#ranveersinghxreader

The air in the private chambers of Sultan Alauddin Khilji did not drift; it hung, heavy with the scent of burning ambergris, expensive musk, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel. It was a space that mirrored the man: vast, chaotic, and suffocatingly opulent.

​Alauddin sat perched upon a low, velvet-upholstered dais, his back a map of scars and tension. He was not a man built for stillness, yet here he was, forced into a temporary truce with gravity. Behind him, two trembling handmaidens worked with practiced, terrified precision. Their fingers wove through the ink-black river of his hair, thick and wild, slicked with scented oils. They braided it tightly, section by section, a ritual that felt less like grooming and more like the harnessing of a dark, primordial force.

​He didn't look like a king in this moment; he looked like a predator mid-molt. His kohl-rimmed eyes were fixed on a point in the middle distance, flickering with a restless, hungry light.

​"Speak." Alauddin growled. The word wasn't a command; it was a threat.

​At the foot of the dais, a court snitch—a man whose entire existence depended on his ability to be more interesting than his own execution—bowed so low his forehead brushed the cold stone.

​"My Sultan, the caravans from the Deccan have arrived!" the man stammered. "They bring tales of the southern kingdoms. They say the gold there is so plentiful it is used to shoe horses, and the spices are so potent they can wake the dead."

​Alauddin let out a low, vibrating hum of boredom. Gold was a tool; spices were a distraction. He wanted something that burned.

​"Is that all? I have heard of golden horses since I was a cub in the dust of Ghazni. If you have nothing but merchant’s tallies to offer me, I shall have the girls braid your tongue into my hair instead."

​The handmaidens’ fingers faltered for a fraction of a second. Alauddin’s eyes snapped toward the mirror. The girls froze, breath held, until he looked away.

​"There is... there is a poet, My Lord..!" the snitch hurried, his voice rising in pitch. "A traveler who fled the southern heat. He sings a ghazal in the markets. Not of gold, but of a sun that rises in the South. A woman. The Princess of the Emerald Coast."

​Alauddin tilted his head. The movement was predatory, feline. "A woman.. Every king has a daughter. Every daughter has a poet who wants a meal. Why should I care for this southern flower?"

​"Because, Sultan," the man whispered, sensing he had found the vein, "the poet says she is not a flower to be plucked, but a kingdom to be conquered. He says that when she walks, the ocean stills its waves to hear her footsteps. He says her eyes do not reflect the light—they possess it."

​Alauddin gestured sharply. "The poem. Recite it. If the meter is off, I’ll have your head. If the imagery is dull, I’ll have your eyes."

​The informant swallowed hard and began to recite, his voice trembling as he channeled the flowery, desperate prose of a man who had seen a goddess and lived to regret his mortality.

​"Beyond the Vindhyas, where the earth meets the salt, dwells a fire encased in the skin of a jewel.

She is the silence before the storm, the edge of the blade, the nectar that turns the wise man into a beast.

Men do not look at her and dream of love; they look at her and dream of death, for to possess her is to burn the world to ashes and call it a fair trade.."

​The chamber went deathly silent. The only sound was the soft snip-snip of the maidens tying off the braids with golden thread.

​Alauddin’s expression didn't soften. It sharpened. He repeated the last line under his breath, the syllables tasting like wine and blood on his tongue. "To burn the world to ashes and call it a fair trade."

​He reached out, his hand—rough, calloused, and stained with the ghosts of a thousand murders—grabbing a silver goblet from a side table. He didn't drink. He simply stared at his own reflection in the wine.

​"Describe her." he commanded, his voice now a low, dangerous purr.

​"They say her skin is so soft that the softest flower petal might bruis3 her.." the snitch said, gaining confidence as he saw the Sultan’s pupils dilate. "Her hair—it is like the midnight monsoon, heavy and smelling of sandalwood. But it is her spirit they fear. They say she is a scholar of war as much as dance. That she loves her people with a ferocity that makes the tigers of the South seem tame."

​Alauddin’s grip tightened on the goblet until the silver groaned. This was the spark. He didn't want a trophy; he wanted a challenge. He wanted a woman who would look at the shadow of his wings and not flinch. He wanted a soul that required a siege.

​"South.." Alauddin whispered. He turned his head, ignoring the protest of the handmaidens as he broke their rhythm. He looked toward the balcony, where the humid air of Delhi swirled. "The South is a long way. Many mountains. Many rivers. Many kings who think they are gods.."

​He stood up abruptly. The handmaidens scattered like frightened birds, dropping the combs and silk ribbons. His hair was half-finished—black coils cascading down one shoulder, tight, regal braids on the other. He looked like a god of chaos, unfinished and terrifying.

​He walked toward the window, his heavy robes trailing behind him like the wake of a shark. He leaned against the stone archway, his mind already crossing the borders of his map. He could see it—not the kingdom, not the gold, but her. He didn't even know her name, yet he felt a possessive thrum in his chest, a tether snapping tight across the distance of a thousand miles.

​He let out a short, bark-like laugh that sent shivers down the spines of everyone in the room.

​"She does not know that I have been looking for a reason to set the South on fire.. She does not know that by being beautiful, she has signed the death warrant of every man who dares to look at her before I do."

​He turned back to the room, his eyes burning with an obsessive, manic clarity. The "gossip" was no longer news; it was a prophecy. He didn't care about the politics of the Deccan or the trade routes of the coast. He cared about the woman who was, when the words were true, the biggest treasure the South could offer.

​"Bring the poet to me." Alauddin ordered, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I want to hear the poem again. Every word. Every inflection. I want to know the exact shade of her eyes before I go to claim them."

​He sat back down, not for the servants, but for the sheer weight of his own anticipation. He was a man who took what he wanted, but for the first time, he felt the urge to savor the hunt.

​"Braided." he snapped at the maidens, gesturing to his hair. "Finish it. I must look like a Sultan when I begin the march that will end at her feet."

​He closed his eyes, the poem looping in his mind. He could already feel the heat of the southern sun, or perhaps it was just the fever of a man who had found his next, and final, obsession.

The following morning, the heat in Delhi did not merely rise; it arrived with a vengeance, shimmering off the sandstone ramparts like the breath of a furnace. Inside the Sultan’s private audience chamber, the air was cooler but infinitely more suffocating.

​Alauddin Khilji sat not on his throne, but on a low, fur-covered bolsters, his posture that of a man lounging on the edge of a precipice. He was dressed in layers of diaphanous silk, his chest partially bared, revealing the silver talismans that hung against his skin. His hair, now fully braided and gleaming with the scent of crushed oud, framed a face that was a study in restless hunger.

​In the center of the room, kneeling on a prayer rug he didn't deserve, was the poet.

​The man was a wreck. His robes were stained with the dust of the highway, and his eyes were bloodshot from a night spent in the shadow of the gallows. He knew that in this court, a beautiful lie could buy a province, but a boring truth was a death sentence.

​"The poet." Alauddin said, his voice a gravelly silk. He didn't look at the man. He was busy peeling a pomegranate with a small, wicked-looking dagger. "You have traveled far to bring me a curse. For that is what a beautiful woman is to a King. A curse upon his focus."

​"Sultan-e-Jahan.." the poet croaked, pressing his face to the floor. "I bring not a curse, but a vision. One that my poor tongue can scarcely hold without burning."

​"Then let it burn." Alauddin snapped, tossing a blood-red seed into his mouth. He leaned forward, the shadows of the room pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. "Yesterday, i heard of a jewel, Today, I want the flesh. I want the bone. I want to know why a man would walk across the burning sands just to catch a glimpse of this... southern mirage."

​The poet took a shuddering breath. He knew his life hung by the thread of his adjectives. He closed his eyes, summoning the image of the Princess he had seen through the jali screens of the southern palace—a vision that had haunted his dreams and ruined his peace.

​"She is not a mirage, My Lord. She is the weight of the earth itself.." the poet began, his voice growing steady with the desperate rhythm of his craft. "Imagine the deepest night of the monsoon. Her hair is that night—not straight like the northern silk, but a riot of heavy, dark curls that coil like serpents around her throat. When she unbinds it, the scent of fresh roses and sandalwood fills the air so thickly that men grow dizzy, as if they have drunk a year’s vintage in a single breath."

​Alauddin’s knife paused against the fruit. He could almost smell it—the fresh, damp sweetness of a woman who belonged to the humid, fertile South.

​"Go on.." Alauddin murmured. "The face. Tell me of the face that shames the sun."

​"Her skin, Sultan... " The poet said, his hands shaking as he gestured in the air. "It is the color of honey poured over bronze. It is soft—so soft that if a petal fell upon her cheek, it would leave a bruise of longing. And her lips..." The poet swallowed hard, his own mouth dry. "They are not thin lines of modesty. They are plump, round, and the color of a bitten plum. They are the lips of a woman created for the sole purpose of undoing a man’s prayers."

​Alauddin’s dark eyes narrowed. He traced the edge of his dagger with his thumb, imagining those lips beneath the steel, or perhaps beneath his own. The possessiveness was already there, a cold, hard knot in his stomach. He hadn't even seen her, yet he felt a primal rage that this poet—this worm—had even looked upon her.

​"And the jewelry?" Alauddin prompted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "They say the South drips with emeralds."

​"The emeralds are beggars in her presence, My Lord," the poet cried, sensing the Sultan’s deepening trance. "She wears a nath—a golden ring in her nose—strung with a single, teardrop pearl that rests against the curve of her mouth. She wears heavy gold in her ears and chains across her forehead. But the tragedy, Sultan, is that the gold makes her face look dull. The diamonds seem like common glass against the radiance of her eyes. One looks at the jewels and wishes them gone, so they might stop obstructing the view of the goddess beneath."

​Alauddin let out a low, guttural sound. He stood up, his movements fluid and predatory. He began to pace around the kneeling poet, his shadow falling over the man like a shroud.

​"You speak of her as if she is a statue in a temple." Alauddin said, stopping behind the man. He placed a heavy, ring-clad hand on the poet's shoulder. The man flinched. "But statues do not breathe. Statues do not tempt a Sultan to move his armies."

