Pain became her rhythm.
Sweat. Bruises. Blood.
Hey dear readers. Please support me. I really need your support and love to follow my writing further. I will work like motivation for me. Also to be honest. I want to earn little for my self, with my work. So, can i can be self independent, if not much then little will be fine. 😊 Thank you..
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> Widows are meant to mourn. But I wanted to be ruined. He came the day after the funeral. Black sherwani. Gold cufflinks. Eyes so unreadable, I forgot how to breathe. He didn't offer condolences. He didn't speak my name. He only leaned down, placed a box of sindoor on the table... And whispered: > "Your husband owed me everything. Now, I'll take what's mine. You."
> "Remove your dupatta." Meher blinked. "S-sir?" Veer leaned back in his chair, eyes dark as the monsoon sky. "You're here to design the most intimate space of my house, Miss Kapoor. I need to see how you handle discomfort." Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she loosened the end of her dupatta. His gaze never wavered - it devoured. She expected shame. But what she felt... was a flame. He stood up, walked to her, and whispered, "You interest me. That's dangerous for both of us." And in that moment, Meher knew-her life had just changed.
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