ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll

21.**Chapter Twenty-One**

As the Land Cruiser pulled up to the penthouse, Meher's grip on the folds of her dupatta tightened. The visit to her parents' house had ignited something inside her—something stronger than pain, stronger than fear. It was fury. A cold, unwavering resolve had settled into her bones. If Rohan Lashari thought she would crumble, if he believed she would resign herself to this forced marriage and become a silent, obedient wife, he was wrong.

She wouldn't scream. She wouldn't beg. No, she would make him regret ever laying a claim on her.

Rohan turned off the ignition and exhaled, rubbing his temple before stepping out. His movements were stiff, tired even, as if the weight of his own actions had started pressing down on him. Meher didn't wait for him to open the door. She pushed it open herself and stepped out, the cold night air biting at her skin.

Rohan glanced at her as she walked past him, her spine straight, her chin lifted, her silence louder than any insult she could have hurled at him.

The guards stationed outside the penthouse entrance moved aside as she strode in, her steps quick and purposeful. Rohan followed behind her, his eyes narrowing slightly at her sudden change in demeanor. He had expected her to be broken after today, to cry herself to sleep, to lash out maybe—but this? This was something else.

Meher reached the living room and came to an abrupt stop. The lavish interior, the soft golden glow of the lights, the expensive furniture—it all felt suffocating. A prison disguised in luxury. She turned around, her gaze locking onto Rohan's as he entered behind her.

Rohan sighed, already feeling the storm brewing between them. "I kept my word," he said, his voice edged with exhaustion. "You saw your family. You spoke to them. You—"

"I did," Meher cut him off, her voice sharp yet eerily calm. "And it reminded me of something very important."

Rohan tilted his head slightly, watching her warily. "And what's that?"

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. "That I will never forgive you for what you've done."

Rohan stiffened. "Meher—"

"I will stay here, Lashari," she continued, her voice dripping with defiance. "I will live under your roof, in your presence, as your so-called wife. But don't think for a second that I'll make this easy for you." She took a slow step forward, her eyes blazing with a fury that sent a strange chill down Rohan's spine. "You think you've won by forcing me into this marriage? No. You've just started a war."

Rohan clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking as he took a deep breath. He knew she would hate him for this, but something about the way she was looking at him now unsettled him. There was no pleading in her eyes anymore, no trembling, no fear—just cold, burning determination.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration creeping in. "You're making this harder than it needs to be," he muttered.

Meher let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Oh, trust me, I haven't even started."

She turned on her heel and strode toward the bedroom, leaving Rohan standing there, his hands balled into fists, his mind already bracing for whatever she had planned.

For the first time since this ordeal began, Rohan felt something unfamiliar—a sense of unease.

Rohan let out a heavy breath, running a hand down his face as he leaned against the back of the couch. The weight of the last twenty-four hours was finally crashing down on him, and for the first time, he felt like he had made a mistake—no, not a mistake, a grave miscalculation. He had expected resistance from Meher, of course. He had expected tears, pleading, even hatred. But this? This defiance, this quiet rage simmering beneath her every word—it was something he hadn't prepared for.