​"She is no statue," the poet gasped, his voice cracking. "Her figure is... it is the very definition of womanhood. She is not a girl, Sultan. She is full-bodied, her curves like the winding rivers of her homeland. When she moves, her hips sway with a weight that is incredibly, agonizingly sensual. She carries the bounty of the earth in her frame. To look at her waist is to understand the meaning of hunger; to look at her bosom is to understand the meaning of sanctuary. She makes men weak, My Lord. Not because she is frail, but because she is too much life for one man to contain."

​The chamber was silent, save for the heavy, rhythmic thud of Alauddin’s heart. He could see her. The dark curls clinging to the honeyed skin of her neck, the heavy gold clinking against her skin as she walked, the insolent, plump curve of her lips. He could feel the South calling to him—not for its spices, not for its ports, but for the woman who was a kingdom unto herself.

​He reached down and grabbed the poet by the back of his neck, hauling him up until they were eye to eye. The poet’s face was pale with terror.

​"You have a gift, poet.." Alauddin whispered, his breath smelling of pomegranate and iron. "You have painted a picture that has set my blood on fire. But tell me... if I go there, and I find that your words were a lie... if her skin is not like bronze and her lips are not like plums... what should I do with you?"

​"Sultan..!" the man whimpered. "I swear... I swear by my soul, she is more than I can say. To see her is to lose one’s mind..!"

​Alauddin smiled. It was not a kind smile; it was the look of a man who had just decided to destroy a world. He let go of the poet, who collapsed back onto the rug.

​"Keep him." Alauddin commanded the guards at the door. "Feed him. Clothe him in silk. But if he tries to leave, cut his hamstrings. He will stay with the army. He will recite these verses every night as we march South. I want his words to keep my rage hot."

​He walked to the window, looking out toward the horizon where the distant mountains guarded the path to the Deccan.

​He turned back, his eyes flashing with a manic, obsessive light that promised no mercy.

​"Prepare everything!" he roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of the palace. "We march for the Emerald Coast. I have a debt of poetry to collect."

At the same time, the air in the southern kingdom of Madurai was not like the dry, aggressive heat of the north. Here, it was a living thing—thick with the scent of damp earth, blooming jasmine, and the salt spray of the nearby sea. In the heart of the Emerald Palace, the morning was a symphony of soft sounds: the distant ringing of temple bells, the rhythmic sweeping of brooms on stone, and the gentle hiss of steam.

​You sat before a massive, polished bronze mirror that turned your reflection into a warm, glowing specter. Your chambers were open to the gardens, the silk curtains fluttering like the wings of trapped butterflies.

​"Steady, Princess.." your head maid, Meena, whispered. She held a silver brazier filled with glowing coals, topped with dried vetiver and frankincense.

​Two younger girls stood behind you, draped in thin cotton, their dark skin glistening with the humidity. They held your hair—a heavy, midnight-black mantle of damp curls—over the rising steam. The scented vapor spiraled through the coils, softening the stubborn tangles and infusing the strands with a fragrance that would last until moonrise. It was a slow, meditative process. The steam dampened your skin, making the fine silk of your chemise cling to the small of your back, emphasizing the womanly curve of your hips and the proud arch of your spine.

​You watched your reflection, tracing the line of your own jaw. You were a daughter of the sun and the sea, and today, you felt particularly grounded in your power.

​"The markets are restless this morning, My Lady.." Meena said, her voice dropping as she began to draw a wide-toothed ivory comb through your tresses.

​You closed your eyes, leaning into the sensation. "The markets are always restless, Meena. If the spice traders aren't arguing over the price of cardamom, they are inventing scandals about the temple dancers. What is it today? Has the sea king sent another tribute of flawed pearls?"

​Meena exchanged a look with the other girls. "No, Princess. It is the North. The shadow is moving."

​You didn't flinch. To the southern kingdoms, the Sultanate in Delhi was a distant, bloody fable—a campfire story told to frighten children. "The Khilji?" you asked, your voice melodic and disinterested. "He has been 'moving' for years. He swallows the desert, he spits out fire, and then he retreats to his stone cage in the dust. Why should his restlessness trouble our shores?"

​"They say his banners have crossed the Narmada." Meena whispered, her hands trembling slightly as she worked a knot in your hair. "The scouts say the dust from his cavalry clogs the sky for miles. He comes south with an army that could drink the rivers dry. But the strange thing, My Lady... nobody knows why."

​You opened your eyes, catching Meena’s gaze in the bronze. "A sultan like Alauddin does not need a reason beyond greed. Perhaps the Hoysalas have forgotten to send their gold. Or perhaps he simply wishes to see if our sun is as hot as the poets claim. He is a maniac, Meena. A blood-soaked madman..But he is a madman who understands geography. To reach us, he would have to break ten kingdoms and a thousand miles of jungle. He is likely heading for Devagiri or the western ports. We are too far, too protected by the salt and the heat."

​"They say he carries a poet with him.." one of the younger girls chimed in, her voice hushed with awe. "A man who recites verses to the soldiers every night to keep them marching through the fever-lands. Verses about a hidden treasure."

​You laughed, a rich, vibrant sound that seemed to brighten the dim room. "A poet! Then he is even more of a fool than the stories say. Let him bring his poets and his horses. The jungle will swallow his men, and the humidity will rust his swords before he ever smells the salt of our air. Dismiss these fears, Meena. You’re pulling my hair.."

​Meena apologized quickly, her fingers returning to their rhythmic task.

​As the steam dissipated, the girls began the long process of oiling your skin. They used a blend of sandalwood and crushed pearls, rubbing it into your arms and shoulders until your skin felt like the finest satin. You watched as they draped the heavy gold jewelry upon you—the nath that pierced your nostril, weighted with a pearl that brushed your upper lip; the heavy, clinking waist-chain that rested against the swell of your hips; the necklaces that layered over your chest like a golden breastplate.

​You felt invincible. You were the heart of this kingdom, the brave daughter of a line that had never bowed. The thought of a northern tyrant was nothing more than a smudge on the horizon of your mind. You were focused on the festival of the monsoon, on the grain stores, and on the poetry of your own people.

​"If he comes.." you said, standing up as the maids draped your heavy silk sari around you, tucking it firmly at your waist to accentuate the hourglass of your frame, "he will find that the South does not break. He will find that we do not fear shadows in the dust. Now, tell the court jeweler I am ready to see the new rubies. I have no time for the ghosts of Delhi."

​You walked toward the balcony, your hips swaying with a natural, effortless grace that sent the gold chains at your waist into a soft, melodic chime. You looked out over your city—the vibrant greens, the turquoise water, the teeming life of a people who felt safe under your shadow.

​You did not see the hawk circling high above, a scout from a world you couldn't imagine. You did not feel the tether tightening. You felt only the warmth of the sun, unaware that a thousand miles away, a man was reciting a poem about your lips, and a Sultan was burning his maps, having decided that the only destination left in the world... was you.

​You picked up a jasmine flower from a bowl by the window, inhaling its sweetness, completely unaware that the "maniac" was not coming for your gold, or your land, or your father’s crown.

​He was coming for the beauty the south possessed, And he was already closer than you dreamed..

Days passed, even weeks, you no longer payed attention to any stories of the Sultan marching south, until one night..

The night was a void, stripped of its stars by a thick, suffocating blanket of monsoon clouds that refused to break. In the Emerald Palace, the air was unnaturally still, as if the very stone held its breath. The usual nocturnal chorus of the Southern jungles—the rhythmic trill of cicadas and the distant cry of night birds—had fallen into a terrified silence.

​Then came the sound that shattered the peace of the South forever.

​It was not a knock. It was a rhythmic, metallic thud that vibrated through the foundation of the palace—the sound of heavy mace-butts striking the reinforced teak of the outer gates. The rumble rolled through the corridors, snaking into your bedchamber where you lay under silk sheets, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

​Within minutes, the palace was a hive of panicked activity. Torches flickered wildly in the hallways. Your father, the King, stood in the Great Hall, his royal robes thrown hastily over his night-tunic, his hand trembling as he gripped the hilt of a ceremonial sword.

​Before him stood a messenger who looked less like a diplomat and more like a demon. The man was clad in blackened chainmail, his face scarred by the sun and the wind of a thousand-mile gallop. He did not bow. He stood with the insolence of a man who served a god.

​"My Sultan does not like to wait for the sun," the messenger’s voice rasped, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Alauddin Khilji, Shadow of God and Lord of the Two Seas, sits upon his stallion at the edge of your valley. He wishes to break bread with the King and his kin. Now. He has heard of the hospitality of the South. Do not make him find it by force."

​Your father’s face was ashen. He knew the stories of Devagiri—of kingdoms turned to graveyards in a single night of Khilji’s "hospitality."

​ He looked toward the shadows where you stood, partially hidden by a silk-draped pillar. Realization hit him. The Sultan marched all this way for you. And he wouldn't leave without you..or the blood of your kingdom on his hands.

​You stepped forward into the torchlight. You were dressed in a simple, flowing robe of deep crimson, your dark curls spilling over your shoulders in a wild, uncombed mass. You looked at the messenger—at the dried blood on his boots and the manic glint in his eyes—and you felt a cold, sharp clarity settle over you. This was not a storm you could hide from. This was a predator that had to be managed, lured, and eventually, outmaneuvered.

​"Father.." you said, your voice steady and melodic, cutting through the tension like a silver blade. "Fear is a poor host. If we bar the gates, he will tear them down. If we cower, he will burn the city to light his way. We shall give him what he asks, but on our terms."

​You turned to the messenger. You saw his eyes widen as they traveled over you—taking in the honeyed skin of your throat, the plump curve of your lips, and the sheer, womanly defiance in your posture. You were everything the poet had promised, and in the messenger’s gaze, you saw the reflection of the Sultan’s obsession.

​"Tell your Sultan," you said, stepping closer until you were only a pace away from the scarred warrior, "that the South does not receive guests in the dark like thieves. It is beneath the dignity of a King, and certainly beneath the dignity of a Conqueror."

​The messenger stepped back, momentarily silenced by your radiance.

