The newspapers called her “The Butcher’s Bride.”
She saw the headline over breakfast, her photo beside Kabir’s — her eyes hollow, his face blank.
She shoved the paper away.
Kabir didn’t even blink. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” she snapped.
He leaned back in his chair, unbothered. “You’re mine now. The world sees you as part of me. And in this world, image is power.”
Meher’s hands curled into fists. “You act like I’m just another one of your weapons.”
“You are,” he said coldly, “but prettier.”
She stood up, eyes blazing. “I’m not a pawn in your game, Kabir.”
“You’re not,” he agreed
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