Rohan's car screeched to a halt in front of the penthouse, the tires skidding slightly against the pavement as he turned off the engine with a sharp flick of his wrist. His pulse thundered in his ears, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as frustration coiled tight in his chest.
As he stepped out of the car, the cold evening air did little to cool the fire burning inside him. His mind was a storm—roaring, relentless. As if the suffocating presence of his grandfather at the mansion wasn't enough, now he had to deal with the weight of everything else that came with it.
And now this.
His father's words still rang in his head, the exasperation in Mir's voice grating against his nerves. He had expected his father to at least try to understand. Instead, all he got was more of the same—pacification, appeasement, submission.
Rohan clenched his jaw, stalking up the stairs two at a time. The moment he stepped inside the penthouse, he tossed his car keys onto the table carelessly, the metal making a sharp clatter against the glass surface.
The place was dimly lit, the golden glow of the city filtering through the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the room. The silence was thick, pressing, stretching between the walls like something alive. But it wasn't empty.
Sitting on the carpet, cushioned against the low table, was Meher. Books lay open in front of her, pages filled with hurried notes, half-scribbled thoughts. Her long, dark hair was tied loosely back, though stray strands had fallen around her face, shifting slightly as she moved. Her dupatta, carelessly thrown over the sofa behind her, had slipped further down, as if discarded entirely in favor of focus. A steaming cup of chai sat beside her, untouched, forgotten in the depths of her concentration.
She heard him before she saw him—the measured but heavy footsteps, the barely restrained tension in his gait.
And then, he entered.
Her gaze lifted immediately, colliding with his.
For a long, stretched-out moment, nothing moved.
Her eyes locked onto his—dark, unwavering, unreadable. But there was something there, just beneath the surface. A flicker of quiet apprehension, controlled but unmistakable.
He saw it.
Just as she saw him.
The way he stood there, rigid, coiled like a storm barely held together. His shoulders were stiff, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his breathing shallow, measured, as if forcing himself to maintain control.
There was something dangerous in the way they looked at each other.
Tense. Unspoken. Stretched tight like a wire about to snap.
Meher's stare didn't waver, but the hatred in her eyes was unmistakable now—cold, sharp, seething beneath the quiet of her expression. It wasn't loud, wasn't theatrical, but it was there, embedded deep, burning slow.
And yet, Rohan couldn't look away.
His frustration clawed at him, hot and insistent, but it wasn't just frustration. It was something else, something he couldn't name.
Something that made his throat tighten and his breath come a little too fast.
He hated this—hated the way she looked at him, as if she had already condemned him, as if she had already decided what he was. But worse than that, he hated the way it made him feel.
She saw something in him that even he didn't understand.
And then, she realized—she had seen it before.
YOU ARE READING
ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll
Romance--- Clouds of Arrogance / غرور کے بادل Ghuroor Ke Badal --- Rohan Lashari, heir to a powerful political dynasty, is accustomed to a life of privilege. His father Mir Lashari, a veteran politician, shields him from the repercussions of his rec...