​"The sun will rise in four hours," you continued. "At that time, the Royal Gardens will be prepared. We shall host a breakfast for the Sultan. He will find the hospitality of our house to be as warm as he desires. But tell him to bide his time until the first light touches the temple spires. A Sultan who cannot master his own patience will never master a kingdom like this."

​The messenger sneered, his hand twitching near his belt. "The Sultan does not take orders from—"

​"Oh, trust me" you interrupted, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "He will."

​You reached up, your fingers disappearing into the heavy, midnight curls at the nape of your neck. With a swift, decisive movement, you drew a small, jeweled dagger from the belt of your father’s guard standing nearby. Before anyone could protest, you sliced through a thick, lustrous strand of your own hair.

​The silk-black lock fell into your palm, smelling of the vetiver steam and the natural musk of your skin. You stepped forward and pressed the hair into the messenger’s rough, calloused hand.

​"Take this to him," you whispered. "As a token of the beauty he has traveled so far to see. Tell him that if he waits for the morning, he shall see the face that belongs to this lock. If he attacks tonight, he will find only ashes."

​The messenger stared at the hair in his palm as if it were a coiled viper. The scent of it seemed to druken him for a moment—the pure, intoxicating essence of you. He closed his fist around it, bowed low—not out of respect for your father, but out of a sudden, terrifying awe of you—and turned on his heel.

​The sound of his horse’s hooves galloped away into the starless night.

​Your father collapsed into his throne, his head in his hands. "You have signed your death warrant, my child. Or worse. You have given him a scent to follow. He will never leave now."

​"He was never going to leave, Father.." you said, looking out toward the dark horizon where the Sultan’s campfires began to dot the hills like the eyes of a thousand wolves. "But now, I have bought us time. And I have made him wait. A man who waits is a man who can be tempted into a trap."

​You walked to the window, watching the flickers of fire in the distance. You could almost feel his presence—a dark, heavy weight pressing against the boundaries of your world. You knew that in a few hours, you would be sitting across from a maniac whose love was a form of war.

​You touched the place where you had cut your hair, sighing deeply. You would save your kingdom.. somejow you would make it. But as the first grey light of dawn began to bleed into the sky, you realized that to save your people, you would have to step into the cage of the tiger and make him believe you were the one who was captured.

​The morning was coming. And with it, the Tyrant.

The pre-dawn light filtered through the high, arched windows of the War Room, casting long, jagged shadows across the massive topographical map of the South. The air was thick with the smell of old parchment, cold sweat, and the sharp, acidic tang of fear.

​Around the table stood the pillars of your father’s reign—scarred generals with grey in their beards, royal spies who lived in the shadows, and the Chief Minister, whose hands shook as he adjusted his spectacles. The atmosphere was one of frantic, doomed energy.

​"We must collapse the western pass.." General Varman roared, his fist slamming into the table, rattling the brass markers that represented the Khilji cavalry. "If we trap them in the valley, we can pick them off with archers from the cliffs. It is our only chance!"

​"And what of the city?" the Minister countered, his voice shrill. "The Sultan has ten men for every one of ours. If we strike his vanguard, he will put every village from here to the coast to the torch. We must find his supply lines. We must know how many weeks of grain he has brought through the jungle."

​The room erupted into a cacophony of tactical jargon—fortifications, scorched earth, naval blockades. They were men drowning in a sea of logistics, trying to fight a monster with math.

​You stood at the periphery, dressed in a simple but elegant wrap of saffron silk, your arms crossed. You had watched them for an hour. They were looking at the Sultan as a military problem. They were looking at him as a map. They didn't understand that Alauddin Khilji was not a map. He was a fever.

​"You are looking for the wrong vulnerabilities.." you said, your voice calm and cool, slicing through the shouting like a sudden breeze.

​The room went silent. The generals turned, their expressions a mix of patronizing indulgence and desperation.

​"Princess," your father said, rubbing his weary eyes. "This is not the time for poetry. We are discussing the survival of the dynasty."

​"And I am discussing how to win without losing a single soldier." you replied, stepping into the circle of light. You placed a finger on the map, right where the Sultan’s camp was marked. "You want to know his troop numbers? You want to know which of his generals are loyal and where his siege engines are hidden? You want to know the 'sensitive information' that would take a hundred spies a year to uncover?"

​You looked at the hardened men around the table. "You will never get it by force. He is a man who eats force for breakfast. But he is also a man who has traveled a thousand miles because of a lock of hair and a dozen verses. He is a man who wants to be seen.."

​"What are you suggesting?" General Varman asked, his eyes narrowing.

​"I am suggesting that I ask him." you said simply.

​A collective gasp went up. Your father stepped forward, his face pale. "Ask him? You would speak of war over a meal? He is a butcher, child! He will see through you in an instant."

​"No.." you said, a small, calculated smile playing on your lips. "He will see exactly what he wants to see. He wants a woman who is impressed by his power. He wants a woman who is 'interested' in the Great Conqueror. If I play the role of a sheltered Princess, wide-eyed and breathless at the tales of his victories, he will boast. A man like Alauddin cannot help himself. He will tell me his secrets not because I forced them, but because he wants to prove to me that he is the most dangerous man in the world."

​"It is too dangerous.." the Minister whispered. "The moment he suspects—"

​"He won't suspect." you interrupted, turning to your father. "Because you are going to make sure the environment is perfect. I want no soldiers in the garden. No visible guards, no drawn blades. I want the air to smell of jasmine and honey, not iron. I want the finest musicians to play the veena softly in the background. If he feels threatened, he will be a Sultan. If he feels adored, he will be a man."

​Your father grabbed your shoulders. "I cannot let you do this. If he touches you—"

​"He willdo worse than that if we don't stop him.." you said, your voice softening with a chilling resolve. "He is already here. You can spend the morning sharpening swords that will surely break against his numbers, or you can leave this to me. Let me be the shield. Let me use the curiosity he has for me as a weapon."

​You looked at the generals, your gaze commanding. "Tell your men to stand down. Retreat to the inner barracks. Let the gardens be an oasis of peace. If the Sultan sees a single spear tip gleaming in the sunlight, the illusion is broken. He must believe I have surrendered my heart before I ever surrender my city."

​Your father looked at you, really looked at you, and for the first time, he saw not his daughter, but a Queen who understood the darker nuances of power. He saw the "brave woman" who was willing to walk into the lion’s den with nothing but a smile and a question.

​"Fine." he whispered, his voice breaking. "The garden will be yours.. The breakfast will be a masterpiece. But God help us all if you miscalculate.."

​"I haven't miscalculated," you said, turning to leave. "I know exactly what he is. He is a fire. And I am the only one who knows how to breathe in the smoke."

​You walked out of the War Room, the heavy gold of your jewelry clinking softly. As you reached your chambers, you saw the first rays of the sun hitting the emerald tiles of the courtyard. The four hours were up.

​You sat at your vanity, gesturing for Meena to begin the final touches. You chose your heaviest rubies—the ones that looked like drops of congealed blood. You painted your lips that plum-dark red the poet had described. You made yourself the fantasy he had marched for, but behind your eyes, you were counting. Counting the minutes until you had to look into the face of the maniac and make him believe you were his.

​"He is at the gate, My Lady.." Meena whispered, her voice trembling.

​You took a deep breath, smoothing the silk over your hips. "Then let the music begin. And tell the cooks to bring the honey. The Sultan is hungry."

The sun had finally breached the horizon, bleeding a bruised gold across the manicured paradise of the Royal Gardens, but Alauddin Khilji saw none of its natural beauty. To him, the garden was a cage of delays.

​He paced the length of the marble walkway like a panther confined to a gilded room. Every step of his heavy, pointed boots was a deliberate strike against the stone, a rhythmic declaration of his impatience. He was dressed in a manner that would have blinded a lesser man—a robe of midnight-black silk shot through with veins of real gold, heavy with the weight of raw rubies that adorned his chest like drops of fresh arterial blood. His hair was a masterpiece of severe, tight braids, and his kohl was applied with such thick, aggressive strokes that his eyes looked like two burning coals set into a skull of bronze.

​He was alone, save for a few of his personal shadow-guards who stood like statues at the periphery, and the palace servants who flitted through the periphery like frightened ghosts.

​"Where is she?" he roared, the sound echoing off the high garden walls and sending a flurry of colorful birds screaming into the sky.

​He didn't wait for an answer. He turned on his heel, his heavy silk cape snapping behind him. He reached a low-hanging branch of a flowering frangipani tree—vibrant, delicate, and smelling of heaven—and with a snarl of pure, childish frustration, he ripped a handful of blossoms from the wood and crushed them in his fist. The white petals bruised instantly, oozing a sticky, sweet sap against his calloused palm.

​"I have crossed the burning neck of the world.." he muttered to the empty air, his voice a jagged rasp of manic energy. "I have marched through the black vomit of the jungle..! I have fed my horses on the grain of conquered kings. And now... I am made to wait for a breakfast of honey and fruit.."

​He stomped toward a massive bush of crimson hibiscus, his face sour and contorted with a restless, agonizing greed. He stopped, staring at a single, perfect bloom. To anyone else, it was a flower. To Alauddin, in his current state of sensory overload, it was a provocation. It was red, like the lips the poet had described. It was soft, like the skin he had imagined while clutching that lock of hair in the dark.

​"Is this her?" he mocked, leaning down until his nose almost touched the stamen. "Does she think she can hide behind the sun? Does she think the scent of jasmine will dull my blade?!"

​He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh that had no mirity in it. He was vibrating. The stillness of the South was offensive to him; he was a man of the gallop, of the siege, of the roar of the crowd. This quiet, perfumed peace felt like a trap, and it made the itch under his skin—the need to possess, to break, to own—almost unbearable.

​He turned to a trembling servant who was placing a silver ewer of water on the low table. "Tell your King!" Alauddin hissed, stepping into the boy’s space until the servant’s knees buckled, "that every minute I sit in this garden, the price of his life goes up. Tell him that if the Princess does not appear before the dew dries on this leaf, I will turn this garden into a slaughterhouse and paint the lilies with the blood of his court!"

