The glint in Abhimanyu Rajput's eyes was no longer cold — it was volcanic.
His strides were lethal as he walked back into the circle of investors. Their laughter died the second they saw his face.
"Which one of you," he asked, voice low and steel-edged, "was responsible for what happened to her?"
Saxena raised his glass with a smirk. "The model who kept following you? She needed—"
"I'm not talking about the damn model," Abhimanyu snapped.
The sound of glass shattering on marble sliced the air. His drink lay in fragments. His control? Barely hanging on.
He stepped forward, tone sharper now.
"I asked who hurt her."
A beat passed. Then fear crept in.
One of them stammered, "R-Rachel. Rachel did it. The British girl. She… tripped her."
Abhimanyu's jaw ticked. His eyes found Rachel — posing under the flashlights, untouched by consequence.
"Get her out."
"Out of what?" Saxena blinked. "The party?"
"No," Abhimanyu said. "Out of everything. This event. The brand. The campaigns. I want her blacklisted."
"She's an international face, Abhi—"
"Do I look like I care?"
The room tensed.
"You think power scares me?" he said, stepping closer. "I've stood without it. Fought without a name. I didn't inherit a thing. I built this empire with blood and claw — beside Daksha Rathod, not beneath him. So don't confuse me for someone who can't burn down what he's built."
Silence.
"You lay a hand on her again," he continued, tone quieter now — which somehow made it even more dangerous — "and I'll bury your brands so deep your grandchildren won't find the ruins."
Their expressions shifted from surprise to terror.
Finally, someone whispered, "Who is she… to you?"
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched. His gaze burned.
Then, with absolute clarity, he answered:
"She's my wife."
Not with affection.
Not with pride.
But with warning.
————————————————————
Meera had barely made it past the marbled steps of the grand hall.
Each step was a war — her shin stung where the heel had crushed her skin, her elbow scraped and aching from the fall. But none of it hurt more than what he'd said earlier. That she was a mistake.
She staggered, her breathing uneven, as the cold night air hit her skin. Just as she reached for the pillar to steady herself—
"Rana. Get the car. Now."
The voice. Low. Sharp. Commanding.
She turned around to see him storming down the corridor. Abhimanyu.
He didn't blink. He didn't pause.
In one swift motion, he was in front of her. And before she could even protest—
He lifted her up, bridal style.
"Put me down!" she screamed, fists beating against his chest. "I said put me down, Abhimanyu!"
He didn't respond. Not a word. Not a flinch.
"Who the hell do you think you are?!" she cried, hitting him harder. "I'm just a mistake, remember?! That's what you said! So fuck off, don't touch me!"
Still, nothing.
Her arms now trembled. Her fists fell limp against his chest. The fight in her voice cracked.
"I hate you," she whispered, tears rushing in now. "I hate that you keep breaking me. Over and over. And I still let you."
Her face buried into his shirt — not by choice, but by collapse. Her sobs came in waves, violent and aching.
But he still didn't speak.
He just held her tighter, walked her silently to the car like she was made of something sacred — or maybe something shattered that only he should be allowed to touch.
The black SUV purred through the night, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Inside, silence reigned — thick, strained, electric.
Meera sat huddled in the farthest corner of the back seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her dress was torn at the hem. Her elbow bloodied. Her shin bruised. But she didn't wince. Not once. Not in front of him.
Abhimanyu sat beside her, jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his face twitched. He hadn't said a word since he picked her up. Not one.
Until now.
His hand reached across the seat — fast.
Before she could flinch away, he caught her leg.
"Don't—" she began, trying to pull back.
"Shut up," he said, voice low. Dangerous.
He bent forward, dragged her leg gently across the seat, resting it on his thigh. His eyes darkened.
Blood had clotted around the bruised shin where the model's heel had landed. The skin around her knee was scraped red, and her elbow…
He grabbed her wrist next, turning her arm over with care that didn't match the storm in his expression.
His fingers ghosted over the bruises, over the torn skin.
And then he looked up.
Fire.
His eyes were pure fire.
"I asked you once," he said, voice trembling with fury, "who did this to you?"
She said nothing.
So he grabbed the wet cloth one of the guards had given him and began wiping the blood gently — like she was porcelain.
She hissed.
His jaw tightened. "You let them touch you and said nothing?"
"I didn't let anyone—" she snapped.
But he didn't let her finish. "You should've told me the second it happened. The second."
"And what would you have done? Killed her?" she bit back. "Scared everyone into silence like you always do?"
"I already did," he said coldly, pressing the cloth into her skin with slightly more force. "She's gone. Out. Blacklisted from every event my name is associated with."
She looked at him, stunned.
He didn't look back.
"You're bleeding," he muttered, brushing a thumb against her shin. "They touched my wife."
She opened her mouth — to argue, to ask, to scream — but then paused.
Because for the first time that night… he sounded afraid.
And for the first time… he didn't call her a mistake.
Abhimanyu's fingers were still brushing her shin when she suddenly jerked her leg away.
"Don't," she whispered.
He looked up, surprised.
Meera was staring at him now — really staring — and her eyes were brimming, lashes trembling with unshed tears.
"This…" she gestured to her scraped leg, her bruised elbow, "this doesn't hurt."
Her voice cracked.
"Not half as much as the things you say do."
The words hung in the car like smoke, suffocating him.
"If I'm a mistake," she continued, a shaky breath escaping her lips, "then why does it matter who touched me? Why are you angry? Why are you here?"
Her hands were trembling in her lap now. She looked down, ashamed of the tears falling silently from her eyes.
"You keep doing this," she said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "You drag me close… make me believe… and then shove me away like I never mattered."
He didn't interrupt her.
He couldn't.
"I didn't ask to fall for you, Abhimanyu," she said softly. "It just… happened. And now every time you look at me like I'm nothing, it burns."
Her voice cracked again.
"I can't do this anymore. Not when I feel everything and you feel nothing."
Still, he said nothing.
And that silence — that unbearable silence — broke her.
"You're a coward," she said suddenly, eyes flaring. "You hide behind your anger and your control and your past — but you're afraid. Afraid to feel. Afraid to admit anything that makes you human."
She turned her face away from him now, facing the window.
"I don't even want to look at you right now."
His knuckles clenched on the seat.
But he still didn't say a word.
Meera didn't look at him. Not even when the silence stretched too long.
Then, quietly, Abhimanyu asked, "Do you want to leave me?"
She turned to him, startled.
Her voice was tired. "No. I don't."
His eyes flickered.
"But," she added softly, "I can only stay… if you promise to love me. If you claim me. If you can say — not just to me, but to the world — that I'm your wife."
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a second — not out of guilt, but out of something deeper. Something heavier.
"That's not possible," he said, voice low. "Not now. Not ever."
There was no hesitation. No pause.
"It's a fact," he said, like it was a business deal, final and sealed. "I can never love you."
The silence between them shifted. Turned cold.
Meera's lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Just breath. Just ache.
And then she nodded.
"I want to go back to Finland," she said, her voice breaking despite how steady she tried to sound. "Please don't stop me."
He didn't.
He just sat there.
Frozen.
And let her heart walk away.