The Next Morning
The harsh light of the morning crept in through the partially drawn curtains, forcing Rohan to stir. His head throbbed—a slow, dull ache pulsing behind his temples.
A faint groan escaped his lips as he sat up, his throat dry, his body sluggish, still wrapped in the aftertaste of last night's recklessness.
His eyes flicked to the bedside table. A glass of water sat there, untouched. The memories were fragmented—pieces of the night sloshing in his mind like broken shards. The club. Kabir. Baryal's teasing. The weight of his guilt pressing down until he drowned it in drink.
And Meher.
Her face had surfaced somewhere in the haze, hadn't it? Her touch—gentle, firm on his arm as she helped him. Her scent. The moment in the hallway. Her body pressed to his, the trembling intensity in her breath when he whispered his apologies.
But how much of that was real? And how much was the product of his intoxicated mind trying to stitch broken fantasies?
With a frustrated sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his gaze dropping to his clothes. Still in the same rumpled shirt from last night. The collar was stretched, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
He tugged the shirt over his head and tossed it aside, walking into the bathroom.
The sound of the water echoed in the marble-tiled space as he turned the tap. Cold at first, then searing hot. He stepped under the stream, letting it beat down on his body as if it could wash away the headache, the guilt, the weight pressing into his chest.
His palms braced against the cool tiles.
What had he said to her? Did he really tell her everything? Did she listen? Did she believe him?
He shut his eyes, the water trickling down his face, sliding over his hair, his jaw, tracing the lines of his tired body. His mind scrambled to piece it together—the fragments blurry but vivid enough to leave his pulse heavy.
He had touched her. He had held her waist, refusing to let her go. His lips had trembled as the words slipped out—I'm sorry... please forgive me... I didn't want this...
He had told her about Dada Jaan's expectations, the crushing burden of the family's legacy, the impossible choices.
His throat clenched. Did she see me? Did she see who I really am? Or did she see the man who ruined her father's life?
The memory of her silence stung sharper than the headache.
She hadn't forgiven him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But she had stayed. She hadn't left him there alone. She had covered him with a duvet. She had cared—if only in that moment.
His fists tightened against the wall. A long exhale escaped him as the water cooled.
You're a mess, Rohan. Get it together.
He turned off the shower, the silence of the room creeping back in as the last drops of water slid down his skin. He dried off roughly, ran a hand through his wet hair, and wrapped a towel around his waist.
His green eyes, still clouded with the weight of regret, stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror.
"Stop running," he whispered to himself. "Stop hiding."
Today, he would find her. Today, he would try again.
And this time, he wouldn't let his fear speak for him.
—-------------------------
The sun poured into the penthouse through the sheer curtains, soft rays warming the marble floors. The air was still, but inside Meher's chest, her heart beat in uneven, restless waves.
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...