​The servant scrambled away without a word.

​Alauddin turned back to the hibiscus bush. He reached out and caught a single petal between his thumb and forefinger. He didn't pluck it this time. He rubbed it, feeling its velvet texture, his mind flashing back to the lock of hair he had pinned to his map. His jealousy, even for the air she breathed before he arrived, was a living thing. He hated the sun for touching her first this morning. He hated the wind for knowing the scent of her neck.

​"Four hours.." he whispered, a dark, twisted smile twitching at the corner of his plum-stained lips. "I gave you your four hours.. I played the guest. I played the diplomat.."

​He straightened his posture, adjusting the heavy gold belt at his waist, his eyes fixed on the distant curtained archway where the royal family would surely emerge. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a holy revelation and a bloody massacre, unable to decide which one he craved more.

​"But the sun is up now.." he murmured, his voice dropping to a predatory purr. "And the Sultan is hungry. Do not make me come inside and find you, Princess. For if I have to fetch you myself, I will not leave a single stone of this palace standing in my wake.."

​He kicked a stray pebble into a koi pond, watching the ripples disturb the calm water. He was a child-king, a god-monster, a man who had never been told no and survived the experience. He paced again—three steps left, three steps right—his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger, waiting for the moment the air would change, and the woman from the poem would finally become flesh and blood.

The heavy, brass-bound doors of the inner palace finally groaned open, but the vision Alauddin had been clawing the air for did not materialize.

​Instead, a procession of regal, somber figures stepped into the golden light of the garden. Your father, the King, walked with a rigid, practiced dignity, though the slight tremor in his hands betrayed the soul of a man walking toward his executioner. Beside him, your mother, the Queen, was a pillar of frozen obsidian, her eyes downcast, her grace a shield against the predatory gaze of the man standing by the hibiscus. Behind them followed your brothers, young princes whose hands strayed far too often to the hilts of their ceremonial daggers—a gesture that made Alauddin’s lip curl in a silent, mocking sneer.

​"Sultan Alauddin Khilji." your father began, his voice echoing thin and fragile against the lush greenery. "The House of the South welcomes the Shadow of the East. We have prepared a table beneath the shade of the banyan, as is our custom for honored guests."

​Alauddin didn't move. He stood with his arms crossed over his massive, ruby-encrusted chest, his legs braced wide. His sour face had not softened; if anything, the sight of the men of your family made his blood boil with a fresh, competitive heat. He looked at your brothers as if they were nothing more than tall grass waiting for a scythe.

​"Honored guests.." Alauddin repeated, the words tasting like iron. He stepped forward, his shadow falling long and jagged across the King’s path. "I have marched through a thousand miles of dust and bone for 'custom,' King? I have ignored the pleas of my generals and the borders of my empire for 'hospitality'?"

​He looked past your father, his eyes darting frantically toward the empty archway behind them. His nostrils flared, seeking the scent of the vetiver and sandalwood he had memorized from the lock of hair.

​"Where is she?" he demanded, dropping all pretense of diplomatic greeting. The silence that followed was heavy enough to snap the stems of the lilies.

​"The Princess... prepares the ritual of the morning." your mother whispered, her voice a plea for patience. "In our land, the daughter of the house serves the first cup. It is the highest honor we can bestow."

​Alauddin’s eyes snapped to the Queen. His annoyance was a physical pressure, a low thrumming in the air. He wanted to roar, to overturn the marble tables and demand you be dragged out in chains. But the mention of you serving him—the idea of your hands moving near his cup—stilled the beast for a fraction of a second.

​"Sit." your father urged, gesturing to the low, silk-covered bolsters arranged around a table laden with silver bowls of pomegranates, curd, and honey-soaked sweets.

​Alauddin sat, but he did not lounge. He sat like a coiled spring, his eyes fixed on the palace doors, ignoring the polite, terrified conversation of your brothers. He didn't touch the fruit. He didn't look at the King. He simply waited, his fingers drumming a frantic, uneven beat on his thigh, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cords.

​Then, the music changed.

​The soft, rhythmic plucking of the veena slowed, turning into a deep, haunting drone. From the shadows of the archway, a figure emerged.

​You did not walk; you glided, the heavy silk of your saffron sari whispering against the stone. You carried a silver tray with a single, steaming pot of tea and two delicate porcelain cups. But it was your face that stopped the Sultan’s breath in his throat.

​You had draped your dupatta—a shimmering veil of gold-flecked crimson—over your head, pulling it down over the tip of your nose. Only your lower lip was visible. The rest of you was a mystery of curves and shadows, the heavy rubies at your throat catching the sunlight and casting red constellations across your honeyed skin.

​Alauddin surged to his feet before your father could even speak your name.

​The tray in your hands didn't tremble. You walked directly toward him, the gold bells at your waist singing a soft, taunting melody. As you neared, the scent hit him—the exact, intoxicating sandlewood of the hair he had worshipped in the dark.

​"The guest has waited long enough." you said, your voice muffled by the silk but vibrating with a calm, melodic authority.

​You knelt before the low table, your movements slow and incredibly sensual, the silk of your sari straining against the fullness of your hips as you settled. You poured the tea, the golden liquid steaming in the morning air.

​Alauddin was looking down at you, his eyes wide and manic. He didn't look at the tea. He looked at the way the veil clung to the bridge of your nose, the way you were hidden, ye so unbelievably close.

​He was paralyzed. The "maniac" who had burnt cities was suddenly a man who couldn't remember how to breathe. The veil was an agony to him; he wanted to reach out and tear it away, to see the plum-colored lips and the curve of your cheek.

​"Princess.." he rasped, the word sounding like a prayer and a threat.

​You lifted the cup, offering it to him. Your fingers, stained with the orange-red of fresh henna, brushed against his calloused palm. The contact was electric. Alauddin flinched as if he had been burned, his hand closing around yours for a second too long, his grip possessive and trembling.

​"You are late." he whispered, his voice thick with a terrifying, obsessive intimacy.

​You looked up at him through the sheer fabric of your veil, your eyes softening into a look of feigned, girlish curiosity. "A Sultan who has conquered the world should surely have mastered the art of waiting for something... worthwhile." you replied.

​Your father and brothers went white at the insolence, but Alauddin didn't roar. He let out a low, shuddering breath, his eyes fixed on the gold of skin visible under your veil. The "sourness" was gone, replaced by a hunger so deep it was almost spiritual. He looked at you not as a woman, but as a kingdom he was prepared to spend his soul to conquer.

​He took the cup, but his eyes never left yours, though he couldn't even see them. "The poet was a liar.." he murmured, leaning closer until the heat of his body radiated against your face. "He said you were a fire. He didn't say that to look at you was to go blind."

​You lowered your head modestly, though your mind was already cataloging the way his hand shook, the way his pupils dilated, and the sheer, unhinged depth of the obsession you had just stoked into a blaze.

​"I am but a host, Sultan.." you said softly. "And you... you are a man far from home. Tell me, what could possibly bring the Lord of the North so deep into the emerald shade of the South? Surely not just a cup of tea?"

​You saw the hook sink in. Alauddin smiled, a dark, jagged expression. He was ready to talk. He was ready to boast. He was ready to give you the world, if only you would stay exactly where you were.

The morning sun climbed higher, filtering through the broad, waxy leaves of the banyan tree, casting a dappled pattern of light and shadow across the low breakfast table. To the King and the princes, the air was frigid with the threat of a massacre. But for Alauddin, the world had shrunk to the space between his chest and the woman kneeling before him.

​You moved with a rhythmic, hypnotic grace. Every time his silver cup neared empty, you were there, the golden bells at your wrists chiming softly as you tilted the ewer. You didn't just serve him; you attended to him with a focused, quiet intensity that made him feel as though he were the only living soul in the garden.

​"They say the gardens of Delhi are paved with marble and cooled by the breath of the mountains.." you said, your voice a soft, velvet hum behind the crimson silk of your veil. You reached forward, placing a small bowl of honeyed figs near his hand, your fingers lingering just a breath away from his. "Is it true, Sultan? Or is the North as harsh and unyielding as the songs suggest?"

​Alauddin, who usually barked orders at his generals, found himself leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. He had forgotten the King. He had forgotten the silent, terrified Queen. He was looking at you, trying his hardest to catch a glimpse through your veil.

​"Delhi is a lion, Princess." he said, his eyes tracing the movement of your hands. "It is grand, yes. It is built of red stone that glows like a dying coal at sunset. But it has no soul like this. In Delhi, the air is dry; it tastes of ambition and dust. Here..." He took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze fixing on the pulse point at your throat. "Here, the air tastes of you."

​You didn't flinch at the raw, possessive edge in his tone. Instead, you tilted your head, a gesture of feigned, girlish wonder. "A lion?" you mused. "And does the lion ever rest? I have heard stories of your marches—of cities that fall before you even reach their gates. It must be a lonely thing, to be so powerful that no one dares to speak to you as a man."

​The hook was set. Alauddin’s ego, as vast and volatile as his empire, surged at the invitation. He wanted you to see the scale of his legend. He wanted to be the giant in your eyes.

​"It is not lonely when the world is a map waiting to be folded," he boasted, his chest heaving under the weight of his rubies. He grabbed a fig, tearing it apart with his teeth, his eyes never leaving your hidden face. "I have ten thousand horsemen who move as one shadow. My siege engines are carved from the oaks of the Hindu Kush. When I move, the earth trembles. Do they tell you that in the South? Do they tell you that I have seen the ends of the world?"

​"They tell us many things.." you replied softly, leaning closer as if enthralled. "But they do not tell us of the man who leads them. They speak of the Sultan, but not of the traveler. For instance... how does one bring such a vast shadow through the Ghats? Our mountains are treacherous, Sultan. I have often wondered if a great army could even find enough water to sustain such a march..!"

​Alauddin let out a short, triumphant laugh. He was intoxicated—not by the tea, but by the sight of you hanging on his every word. He began to gesture, his hands mapping out the air.

