The days that followed their last fight unfolded like a slow, suffocating fog.
Rohan mostly stayed at the Lashari Haveli, buried in back-to-back campaign meetings, strategy briefings, and press appearances alongside his father and grandfather.
The mansion — grand and cold — somehow felt more tolerable than the stifling silence of the penthouse.But even when he returned late at night and stepped into the sleek, glass-walled penthouse, it wasn't home anymore.
It was a war zone frozen in a ceasefire.Meher was always there — a silent presence in the background, like a haunting echo he couldn't shake.
Sometimes reading on the sofa, sometimes seated at the breakfast bar with her laptop open and a half-empty mug beside her.
They barely exchanged a glance.
He would walk past her, jaw clenched, eyes forward.
She wouldn't lift her head.If they shared the space, they moved around each other like strangers — never speaking, never touching, never looking too long.
But the silence was not peaceful.It was a loaded kind of quiet, the kind that buzzed in the air like static.
There were nights when Meher would be in the kitchen reheating leftovers, and Rohan would enter behind her, freshly showered, sleeves rolled up, and for a second — just a second — they'd lock eyes. Neither said a word. But both felt the moment drag like a knife across skin.She hated him. And he... he didn't know what he felt anymore.
—-------------------------------
One night, Rohan came home past midnight.
He dropped his keys on the console, loosened his tie, and walked into the living room to find the lights still on. Meher sat curled up on the armchair, knees pulled up to her chest.
She didn't look up.
The television was on, some mindless late-night drama flickering across the screen — but it was clear she wasn't watching it.
She just didn't want to sleep.
And neither did he.
Rohan walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter. His eyes kept drifting to her — unwillingly, unconsciously.
He noticed the way her hair had fallen over one shoulder, the way her fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket she had pulled over herself.
She looked tired.
But more than that, she looked... lonely.
Something twisted in his chest. Something he wasn't ready to name.
He cleared his throat, just slightly — almost instinctively — and she glanced up.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
After a moment, Meher reached for the remote and switched off the TV, got up, and walked past him without a word.
Her shoulder brushed his arm.
The contact was fleeting. But it burned.
He stared after her long after her door had closed.
—----------
The studio in the south wing was more war room than office — its mahogany-paneled walls lined with books on law, politics, and empire-building. Maps of constituencies were spread across a large table, dotted with pins in red and blue. A screen displayed poll numbers. The scent of cigars lingered in the air, as did the weight of decades of Lashari influence.
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...
