Chapter 15
Abhinav stepped back into his office.
Meera came in behind him. The door shut with a soft click that settled through the room with a sense of finality. She stayed there for a second, back turned, hand still on the handle, shoulders drawn tight.
Then she turned, facing him.
“A hotel.” Her voice came low. Too controlled.
Abhinav did not move. He watched her the way a man watches a storm he has already decided to stand through. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“You didn’t refuse either.”
The control snapped.
“You are turning Anand Mahal into a hotel.”
The words came sharp.
“Twelve luxury suites. Four hundred years of history turned into suites. Maintaining original architectural integrity. How thoughtful.”
He remained silent.
She started pacing. Fast, restless, unable to stay still.
“The eastern wing.” She spun back, finger raised. “An Ayurvedic spa. Because that is what this Haveli needed. A spa.”
Her voice thickened, slipping into Marwari. “Rajasthani wellness practices. The same rituals my Dadi performed every morning of her life?”
She closed the distance between them.
“And the temple.” Her voice went colder. “Kul Devi Maa.”
Her finger struck his chest.
“Public aarti. During designated hours.”
Again.
“With trained priests.”
Again.
“Who follow rules, not devotion. As if the goddess needs a schedule.”
Her hand dropped, then came up again, anger bursting out. “Generous severance packages.”
A hollow sound escaped her.
“For those who choose to leave. Choose.”
She looked straight at him.
“As if my father has a choice. As if this Haveli is a place he can walk away from.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through, louder. “We are tied to this place in ways you cannot understand sitting there and speaking about numbers.”
She stepped closer without noticing.
“What about my family?” Each word struck harder. “Generations of my family have lived and worked and breathed inside these walls, and you sat here and listened to him speak of severance packages.”
Her finger hit his chest again.
“And you thanked him. Thank you very much. I’ll think about it.”
She was too close now. Close enough that he could see the way her lashes went wet. Tears slid down her cheeks unchecked. But her voice did not slow. Her anger did not loosen its grip.
Her fist struck his chest. Not with force meant to hurt, but it landed.
He did not stop her.
“Do you even know what that temple means?”
Her fist came down again.
“To a woman who comes every Thursday because she has nowhere else to take her grief?”
Again.
“To the children who learned to fold their hands there before they learned to write?”
Again.
“To my father who has not missed a single morning aarti in years?”
Each blow thudded against his chest, but none of them stayed there. They went deeper, past bone, past muscle, settling somewhere that tightened with every word she forced out between breaths.
This was not the Meera who argued with precision and sharp logic. This was raw. Unfiltered.
Her hand stilled. Then both hands caught his collar, twisting the fabric, pulling him closer as if she needed something solid and had chosen him.
“Say something.”
Her voice broke.
“Explain how you can stand there and listen to all of that and just…”
The rest dissolved into a sob.
“This is my home…”
Her head dropped. Shoulders shaking, breath uneven, breaking through her control. The anger remained, but she could not keep it together.
Abhinav had taken every word, every strike, without flinching. But this… this he could not stand through.
The moment her voice broke, something in him broke as well. His chest hurt, like a crack running through something he had always relied on being solid.
And it undid him in a way nothing else had.
His hand closed around her wrist. Careful, soft, measured.
She gasped, trying to pull back. His grip didn’t tighten. It loosened, yet holding without trapping.
“Sit.”
The word came low. Not a command. Not even close. Something… softer.
Her resistance slipped.
He guided her back, his hand still around her wrist. She sank into the chair, unsteady, another sob forcing its way out. His grip eased once she was seated. He reached for water, poured a glass, held it toward her.
She shook her head, tears still falling.
He did not press. He placed the glass within her reach instead.
Then, he stepped closer and lowered himself in front of her, slow, deliberate, until he was on his knees, level with her.
It felt instinctive.
Her face was flushed, tears streaking down her cheeks. Her lips trembled under the weight of words she could not say. Her breath came in pieces. Her hands rested in her lap, shaking, fingers curling into themselves as if they had nowhere left to go now that the fight had drained out of her.
And something in his chest tightened further.
He reached for her, both hands rising to her face. His palms settled against her cheeks, warm, grounding. His fingers slid into her hair, guiding her face up toward him.
She stilled.
Her breath caught.
His thumbs moved over her cheekbones, catching the tears as they fell. It was not only comfort. It was recognition. Of what she had made him feel. Of what it had done to him.
He closed the distance, his gaze locked on hers, open in a way he did not allow often. “I prefer you fighting to crying.”
Her lips parted. No words followed.
“Breathe.”
It was not an order. It was… coaxing.
She dragged in a breath. It broke halfway through. He didn’t move. Just held her there.
“Again.”
She tried. Then once more.
Each breath came easier. The tremor in her shoulders eased. His thumbs moved across her skin, grounding her, drawing her back to herself.