​"Water is easy when you know where the veins of the earth bleed, Princess" he said, his voice brimming with the arrogance of a man who believed himself invincible. "I do not follow the trade routes. My scouts found the hidden springs in the valley of the Tapti. We carry our own grain in a caravan that stretches three miles. And my vanguard? They are not just soldiers; they are ghosts who clear the path before the sun even rises."

​You nodded, your eyes wide with "admiration." "Ghost soldiers.." you whispered. "It sounds like magic. And your generals? They must be gods themselves to command such ghosts..!"

​"They are dogs." Alauddin spat, though his eyes danced with a dark, manic pride. "Except for Khan.. He is the only one with the stomach for the heights. The rest... they fear the jungle. They fear the fever. They think the South is a trap." He leaned in closer, the scent of his musk mixing with your sandalwood. "But I told them the prize was worth the fever. I told them there was a sun in the South that did not burn, but healed."

​You reached out, refilling his cup with a slow, steady hand. "A prize?" you echoed, your voice dropping to a whisper. "And now that you have found the South, Sultan... do you find the heat too much to bear? Or will you stay until the monsoon washes away the dust of your journey?"

​The question was a masterpiece of entrapment. You were offering him a reason to linger, to settle, to stop the violence in exchange for your company.

​Alauddin reached out, his hand hovering over yours. He didn't touch you this time, but the air between your skins vibrated with a terrifying, electric tension. He looked at the veil, his pupils blown wide with a hunger that was almost physical.

​"The monsoon can stay for a hundred years, Princess." he rasped. "I am not leaving. I have seen the treasures of the world—the turquoise of Persia, the silk of Cathay. They are nothing. They are dross. I have found the heart of the world in a garden in the South. Why would I ever look at the stars again when I can look at you?"

​He was completely focused. Your father sat like a statue, and your brothers were forgotten shadows. You had successfully turned the "maniac" into a man obsessed with a single point of light. You had made him speak of his scouts, his routes, and his fears, all while making him believe he was wooing a fascinated girl.

​"Then stay, Sultan..!" you said, your lower lip moved at the corners as if you were smiling behind the silk. "Tell me more of your Delhi. Tell me how a man becomes a King of kings. I am but a daughter of the coast; I have so much to learn of the world from a man like you."

​Alauddin leaned back, his "sour face" now replaced by a look of predatory triumph. He took a long, deep draught of the tea, his eyes fixed on your veiled face. He was a man who had finally found something he couldn't just kill—and for the first time in his life, he was willing to talk until the sun went down, just to keep you kneeling at his feet.

​You lowered your gaze, the weight of the rubies against your chest a reminder of the price of your survival. You had him. For now, the lion was purring.

The breakfast grew long, the shadows of the banyan tree shifting from long, spindly fingers to thick, pooling stains upon the marble. The initial tension in the garden had not evaporated; it had merely changed state, thickening into something heavy, humid, and dangerously intimate.

​Alauddin ignored the spread of spiced lentils and saffron rice. His hunger was no longer for sustenance. He sat with one knee propped up, his heavy, ringed hand resting carelessly on his thigh, watching you with the unblinking intensity of a desert hawk. He had begun to peel an orange, his movements slow and deliberate, the sharp, citrus scent cutting through the heavy musk of his perfume.

​"They tell me the South is ancient.." Alauddin remarked, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to rattle the very cups on the table. "That your lineage goes back to the churning of the ocean. But you, Princess... you look as if you were fashioned only this morning from the river silt and the moonlight."

​You lowered your eyes, the gold-flecked silk of your veil shimmering. "Time moves differently here, Sultan. We do not count the years by the scars on our walls, but by the blossoms on the trees. My age is of no consequence when measured against the mountains."

​Alauddin leaned forward, a dark, playful glint in his kohl-rimmed eyes. He held out a slice of the orange toward you, his fingers steady, his gaze daring you to take it. "A diplomat’s answer. You speak like a woman who has lived a thousand lives, yet your skin..." He paused, his voice dropping to a rasping whisper that made your father’s grip on his own goblet tighten until his knuckles turned white. "Your skin has the glow of a girl who hasn't yet learned to fear the sun. Tell me, how many summers have you seen? Or are you, like the goddesses in your temples, eternal?"

​"I have seen enough summers to know when the monsoon is coming, My Sultan." you replied, your voice steady, though you could feel your mother’s sharp, panicked intake of breath beside you. You took the fruit from his hand, your hennaed fingertips grazing his palm—a deliberate, soft spark. "And you? The stories say you have lived a dozen lifetimes in the span of one. They say you were born with a sword in your hand and the wisdom of an old soul in your eyes."

​Alauddin let out a short, jagged laugh, his chest heaving under the weight of his rubies. He was delighted. Most women he encountered either fainted in his presence or stared at the floor in terrified silence. You were parrying him, turning his flirtation into a game of wits.

​"I am as old as the hunger in my belly." he said, his eyes darkening. "And as young as the desire to see what lies behind a red silk veil. I have seen Thirty-three winters, Princess. Most of them spent in the saddle, washing the dust of the world from my throat with the blood of my enemies. Does that make me a monster in your eyes? An old wolf in a garden of lambs?"

​"An old wolf is wiser than a young hound," you murmured, tilting your head. "He knows which prey is worth the hunt. And he knows that a garden is not a place for howling, but for... listening."

​Your father cleared his throat, the sound sharp and desperate. "Sultan, perhaps we should discuss the trade agreements you mentioned in your letter? The ports of the Malabar are—"

​"The ports will still be there tomorrow.." Alauddin said, not even bothering to look at your father. His eyes remained locked on yours, his expression shifting from mirity to a sudden, piercing gravity. "Do not interrupt the Princess..please, She is teaching me about the South. I find her... curriculum... far more fascinating than the price of black pepper..~"

​He smiled at you, his posture softening once more into that terrifying, predatory charm. He reached out and toyed with the edge of your dupatta where it lay on the table, his fingers ghosting over the fabric.

​"You are attentive." he whispered. "You watch me as if you are trying to read the map of my soul. Is it because you find me a curious beast? Or is there something in the North that calls to a heart as brave as yours?"

​"I find strength... interesting." you said, playing the part of the mesmerized girl with a precision that would have made a court actor weep with envy. You refilled his tea, making sure the steam rose between your faces, a shimmering curtain. "In our kingdom, we value peace. But we are taught to respect the storm. And you, Sultan... you are the greatest storm I have ever seen. Why wouldn't I be attentive? It isn't every day a legend sits at my table and complains about the heat."

​Alauddin’s grin widened, revealing the edge of his teeth. He was preening. You were feeding his ego as much as his body, and the intoxication was visible in the way he lounged back, his guardedness slipping.

​"I could show you the North.." he said, his voice suddenly thick with a dangerous, impulsive promise. "I could take you to the roof of the world, where the air is so thin it tastes like ice. I could give you a throne of ivory and a crown made of the stars we stole from the Persians. Would you like that, little pearl? To leave this humid shade and see the world through my eyes?"

​The Queen, your mother, couldn't watch where this was going, her face a mask of restrained horror. "The sun is growing too hot, My Lord. Perhaps the Sultan wishes to rest?"

​Alauddin finally looked at her, his expression instantly cooling into a mask of bored menace. "I am not hot, Queen. In fact, I have never felt more refreshed. Your daughter has a way of making the air... tolerable."

​He turned back to you, his hand finally moving to cover yours where it rested on the table. His skin was hot, his grip like a band of iron—possessive, claiming, and utterly unyielding.

​"She is a host beyond compare.." he said, his voice dropping so low it was intended only for you. "But tell me, host...~ does the hospitality of the South extend to the secrets of the heart? Or must I stay another month to earn the right to see the rest of your face?"

​You felt the weight of his obsession pressing down on you, a physical force. You were the bait, and the tiger had not just bitten; he had swallowed the hook whole. You looked at him through the veil, your eyes shimmering with a calculated, half-hidden promise.

​"A month is a long time for a Sultan to be away from his throne.." you whispered. "But the South is a place of many secrets. Perhaps, if you are patient, you will find that some things are worth the wait."

​Alauddin’s fingers tightened on yours, his eyes burning with a manic, triumphant light. He didn't care about the ports. He didn't care about the gold. He was already planning the architecture of your captivity, convinced that he was the one winning the game.

The breakfast had long since transitioned from a formal reception into a psychological siege. The sun was now a golden weight atop the banyan canopy, and the air between you and Alauddin had become so thick with unspoken tension that the servants moved as if wading through water.

​Alauddin pushed away the plate of untouched pomegranates, his movements jerky, fueled by a dark, manic energy. He was no longer content with poetic vagaries. The lock of hair in his tent had been a promise; the woman before him was a challenge that required a total surrender of truths.

​"Enough of the 'ancient mountains' and 'shifting seasons,' Princess." he growled, his voice dropping into a register that made your brothers flinch. He leaned so far over the low table that you could see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes—eyes that were currently devouring the visible portion of your face. "I want to know the girl beneath the silk. How many years has this earth held you? Give me a number, not a metaphor."

​You adjusted the drape of your dupatta, your fingers steady despite the predatory heat radiating from him. "I have seen eighteen monsoon cycles, Sultan." you said, your voice a cool stream of water against his fire. "Eighteen years of the salt air and the southern sun. Does that satisfy the Lord of the North? Or am I too young for your chronicles?"

​"Eighteen." Alauddin repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a dark prayer. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face—a look of pure, unadulterated possession. "A perfect age. Old enough to understand the weight of a crown, yet young enough..to learn new things..~ My favorite season is the winter of the high plains, when the blood stays hot because the air is ice. Tell me yours."

​"The spring.." you replied instantly, meeting his gaze. "When the jasmine is so thick it chokes the breath. It is a season of life, Sultan. Not of conquest."

​"Life is conquest." he countered, his voice a low bark.

​He was flirting, but it was the flirting of a hurricane with a shoreline. He was testing the boundaries of your fear, pushing against the invisible walls your family had tried to build around you. He looked at your father, a fleeting glance of pure contempt, before returning his absolute focus to you.

​Suddenly, he reached out and snatched a honey-soaked sweet from a silver tray. He didn't eat it. He held it out toward you, but not for you to take. His eyes burned with a sudden, wicked intent—a desire to humiliate your kin and claim your submission in one stroke.

