrounded by the investors and models.
He sees her approach.
His jaw ticks.
MEERA (calmly, firmly)
"Mr. Rajput… I need to speak with you. A moment."
He doesn't even blink.
Instead, he sets his drink down and smiles — icy, professional, calculated for the crowd.
ABHIMANYU
"If it's a proposal for a brand collaboration or a pitch for sponsorship—kindly contact my assistants. I don't take direct queries. I'm sure you understand."
The investors chuckle behind him. The models smirk, amused.
Meera doesn't flinch.
Her lips part slightly as if to say something — but she waits.
And then she repeats herself, eyes locking onto his.
MEERA (quieter now, but sharper)
"Mr. Rajput… a moment. Alone. Please."
That's when his mask fractures.
His eyes flash — not with confusion, but anger. That kind of anger that knows exactly what she's trying to do: attach his name to hers. Make this personal. Drag the forbidden out into the open.
And he hates it.
But she doesn't break eye contact. Not even when his stare darkens.
A beat of silence.
Then, very slowly, he nods once and steps aside.
ABHIMANYU (tight-lipped)
"Follow me."
No one speaks.
No one dares.
Because something between them just shifted — and the air around them is now charged like a storm about to break.
They disappear toward the back hallway, leaving the golden, glittering party behind.
The corridor outside the ballroom was dimly lit, hushed — too calm for the storm inside her.
Meera's heels clicked sharply on the marble floor as she stormed ahead. Abhimanyu followed with an unreadable face, his steps slow, composed. Like he wasn't the one who'd just torn her open and discarded her again.
She turned sharply.
He nearly collided with her.
And that's when it happened.
"You think I'm just a mannequin?"
Her voice sliced through the silence.
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched. "Don't raise your voice."
"Or what? You'll degrade me again? In front of your friends this time?"
"What exactly am I to you, Abhimanyu? A body you can use in the bathroom but shame in the ballroom?"
He didn't flinch. But his silence was a confession.
"So I'm like every model on that ramp. Disposable. Plastic."
She laughed bitterly.
"You married me, remember? You call me your wife when it suits you. And when it doesn't? I'm just another mannequin?"
He stepped closer.
"You are a mistake I have to live with every single day."
It felt like a slap.
Her throat tightened — not with tears. With rage.
"No. You don't get to say that after touching me like that."
He looked away for a split second — regret flashing — but masked it with arrogance.
"I told you not to drink. I told you this marriage meant nothing."
"You made it mean something, Abhimanyu. When you looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. When you took me like you couldn't breathe without me."
She stepped forward. Inches between them.
"You can lie to them. You can even lie to yourself. But your hands—"
"They don't lie."
That landed.
He exhaled sharply. Face tight. Eyes wild for a moment — with fury, want, confusion.
"What do you want from me, Meera?"
"The truth."
A beat.
"Say it. Say you wanted me. Say it meant something to you."
"It didn't."
Meera's lips parted as if she wanted to argue, but no words came out.
Not this time.
She just stood there, staring at him — eyes wide, lashes trembling.
As if she'd forgotten how to breathe.
"It didn't," he said again, voice colder now. Like he needed the lie to land.
She didn't scream. Didn't fight back.
She just looked at him.
Looked at the man who touched her like she was his world behind closed doors — and discarded her like she was nothing outside of them.
Her lips quivered, but she steadied herself.
"Okay," she whispered.
Just that.
One word.
Soft. Crushed. Accepting.
She nodded once — not to him, but maybe to herself — and turned around.
He didn't stop her.
She walked away with her shoulders straight and her heart in pieces, again.
And Abhimanyu?
He stayed back.
Still. Silent.
Because if he moved, if he breathed too loud, the truth might slip out:
That it did mean something.
Everything.