The next morning, Meher awoke to silence—and a silk saree laid neatly on her bed.
A note lay beside it in bold black ink:
“Wear this. Breakfast. Downstairs. Don’t make me come get you. – K”
She stared at the note like it might catch fire. Every part of her screamed to rebel, to run, to tear it all apart. But she wasn’t stupid.
Not anymore.
She dressed.
Downstairs, the dining hall was grand and empty except for Kabir. He sat at the head of the table, calm, stirring his tea like this was a normal marriage.
She took the seat opposite him, keeping her chin high.
“You’re learning,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to her face.
“I’m surviving.”
He chuckled darkly. “Good girl.”
The food sat untouched between them. She watched him. Noticed the scars on his knuckles, the quiet menace in how he held his cup.
“Why me?” she asked suddenly. “Out of all the debts you could collect… why this one?”
Kabir leaned back, eyes narrowing.
“Your father betrayed me years ago,” he said. “I don’t forget betrayal. But I prefer creative punishment.”
Meher stared. “So I’m a punishment?”
“No,” he said softly, almost gently. “You’re the beginning.”
And with those words, Meher felt the chill of something bigger—something crueler than just revenge.
She wasn’t the end of the story.
She was the spark.
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