​"I am weary from my journey.." he said, his voice loud enough for the entire garden to hear. "My hands are tired from the reins of my stallion. Feed me, Princess. Let the hospitality of the South be literal."

​The garden went deathly silent. Your father started to rise, his face a mask of wounded pride and terror. "Sultan, surely the servants—"

​"I did not ask the servants!" Alauddin roared, his hand slamming into the table with a crack that made the porcelain dance. He didn't look at the King. He kept his eyes locked on yours, a silent command vibrating between you. He wanted to see you tremble. He wanted to see you hesitate. He wanted to prove to everyone present that your will belonged to him.

​You didn't blink. You didn't look at your father for permission. To show fear now was to lose the kingdom; to show disgust was to invite fire. You leaned forward, the gold bells at your waist singing a delicate, defiant song. Your movements were slow, deliberate, and devastatingly poised.

​You took the sweet from his fingers. Your touch was intentional—a soft, lingering brush of your hennaed skin against his calloused thumb. You felt his pulse jump under his skin, a frantic, rhythmic thud. You held the sweet to his plum-dark lips, your eyes never leaving his.

​"If the Sultan is so weary.." you whispered, the silk of your veil fluttering with your breath, "then it is my duty to sustain him. But tell me, while you eat... why did you really come? A man does not march ten thousand horses through the jungle for a sweetmeat or a view of the Ghats. What is the hunger that brings you so far from your throne?"

​Alauddin bit into the sweet, his teeth grazing your fingertips for a fraction of a second—a move meant to intimidate, but you didn't pull back. He chewed slowly, his eyes wide and fixed on yours, looking like a man who had finally tasted something that didn't turn to ash in his mouth.

​He swallowed, his throat working under the heavy gold collar. "I came because a poet told me there was a woman who could look at the sun without blinking." he rasped, his voice thick with a terrifying honesty. "I came because I was bored.. I came because I wanted to see if the South was truly a paradise, or if it just needed a master to tell it so."

​"And?" you asked, your hand retreating slowly, leaving the ghost of your scent on his lips. "What has the Master of the North found? A paradise... or a mirage?"

​Alauddin leaned in even closer, the scent of the honey and his dark musk mingling in the small space between you. He was so close you could see the fine lines of tension around his eyes. He reached out, his hand hovering near the edge of your veil, his fingers twitching with the urge to rip it away.

​"I have found a mystery.." he murmured, his voice a low, obsessive growl. "Eighteen years you have lived in this garden, and you speak to me as if you have held the world in your palm. You do not fear me, Why? Every King from here to the borders of the Mongols trembles when I sigh. Why do your hands not shake when you feed the wolf?"

​"Because, Sultan.." you said, your voice a calm, melodic chime that cut through his bravado, "a wolf only bites what runs. And I have nowhere to go. This is my home. You are the one who is far from yours. Tell me... does the Sultan ever fear? Or is that a luxury you left behind in the dust of Delhi?"

​Alauddin’s expression shifted—a flicker of genuine surprise, followed by a dark, shimmering amusement. He sat back, his "sour face" fully transformed into a mask of fascinated obsession. He looked at your parents, who were sitting in a state of catatonic shock, and then back to you.

​"You ask the questions of a Queen..!" he said, his voice echoing with a new, dangerous respect. "I fear nothing that can be killed with steel. But you... you are a different kind of weapon."

​He grabbed his cup, draining the tea in one go, his eyes never leaving yours. The breakfast was no longer a meal; it was a pact. He was intoxicated by your defiance, and you knew, with a cold sinking in your chest, that you hadn't just saved the kingdom for a morning. You had made yourself the only thing in the world he wanted to conquer.

​"Ask me another..!" he commanded, his eyes burning. "Tell me your favorite flower. Tell me what you dream of when the monsoon drums on your roof. I want every word you have ever thought. I want the map of your mind before the sun reaches its zenith."

​You leaned back slightly, the weight of your rubies feeling like a golden yoke, but your gaze remained unbroken. The game had only just begun and he was..eating the honey up.

The long, winding breakfast—a psychological war masquerading as a meal—was drawing to an inevitable, jagged conclusion. The silver platters were cleared, the tea was cold, and the air was thick with the scent of crushed jasmine and the Sultan’s unyielding, masculine heat.

​Alauddin Khilji stood abruptly, the silk of his robes snapping like a whip. The movement sent your brothers’ hands to their hilts and made your father’s breath hitch. He didn’t care. He was a man who had spent hours feasting on your voice, your scent, and the sight of your hennaed fingers, but the hunger in his gut had only intensified. The "mystery" was no longer a game; it was an itch under his skin that demanded to be flayed.

​"The sun is high enough.." Alauddin rasped, his eyes fixed on the crimson silk of your veil. "My generals await my word. My horses grow restless in the valley. I have given you your morning, Princess. I have sat like a tame dog and answered your questions about my winters and my wars."

​He stepped around the table, his heavy boots crunching on the fallen blossoms. He stopped inches from you, his shadow swallowing you whole. The sheer height of him, the breadth of his shoulders draped in rubies, was a physical weight.

​"But I do not leave this garden a blind man." he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. "The poet spoke of a sun that rises in the South. I have seen the sky, but I have not seen the sun. Remove it."

​He didn't say "please." He didn't ask. It was a command that carried the weight of the ten thousand swords camped outside your walls.

​He reached out, his hand hovering agonizingly close to the edge of your dupatta. You could feel the heat radiating from his palm, the calloused strength of a man who broke empires for sport. He wanted to rip it away, to see the plum-colored lips and the curve of the jaw that had haunted his march.

​You didn't flinch. You looked up at him, your eyes softening, turning from the sharp, analytical gaze of a strategist into the wide, shimmering "shyness" of a young woman overwhelmed by a titan. You let your shoulders drop slightly, a subtle surrender that made his pupils blow wide with a fresh surge of power.

​"Sultan.." you whispered, your voice a breathy, melodic plea. You reached up, your fingers ghosting over your own veil, holding it firmly but gently in place. "You speak of the sun. But even the sun is most beautiful when it is setting, is it not? When the light is soft and the world is quiet."

​Alauddin’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. "I am not a man of soft light, Princess. I am a man of fire."

​"And fire burns brightest in the dark." you countered, leaning back just an inch, a calculated retreat. "You have seen my mind this morning. You have heard my voice. If you take the veil now, in the harsh glare of the noon sun, with my father and brothers watching... what is left for the night? What is left for the intimacy of the moon? You'll see it, and forget it, like this, my face will not be the last thing you see before your dreams, and wouldn't that he a waste?"

​You paused, letting the silence hang between you, heavy and electric.

​"Would the Sultan not prefer... a proper reveal?" you murmured, pitching your voice so only he could hear. "At dinner. When the music is low and the wine is poured. When we are not surrounded by the eyes of the court. Would you truly be happy with a glimpse in a garden, or would you rather have the memory of me in the moonlight?"

​Alauddin froze. The manic, impatient energy in his limbs seemed to collide with the sudden, intoxicating promise of your words. He was a man of high drama, a man who lived for the grand gesture and the absolute conquest. The idea of you "giving" him your face in the privacy of the night, rather than him taking it by force in the day, appealed to the twisted, romantic darkness of his soul.

​He looked at you, searching for a lie, but you gave him only a look of shimmering, bashful invitation. You made him believe he was winning—not just your kingdom, but your heart.

​"The night.." he repeated, the word sounding like a growl of hunger.

​"Tonight, Sultan." you promised, your voice a silken thread. "When the stars are out. I shall be the host again. And there will be no veil to hide the 'fire' you traveled so far to see."

​Alauddin stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving. The silence in the garden was absolute; even the birds seemed to wait for his verdict. He looked at your father, a look of smug, predatory triumph crossing his face. He felt he had tamed you. He felt he had charmed the brave daughter of the South into a state of longing.

​"Tonight..!" Alauddin finally declared, his voice echoing with a terrifying finality. He stepped back, the tension in the garden snapping like a bowstring. "I shall leave you to your 'customs' for now, King.. But tell your cooks to prepare a feast that would satisfy a god. And tell your daughter..."

​He looked back at you, his eyes burning with a manic, obsessive clarity.

​"...to be ready. For when that veil falls, I do not intend for it to ever be raised again. I am a man who keeps what he sees."

​He turned on his heel, his heavy silk robes billowing behind him like a cloud of smoke. He didn't say goodbye. He walked toward the palace gates with the stride of a man who already owned the ground he walked on. His generals, who had been waiting at the periphery, fell into step behind him, their armor clanking—a grim reminder of the iron fist inside the velvet glove.

​As the gates thudded shut behind him, your father collapsed onto a bolster, his face buried in his hands. Your mother rushed to your side, her hands trembling as she touched your arm.

​"You have promised him the impossible.." she whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "What happens when the sun sets? What happens when he sees you and realizes you are not his to keep?-"

​You stood up, your posture straightening, the "shyness" vanishing from your eyes like mist before the sun. You looked at the gates where the tyrant had disappeared, your lips setting into a line of cold, hard resolve.

​"Tonight, I buy us another day..!" you said, your voice no longer a melodic hum, but the steady tone of a general. "I have made him wait. I have made him talk. And tonight, I will make him defenseless."

​You touched the red silk of your veil, your mind already weaving the next layer of the trap.

​The sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, and for the first time in your life, you found yourself wishing for the darkness. For in the dark, even a maniac could be led by the hand... if the hand was soft enough.

The afternoon in the Emerald Palace was a fever dream of bifurcated realities. In the lower stone vaults, where the air smelled of saltpetre and old iron, the atmosphere was one of frantic, cold-blooded calculation. Your generals, once paralyzed by the sheer myth of Alauddin Khilji, were now energized by the fragments of truth you had brought back from the garden like precious stones.

​"He spoke of the Tapti springs.." General Varman whispered, his finger tracing a hidden line on the map. "He thinks we do not know of the subterranean flow. If we poison those wells, or dam the northern runoff, his horses will be dead before the week is out."

