The message was clear.
No signature. No blood. Just a white envelope on Meher’s pillow, waiting like it belonged there.
Inside, a single line:
“You want the truth? Come alone.”
And an address—abandoned textile mill, outskirts of the city.
She knew it was a trap.
But the truth had claws, and Meher was already bleeding from what she didn’t know.
She dressed in black. Strapped a knife under her dupatta. Slipped her phone into her boot. And told no one.
Not Kabir.
Not Vikrant.
Because part of her didn’t want to be saved. Not from this.
The mill was silent when she arrived.
Dust in the air. Shadows dancing like ghosts.
Then she heard it.
A footstep behind her.
“Wrong place for a queen,” Rehan murmured, stepping out of the dark.
“I didn’t come to play,” she said, voice steady. “I came to ask why you’re dragging me into your war.”
He smiled. “Because you’re the only thing Kabir would never sacrifice. The only thing he’d burn for.”
She swallowed. “You’re using me.”
“No,” he said softly. “I’m exposing you.”
He stepped closer. Hand grazing her face. “The girl you are… the power you crave… it doesn’t come from Kabir. It’s always been yours. You just let him wear it.”
And in that moment—
With a trap set in silence—
Meher didn’t know who was more dangerous:
The man who made her a queen…
Or the man who saw the crown first.
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