Chapter 1: The Daughter of Empire
Meher Anand was not raised in a house.
She was raised in a fortress built from profit margins.
Her father, Rajveer Anand, was not just wealthy. He was infrastructure. Steel plants. Ports. International contracts. His signature moved markets. His silence unsettled ministers.
From childhood, Meher learned two things:
Money speaks louder than emotions.
Reputation is oxygen.
She grew up between marble corridors and board meetings, absorbing conversations about mergers the way other children absorbed bedtime stories.
But she did not become ornamental.
She became formidable.
MBA. Top of her class. Strategy specialization.
Now a senior consultant at a multinational firm.
Her days were spreadsheets, risk reports, restructuring models.
Her clients trusted her because she did not blink under pressure.
At work, she wore tailored blazers.
At home, she wore the weight of expectation.
Her father was proud of her.
Just not enough to defy tradition.
The alliance came like all corporate deals do.
Quietly. Strategically.
The groom: Karan Malhotra.
Son of a massive real estate conglomerate.
Charming in public. Poison in private.
His family had been business rivals of another major empire for years. A marriage would seal dominance in the market.
It was perfect.
On paper.
Meher met him twice before the engagement.
The first time, he smiled too long.
The second time, he leaned closer than necessary.
“You’ll look beautiful managing my house,” he murmured once, fingers brushing her wrist without invitation.
Not partnership.
Possession.
She pulled her hand back.
He laughed like she was cute for resisting.
The newspapers called it the “alliance of the decade.”
Two empires.
One wedding.
One strategic consolidation of power.
Meher stood beside him, diamonds at her throat, cameras flashing.
She felt like a contract.
Not a bride.
Her father whispered, “This is good for the business.”
She nodded.
Because daughters of industrialists do not argue during press conferences.
Karan began to reveal himself in fragments.
Late night calls demanding to know where she was.
Casual remarks about how she wouldn’t need to work after marriage.
A joke about how “strong women need to be trained.”
He would grip her waist in public just a second too long.
Smile for the cameras.
Then squeeze.
Not hard enough to bruise.
Just enough to remind her.
Two days before the wedding, during a “family discussion,” his mother spoke sweetly:
“We believe in tradition. The additional property transfer and luxury vehicle are small gestures.”
Small gestures.
Worth crores.
Her father went silent.
Calculating.
Negotiating.
Not refusing.
Meher watched the room.
Watched herself being itemized.
And something inside her went cold.
Not broken.
Cold.
She realized then:
This marriage was not an alliance.
It was acquisition.
And she was the asset.
That night, in her childhood bedroom filled with awards and degrees, she stared at her reflection in bridal red.
MBA. Consultant. Daughter of empire.
And still… priced.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Karan:
“After marriage, you won’t need all this independence drama.”
Drama.
She booked a flight.
First available international departure.
No plan.
No luggage.
Just a passport and fury.
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