The sobs faded.
Her breathing evened out. But he did not step away. His gaze stayed on her, as if he meant to remember this version of her.
“Are you finished yelling at me?”
Her chin lifted a fraction. “No.”
His mouth curved, closer to approval than amusement.
“Seven days.”
She blinked, still caught between everything that had just happened and the warmth of his hands on her face. “What?”
“Seven days. Show me this place. Show me why it matters. Why I should not sell it.”
His thumbs brushed her cheeks once more, softer now, closing a moment neither of them had planned. Then he drew his hands back.
He braced his palms on either side of her chair, still close enough that his presence pressed into her space. “Seven days to change my mind.”
The words took a second to sink in. Then another. And then… “Oh my God.”
The shift came at once.
Her eyes lit, the heaviness gone in an instant.
“Yes!” She sprang up, the word bursting out of her, arms lifting without thought.
His hands rose on instinct to steady her, but her balance tipped.
They went down together.
His back met the carpet. The impact forced the air from his lungs in a low breath.
Her gasp followed, sharp, startled.
She ended up over him.
Her hair fell forward, brushing his jaw. Her breath warmed his throat. One hand pressed against his chest, fingers curling as she tried to balance herself.
He stayed still, one arm curved around her from reflex, his hand at her waist. The other hand pressed into the carpet, grounding himself against the sudden closeness.
Their eyes met, breathing ran uneven.
A tear had dried along her cheek. A strand of hair clung to it. Her lips parted, eyes wide, startled.
“You celebrate like this often?” His voice dropped, rough at the edges.
She blinked.
Awareness returned all at once.
Where she was.
How close.
How very close.
“Oh!”
She pushed against his chest to rise.
Her hand slipped.
She dipped forward again, her chest pressing into him, her breath catching near his jaw as she tried to regain balance.
His body went rigid. His grip at her waist tightened a fraction.
“Careful,” he murmured, a hint of amusement weaving through his tone. “At this rate, I’ll assume this is intentional.”
She froze. “It’s not…”
She tried again. This time she almost made it, until her dupatta caught, tugging her back just enough to throw her off balance.
He exhaled, sharper now. “Meera…”
Her fingers clenched in his shirt as she caught herself.
And that was it.
That was where he lost it.
A low laugh broke out of him, unguarded. It pulled one from her too, breathless, as she finally pushed herself up.
She stood, then held out her hand.
He looked at it for a second, then took it. Not out of need. Because she offered.
He rose with ease, his fingers lingering around hers a moment longer than required, a rare smile still present.
She stepped back, smoothing her kurta, wiping her face and gathering herself.
“Seven days,” her voice steady now, brightness returning to her voice. “I’ll show you everything. The stories, the families…”
He raised a hand.
She fell silent.
His gaze locked on hers, control settling back in. He needed this defined. Bound. Without that, it would stop being about the Haveli. It would turn into her. And he wasn’t prepared to let her see that. Not yet. Not without answers he didn’t have.
“Conditions.”
She waited.
“One. Your full attention. No distractions.”
She nodded.
“Two. Complete honesty. Everything. Even what does not work.”
“Yes.”
“Three. At the end of seven days, my decision stands. No arguments.”
The light in her eyes dimmed for an instant, then returned with resolve.
“Agreed. All of it.”
She stepped back, adjusting her dupatta. Then, unexpectedly, she dipped her head. Not out of obligation. In acknowledgment. Of him. Of his title.
“Hukum.”
Then she was gone. Her footsteps were quick, purposeful, fading down the corridor with her plans and her seven days.
Abhinav stood very still.
Hukum.
He had heard it countless times since arriving in Jaipur. From staff. From strangers. From those who understood its weight.
But this… this was the first time Meera had said it.
Meera, who threw the word Boss like a challenge. Meera, who met him head-on, who never bent without choice.
The word had a music to it when she said it. A cadence that lingered longer than it should have, settling in a place he could not shut out.
An image rose.
That word in her voice. But not like this. Not in a formal bow in a sunlit office. In the darkness. Breathy. Unsteady.
His hands pressed flat against the desk.
Meera beneath him, her head tilted back, hair spread across his bed, her fingers gripping the sheets as if they were the only thing holding her in place. That word leaving her like she had nothing else left to give, nothing else left to say. A demand. A plea. A prayer.
It stayed.
Not as an image.
As a feeling.
He had wanted women before. Known attraction. Known desire.
This wasn’t desire. This went deeper.
It was recognition.
The kind that did not ask permission. The kind that altered ground without warning.
And all that remained was the question of what he intended to do with it.
He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and straightened his shirt. His gaze went to the closed door where her footsteps had already faded.
Seven days.
His eyes darkened, resolve settling in.
He was going to find out exactly what had already begun between them.