​They dissected his boasts. They took his arrogance about "ghost soldiers" and realized his vanguard was likely overextended, relying on speed rather than supply. Every "innocent" question you had asked—about his favorite season, his journey, his generals—had been a surgical strike into his logistics. While the Sultan thought he was flirting with a girl, he was actually briefing a commander.

​But above the vaults, in the Royal Zenana, the world was silent, perfumed, and terrifyingly feminine.

​You sat in the center of your chamber, a hollow vessel being filled with the expectations of a doomed kingdom. The maids moved around you like shadows. They bathed you in water steeped in vetiver and crushed hibiscus until your skin hummed with a floral heat. They worked with a frantic, silent speed, their eyes red from weeping they didn't want you to see.

​"The rubies..Meena." you commanded, your voice steady as a heartbeat. "Not the small ones. The ancestral set. The ones that look like a throat already cut."

​You were eighteen, yet as you looked into the bronze mirror, you felt the weight of centuries. You weren't dressing for a suitor; you were dressing for a sacrifice. You chose a sari of midnight-violet silk, so dark it was almost black, heavily encrusted with silver thread that mimicked the veins of a leaf. It was a garment of mourning and majesty combined.

​And then, the veil.

​You chose a dupatta of sheer, spider-web thin gossamer, dyed the color of a bruised plum. It was transparent enough to tantalize, yet thick enough to keep the "fire" of your face a secret for a few hours more. You draped it with practiced care, pinning it with a diamond brooch that rested just above your brow, the fabric falling in soft, heavy folds over your shoulders and chest.

​As the sun dipped below the horizon, the palace transformed. A thousand oil lamps were lit, their flickering flames reflected in the polished marble floors until the hallways looked like rivers of fire. The scent of night-blooming jasmine—the "jasmine that chokes the breath" you had told him of—was so potent it was almost hallucinogenic.

​The rumble of his arrival was different this time. It wasn't the thud of maces, but the rhythmic, arrogant clatter of a small, elite guard. Alauddin didn't come to conquer tonight; he came to claim.

​The Great Dining Hall was an expanse of white stone and silk bolsters. The King and Queen sat at the head of the long, low table, looking like ghosts of themselves. When Alauddin entered, the air in the room seemed to vanish.

​He had changed into robes of deep crimson velvet, trimmed with the fur of white leopards from the high mountains. He looked broader, more feral in the lamplight. His kohl was freshly applied, his eyes burning with a manic, restless hunger. He didn't look at your father. He didn't acknowledge the food. His gaze swept the room like a searchlight until it landed on you, standing in the shadows near the balcony.

​He stopped mid-stride. The silence was absolute.

​"The moon has risen.." Alauddin said, his voice a low, vibrating growl that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He walked toward you, his boots heavy on the marble. "And yet, the sun is still behind a cloud."

​You stepped forward, the silver bells at your ankles sounding like a warning. You bowed your head, the purple silk of your veil shimmering. "The host must first ensure the guest is comfortable, Sultan. A hunter does not appreciate the prize if his belly is empty and his thirst is unquenched."

​You gestured to the table. "Please. Sit. The night is young, and the South has much to offer before the moon reaches its peak."

​Alauddin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. He was impatient, his pulse visible in the corded muscles of his neck. He wanted the veil. He wanted it now. But your voice—the calm, melodic control of it—acted on him like a charm. He was a man used to screams and silence; your poise was a form of combat he didn't know how to parry except with more obsession.

​"You play with me, Princess.." he whispered, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. The scent of him—leather, musk, and the metallic tang of his sword—filled your senses. "You lead me through your gardens and your halls as if I were a tourist. Do you not realize that I could reach out and tear that silk from your face this instant?"

​"You could.." you replied, looking up at him through the plum-colored mist of the fabric. Your eyes were dark, steady, and terrifyingly soft. "But then you would only have a scrap of cloth and a woman who looks at you with fear. Is that what the Great Khilji wants? Or does he want the woman who gives him her face because he has earned it with his grace?"

​Alauddin’s chest heaved. He let out a short, jagged laugh, a sound of frustrated, ecstatic wonder. He turned and sat at the table, his movements violent and fluid.

​"Serve me, then." he commanded, his eyes fixed on you as you knelt beside him. "Play your role of the perfect host. But know this—the longer you make me wait, the more I will demand when the silk finally falls. Every minute of this night is a debt you are incurring."

​You began the ritual of the meal. You served him the heavy, spiced curries of the coast, the rice scented with cloves, and the cooling curds. You moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, your arms crossing his field of vision, the rubies at your wrists clinking against the silver bowls.

​You were the perfect Princess—attentive, gentle, and seemingly enamored. You asked him of the stars he followed in the desert. You asked him if the music of the South was too strange for his ears. You fed his ego with a silver spoon, and with every word, you felt the information you had gathered earlier being processed by your generals in the rooms below.

​"You are too quiet tonight.." Alauddin remarked, his hand suddenly shooting out and catching your wrist as you reached for a bowl of sweets. His grip was hot, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner arm. "In the morning, you were a scholar. Tonight, you are a shadow. Why?"

​"Perhaps because the night is for feeling, not for thinking, Sultan.." you said, your heart racing against your ribs, though your voice remained a silken thread. You didn't pull your arm away. You let him hold you, let him feel the warmth of your blood. "In the light, we discuss kingdoms. In the dark... we discuss ourselves."

​Alauddin’s eyes darkened to the color of midnight oil. He pulled your hand closer to his face, inhaling the scent of the sandalwood on your skin. His obsession was peaking; he was no longer a Sultan, but a man drowning in a sensory trap.

​"The night is half-gone." he rasped, his voice thick with a terrifying, intimate promise. "The wine is low. The music is fading.."

​He let go of your wrist, but only to reach for the edge of your dupatta. His fingers trembled—a slight, frantic movement that betrayed the depth of his mania.

​"The debt is due, Princess," he whispered, his face inches from yours. "The South has had its morning. Now... give the North its prize."

​You felt the air in the room freeze. Your father looked away, his face etched with a grief he couldn't name. Your mother’s hands were clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. The moment of the reveal had arrived—the moment when the "brave woman" would have to show the tiger her throat to keep him from the flock.

​You reached up, your fingers meeting his at the edge of the plum-colored silk. You didn't pull away. You looked into the burning, manic eyes of Alauddin Khilji and saw a man who would burn the world just to see you once.

​"Then look, Sultan," you whispered, your voice a promise of both salvation and ruin. "And tell me if the reality is worth the war you have brought to my gates.."

​Slowly, the silk began to slide.

The air in the Great Dining Hall was a physical weight, vibrating with the frantic, rhythmic thud of Alauddin’s pulse. His fingers were hooked into the delicate, plum-colored gossamer of your veil, the silk sighing as it began to slide over the bridge of your nose. You could feel the heat of his breath, smell the dark intensity of his desire—a cocktail of musk, iron, and a hunger that transcended the physical.

​The reveal was a heartbeat away. The beauty was about to be unleashed upon his vision.

​Then, the heavy teak doors of the hall didn't just open; they were thrown back with a violence that shattered the melodic drone of the veena.

​Malik Kafur, the Sultan’s shadow and most ruthless servant, strode into the room.

​"Sultan!" Kafur’s voice was a jagged blade. "The vanguard is under fire! The western springs—they have been poisoned, and our scouts in the valley are being picked off by ghosts in the treeline. The South has found its teeth, My Lord. We are being bled in the dark!"

​Alauddin’s hand froze on your veil. For a moment, he didn't move. He looked like a statue of a demon caught in mid-desire. The transition from the intimate, scented silence of your presence to the harsh, metallic reality of war was visible in the way his jaw locked, the muscles in his neck cording like iron cables.

​He slowly pulled his hand away from your face. The veil settled back into place, a curtain of violet silk once again separating him from his obsession.

​The silence that followed was more terrifying than Kafur’s shout. Alauddin turned his head slowly toward his general, his eyes flashing with a manic, murderous light. He didn't look like a king receiving news of a battle; he looked like a god who had been interrupted during a sacrifice.

​"Who?" Alauddin whispered, the word a low, vibrating growl.

​"The hills are crawling with them Sultan..!" Kafur replied, his hand on his sword. "They know our routes. They know our weaknesses. We must move the main body of the army to the higher ground before we are circled. We must leave..!"

​Alauddin stood up. The movement was so sudden it overturned his silver wine goblet, the dark liquid spreading across the white marble like an omen. He didn't look at Kafur. He didn't look at your father, who sat in a state of paralyzed hope.

​He turned back to you.

​The playfulness was gone, replaced by something infinitely more complex: a terrifying, twisted state of awe. He looked at you, and for the first time, he truly saw the architect behind the garden. He saw the "brave woman" who had sat before him for hours, feeding him honey and questions while her men sharpened their blades in the dark.

​He didn't roar in fury. He let out a low, jagged laugh that sent a shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, his presence so overwhelming that the air seemed to hum. He reached out, not to pull the veil this time, but to cup the side of your face through the silk, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a possessive, bruising pressure.

​"Mashallah..." he whispered, his voice a rasping caress of silk and gravel. "Kya tilism hai ye? Kya jaadu kiya hai tumne, meri jaan?"

​He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours, his breath hot against the veil.

​"Tumne mujhe baaton mein uljhaye rakha, aur peeche se meri fauj par khanjar chalwa diye? Itni jurrat? Itni hoshiyari?"

​His eyes burned with a manic, devotional light. He wasn't just angry; he was captivated by the betrayal. To a man like Alauddin, love was not a soft thing; it was a conquest, and you had just proven yourself the only fortress worth a siege.

​"Suno, shehzadi.." he hissed, his voice dropping into a register of pure, unadulterated threat wrapped in praise. "Aaj tumne waqt khareeda hai. Apne baap ki sultanat ke liye chand ghante maang liye hain. Magar yaad rakhna... Khilji apna karz kabhi nahi bhoolta."

​He gripped your chin, forcing you to look into the abyss of his kohl-rimmed eyes.

