Hours later, Kiara woke up alone. The large penthouse, all glass and steel, was silent and still. It felt strange, almost too empty. This wasn’t the old Rathore mansion; it was Abhimaan’s private world, high above the noise and haze of Mumbai. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows,, brightening a space that held no sign of life or warmth. It was meant to be hers. Theirs. But now, its sheer size felt overwhelming.

The sound of quiet voices caught her attention. Barefoot on the cold marble floor, she followed it to a frosted glass door. Through it, she saw Abhimaan standing against the city skyline, dressed sharply in a charcoal suit that radiated control. The phone was pressed to his ear, his posture straight, his expression hard. "End the talks right now," he said, voice calm and sharp. "We buy completely or not at all. Make it happen." The chill in his tone and the authority in his stance made her shiver. He was nothing like the man whose breath had warmed her neck just hours ago.