The terminal entrance was buzzing, but Meera's steps were steady, suitcase rolling behind her like a silent shadow. Her pink kurta fluttered faintly in the breeze. The tinted black cars parked outside didn't register—until Tanvi stepped out, dressed sharply in a navy pantsuit, phone in hand, flanked by five uniformed guards.
"Meera Ma'am," Tanvi said, walking briskly toward her, "Abhimanyu sir has sent me to accompany you to London. We've arranged for additional security, transport, and legal assistance. The Rajputs have reach. We can't risk—"
"I don't need it," Meera cut her off flatly, not even slowing her pace.
Tanvi blinked, surprised. "Ma'am, please—Sir specifically asked me to stay with you through this. It's not just security, it's—"
"I said no, Tanvi." Meera's voice was firmer now, laced with exhaustion.
Still, Tanvi hesitated—and then, as expected, dialed the number. "Sir… she's refusing to take the security and won't let me accompany her."
There was a pause. Then: "He wants to talk to you."
Tanvi held out the phone.
Meera stared at it for a moment. Then took it.
"Meera," Abhimanyu's voice was taut. Low and authoritative, like always. "You're flying into a mess. Take Tanvi. Take the security. Don't be—"
Something snapped.
Her fingers clenched around the phone, her eyes burning.
And then she shouted—right there in the middle of the terminal, people turning to look.
"I said I don't need your help!"
Abhimanyu went silent.
"I never asked for it. I never wanted it. You don't get to control everything in my life, Abhimanyu! Especially not my career. Not after everything. Just—don't!"
Tears slipped down her cheeks now, uninvited, unwelcome.
"I am not one of your projects. I am not your responsibility. I'm done being managed. I have built my career without you, and I'll fix it without you too."
She didn't wait for his reply.
She shoved the phone back into Tanvi's hand, turned away, and walked through the glass doors without looking back.
The guards stood still.
Tanvi didn't move.
And somewhere, in that moment, Meera felt it: heartbreak could live alongside dignity.
And she chose dignity.
———————————————————
ABHIMANYU
Tanvi hadn't even ended the call properly when the sharp click of disconnection echoed in the room.
Abhimanyu stood frozen, phone still in hand, Meera's last words ringing in his ears.
"I never wanted it. You don't get to control everything in my life, Abhimanyu!"
His jaw clenched, breath uneven.
He ran a hand through his hair—slow, almost trembling—and leaned on the edge of his mahogany desk.
A full thirty seconds passed in silence.
And then—
With a low, guttural sound of frustration, he swept his arm across the desk violently. The silver pen stand clattered to the floor. His MacBook—screen still glowing with his last open meeting notes—flew off the desk and smashed against the marble floor, the sound sharp enough to make Tanvi flinch on the other end of the call.
"Damn it, Meera!" he growled, the storm in his chest finally spilling over.
His breath heaved, fists clenched. He looked up at the ornate mirror across his cabin and saw it:
Not power.
Not control.
Just a man cracking at the seams, because the one person he didn't want to lose—
Had already started walking away.
He stood in the chaos of shattered glass and silence.
And for the first time in a long while, Abhimanyu Rajput didn't know what the hell to do next.
————————————————————
MEERA
London Heathrow Airport – Early Morning.
The airport buzzed with the usual rush of footsteps, trolley wheels, and muffled announcements—but for Meera, it all sounded like white noise.
She moved like a ghost through the arrival gate. No makeup. Her pink kurta now slightly crumpled from the long flight. Hair tied in a loose braid. She hadn't touched the in-flight food. Not a single bite. Twenty hours of quiet, fitful sleep and bottled-up ache.
She looked around once—half-heartedly—before she saw a placard with her name.
"Meera Singhania"
The man holding it, dressed in a dark blue overcoat with a discreet "RIZ" badge, nodded respectfully.
"Ms. Meera, I'm Aman. Sir has arranged everything. The car is waiting just outside."
She gave him a polite nod and followed silently. No questions. No words.
As she stepped out of the terminal, the cold London air hit her cheeks. It was harsh, but it felt better than the fire she had been living in.
Sliding into the backseat of the sleek black Mercedes, she sank into the warmth of the leather upholstery and rested her head against the window.
Aman looked at her through the rearview mirror. "Rizwan sir has booked a suite for you at The Dorchester. He said to make sure you're comfortable. Also, he has a meeting scheduled for you with the LFW coordinator at 6 p.m. sharp."
Meera nodded faintly.
Her voice, soft and hoarse from disuse, barely made it out.
"Tell him I'll be ready."
And with that, she closed her eyes again—not to sleep, but to steel herself for what lay ahead.
The war inside her had quieted… but the battlefield was just shifting cities.
————————————————————
ABHIMANYU
Udaipur, Rajput Haveli – Late Morning
The silence in his study was broken only by the gentle hum of the AC and the quiet tick of the antique wall clock. But Abhimanyu Rajput wasn't listening to either. His jaw was clenched, eyes locked on the broken screen of the laptop he'd flung earlier.
Her words still rang in his ears:
"I don't need your help. I never did. I never will."
He ran a hand through his hair, pressing his fingers into his temples as the guilt began clawing its way into his chest.
He had crossed lines. Again. And this time, the price was Meera's dignity—her career.
He exhaled heavily, grabbed his phone, and hit speed dial.
"Tanvi."
Her voice was immediate, professional.
"Sir."
"Book a charter."
His tone was clipped.
"We're flying to London. I want to be in the air in thirty minutes."
A pause.
"Your meeting—"
"Cancel everything. I don't care. She's fighting my battles when she never asked for them. And I… I let her go through that shit with Kunal."
His voice dropped, bitter.
"This ends now."
Mid-Air – Rajput Private Jet
The hum of the engines filled the luxurious cabin, but Abhimanyu sat motionless, staring out at the clouds. A single whisky glass sat untouched on the table. His phone screen lit up every now and then with updates from Tanvi and Daksh.
He ignored them all.
He had four hours to figure out what to say. Four hours to reckon with the fact that Meera had been bruised—by his silence, by his father's shadow, by his own decisions.
His fists clenched.
By the time the jet began descending toward Heathrow, Abhimanyu's eyes had darkened with resolve.
London wasn't just a city this time. It was his battlefield for redemption.
And Meera—she wasn't just a contract anymore.