ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll

20.**Chapter Twenty**

The soft rays of the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a golden glow over the bedroom. Meher stirred, her body aching as consciousness slowly returned. Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented, her mind struggling to piece together the fragments of the previous night. The unfamiliarity of the room sent a chill down her spine, and then it hit her like a crashing wave—everything.

She sat upright, the duvet pooling around her waist. Her breath caught in her throat as flashes of the events replayed in her mind. The forced nikah, the documents, Rohan’s cold, calculating gaze. She clutched at the duvet tightly, her heart pounding. The realization of where she was—and who had brought her here—left her feeling suffocated.

Slowly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pushed the duvet away. Her feet touched the cold floor, grounding her slightly, though her hands trembled as they rested on her knees. She leaned forward, her head in her hands, trying to steady her rapid breathing.

Tears welled up again, unbidden, spilling silently as she sat there. She felt hollow, as though every ounce of strength had been drained from her. What do I do now? The question echoed in her mind, unanswered, as she grappled with the enormity of her situation.

Her frock from the night before was wrinkled and slightly torn at the hem, a reflection of the chaos she had endured. Her hair was disheveled, strands clinging to her tear-streaked face, and her eyes were swollen from crying. She looked at her hands, noticing faint marks on her wrists where Rohan had gripped her.

The silence in the room was oppressive, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. The opulence of the space only served to deepen her sense of isolation. The large bed, the plush rugs, the elegant furniture—it all felt like a cage, gilded but confining.

Meher felt a deep sense of anger rising within her, mingled with helplessness. “How did it come to this?” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. She clenched her fists, the nails digging into her palms as a futile attempt to steady her spiraling emotions.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Her heart leapt, fear gripping her once more. She froze, unsure of what to do, before instinctively pulling the duvet over her lap, as though it could shield her from whatever was to come.

Rohan knocked on the door once more, but the silence inside persisted. Frustrated, he exhaled sharply and turned the handle, stepping into the room. His eyes immediately fell on Meher. She sat on the edge of the bed, her small frame hunched forward, head buried in her knees, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she were trying to disappear. The faint sound of her muffled sobs reached his ears, sharp and cutting.

For a moment, he just stood there, his chest tightening. The sight of her—broken, fragile—was something he hadn’t prepared for. Slowly, almost cautiously, he approached her. “Meherbano,” he said softly, his voice strained but devoid of the usual sharpness.

She didn’t lift her head. Her shoulders trembled, each sob wracking her body.

Rohan hesitated before kneeling in front of her, trying to meet her at her level. “Meherbano,” he said again, his voice firmer now, though his tone held an edge of desperation. When she still didn’t respond, he reached out cautiously, his hand hovering near her arm.

As his fingers barely brushed her, Meher flinched violently, jerking away from him as though his touch burned. “Don’t,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and trembling. Her body shifted, shrinking further into itself, her knees pulling tighter against her chest.

Rohan’s hand froze in midair before he slowly pulled it back. For a moment, he stared at her, his jaw tightening as a wave of guilt and frustration swept through him. He dropped his hand to his side, his fingers curling into a fist, he said, his voice dropping, almost pleading. “Listen to me.”