​"Main jaa raha hoon. Magar main wapas aaunga. Aur jab main wapas aaunga, toh ye parda nahi girega... ye mahal girega. Main tumhara chehra dekhunga, zaroor dekhunga. Agar mujhe is shehar ki raakh se tumhe chun-na pada, toh wahi sahi. Tum meri amant ho, aur Khilji apni amanat maut se bhi chheen leta hai."

​He let go of you, the force of his release making you stumble back. He turned to your father, who was trembling in his seat.

​"King of the South.." Alauddin roared, his voice regaining its imperial thunder. "Your daughter is the only reason your head still sits upon your shoulders tonight. Cherish her. For she is the last beautiful thing you will ever possess."

​He turned on his heel, his crimson robes billowing like a river of blood behind him.

​"Chalo!" he barked at Kafur.

​The sound of his heavy boots echoed through the hall, a rhythmic, receding drumbeat of war. You stood frozen by the table, the scent of his musk still clinging to your veil, the heat of his hand still burning on your jaw. You watched him go—a silhouette of rubies and rage—until the great doors thudded shut, leaving the hall in a deafening, hollow silence.

​Your mother rushed to you, her breath coming in sob-like gasps, but you didn't move. You looked down at the table, at the overturned wine and the half-eaten fruit.

​"He is gone," your father whispered, his voice cracking with relief. "The generals... their plan worked. We hit them where it hurt. We bought time."

​You slowly raised your hand to your face, touching the place where his thumb had pressed against the silk. Your heart was thundering, but not with relief.

​You had bought hours. Perhaps you had even bought days. But as you listened to the distant sound of his cavalry horn wailing in the night—a sound like a wounded predator—you felt a cold, leaden weight settle in your stomach.

​You had given the generals the information they needed. You had found his supply lines and his scouts. But in doing so, you had transformed yourself from a rumor into an obsession. You hadn't just pushed him away; you had given him a reason to burn the world to get back to you.

​"Was it enough?" your mother asked, her voice trembling as she searched your eyes. "Is the time you bought enough to save us?"

​You looked out toward the dark balcony, toward the hills where the Sultan’s campfires were already being extinguished as his army prepared for a brutal, tactical retreat. You knew the man who had just left. You had looked into the fire of his soul and fed it with your own hand.

​"Time is a treacherous thing, Mother.." you whispered, your voice sounding strange and hollow even to your own ears. "I bought us a night. But I fear the rest is fate.."

​You reached up and finally, slowly, pulled the veil away from your face. The cool night air hit your skin, but it offered no comfort. You looked out into the starless night, wondering if the generals’ poisoned wells and hidden archers could ever truly stop a man who considered the destruction of a kingdom a fair price for a glimpse of a woman’s smile.

​The Princess of the South had saved her kingdom today.. But as the wind carried the scent of approaching rain and distant smoke, you realized with a terrifying clarity that the real war had only just begun..

TO BE CONTINUED..

​1. Hamza:

​Hamza stumbled through the door at 2:00 AM, his hand pressed firmly against a jagged tear in his side that had soaked his white shirt in a deep, terrifying crimson. His usual tall, impressive aura was shattered; his hair was flat and messy, and his breath hitched with every step. When he saw you standing in the hallway, your eyes wide and already brimming with tears, his first instinct wasn't to ask for help—it was to apologize for the pain he was causing you just by existing in this state.

You had waited for him so long, walking up and down the halls of your shared home worried. He didn't pick up calls before, he didn't call and tell you it might be late today like usual.. you had a horrible feeling- and upon seeing him, your worst imaginations became reality.

​As you rushed to him, your small hands trembling as you tried to help him to the sofa, a sob broke from your throat. Your frame looked so fragile next to his buff, bloodied form. He hissed as he sat, but his eyes never left your face.

​"Meri jaan, rona band karo, please..." He reached out with his clean hand, cupping your cheek. His thumb wiped away a stray tear, even as his own face paled from blood loss. "Mujhe maaf kar do.. Tumhe is haal mein nahi dekhna chahiye tha.."

​As you knelt between his knees to tend to the wound, your hands shaking so hard you could barely hold the antiseptic, he leaned his forehead against yours. He felt like a mountain crumbling onto you. "Shukriya meri jaan... Tumhare bina main kuch nahi hoon." He let out a ragged breath, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tumhara gham mere zakhm se zyada dard deta hai. Bas thoda muskura do, mere liye?" He spent the rest of the night thanking you for every stitch, every bandage, his heart breaking because he knew his dangerous life was the reason of your tears.

Your vision was blurred by constant, hot tears, and your hands were shaking so violently that the needle dipped dangerously close to his skin.

​A choked, jagged sob escaped you, and you started to talk in anger with tears falling from your cheeks

​"I’ll kill them.." you hissed, your voice cracking. "I’ll kill Rehman and that entire damn gang one day.. It’s all their fault...! letting you get hurt like this.. They were supposed to watch your back!"

​Hamza, who had been gritting his teeth against the pain, let out a soft, huffed breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at you—this tiny, trembling creature threatening the most dangerous men in the city—and felt a wave of possessive adoration so strong it rivaled the sting of his wound.

​He reached out, his large, warm hand cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you gently forward until your forehead rested against his collarbone.

​"Meri jaan, thoda sukoon rakho..." He murmured, his voice a low, honeyed rumble that vibrated against your skin. "Rehman aur un bado ko main sambhal loonga. Wo mera kaam hai.."

​He used his other hand to lift your chin, forcing you to look into his dark, hooded eyes. He wasn't looking at you like a victim; he was looking at you like you were his entire world. A slow, devastating smirk played on his lips despite the blood loss.

​"Tumhe ye sab karne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Tumhe sirf mere paas rehna hai taake main sukoon se saans le sakoon..hmm?"

​He leaned down, his nose brushing yours. "Jab main ghar aata hoon aur tumhe dekhta hoon, toh sara dard khatam ho jata hai. Bas mere liye yahan raho. Baaki dunya se main nipat loonga."

​2. Rehman:

​Rehman didn’t make a sound when he entered. He was stoic, his jaw set in a hard line, a deep bruise forming on his cheekbone and a heavy limp in his walk, his leg bleeding from a wound that seemed to be a hole in his leg. He found you in the kitchen, cooking while your youngest was watching, and the moment you saw him, you came rushed to him, panicked, scared. You asked a million questions, tears forming in your eyes as you told your Son to leave the kitchen in a hurry.

​He didn't panic. He didn't rush. He walked over with the steady, heavy presence of a man who had survived a thousand storms. He didn't say a word at first; he simply placed his large, calloused hand on the back of your neck and pulled you into his chest.

​"Sshh... Khamosh. Main yahan hoon.." he rumbled, his voice a low, grounding vibration that seemed to settle the frantic beating of your heart. He forced you to look at him, his thumb hooking under your chin. "Meri taraf dekho. Zinda hoon na? Phir ye aansu kyun?"

You let out another deep breath, the tears did not stop, not yet. No matter how often you had already seen this- with worse and less concerning injuries- it hurt you deeply. To know your Husband, the man you loved most, was in constant danger.

​He sat you on the counter, his hands resting heavily on your thighs to keep you still. He was authoritative. He needed you to be as steady as he was. "Rone se masla hal nahi hota.. Gehra saans lo." As you cleaned the cut on his face, he watched you with a dark, intense devotion. "Tum meri taqat ho, kamzori nahi. Sambhalo apne aap ko." Even in pain, he was your anchor, refusing to let your emotions drown you.

You sat there, washing off the blood from his wounds with a deep frown on your face.

​"Why..?" you whispered, your voice thick with worry. "Rehman... why are you still enduring all of this? The blood, the gang...you did so much for our community already.." you sobbed, tired from seeing your love coming home hurt for years, tired from expecting the worst-case scenario every day, that he would not return home one day, killed by another gang, the S.P, or some u grateful bastard you had cared for and given food at your Table, a Traitor you accepted in the family that might ruin your entire life, and the life of your children.

​Rehman didn’t answer immediately. He reached out, his large, heavy hand settling on your waist, his fingers almost meeting around the small of your back. He pulled you flush against him. He let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to rattle his entire ribcage.

​He took the cloth from your hand and set it aside, then took both of your small hands in his, rubbing his calloused thumbs over your knuckles. He looked at your hands—so clean, so soft—and then at his own, which were built for violence.

​"Ye dunya.. bohot zalim hai," he muttered, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Agar main ye bohot.. bohot mushkil kaam nahi karoonga, toh tum jaise masoom logon ka kya hoga?"

​He looked back up at you, his thumb catching a tear before it could fall. There was no apology in his eyes, only a terrifyingly deep sense of purpose.

​"Main ye sab isliye bardasht karta hoon taake tum chain se so sako. Taake tumhe kabhi ye sab na dekhna pade jo main dekhta hoon."

​He pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his scruff grazing your sensitive skin. You felt the sheer mass of him, the protector who stood between you and the dark.

​"Tum mera sukoon ho, meri Humsafar. Jab tak tum mere paas ho, main har zakhm seh loonga.."

​He stayed there for a long time, his heavy arms acting like a fortress around your frame, grounding both of you in the only truth he had left: that he would bleed a thousand times over just to keep your world quiet.

​3. Uzair:

​Uzair came home with a grin that didn't match the heavy bandage wrapped around his forearm or the split lip that was still sluggishly bleeding. He saw you ,sitting on the bed, clutching a pillow, your face red and puffy from hours of worrying.. he had left early, like so often, but it was different this time, your gut feeling told you something happened, so the moment you saw the blood on his sleeve, you let out a fresh wail of despair.

​"Oho! Itna bura lag raha hoon kya?" He joked, throwing his keys on the dresser and walking toward you with a swagger that hid his pain. He dropped to his knees in front of you, looking up at your small, tear-streaked face. "Pyari, itna mat ro. Meri sari 'hero' wali feeling khatam ho rahi hai."

You were sobbing, annoyed by this, angrily hitting his chest, making him chuckle and scoff a little "Outsch" but you didnt care.

"How dare you laugh at me?! You've been gone all day and now you return home with these wounds and you are laughing?! You are such an idiot Uzair! Stop joking!"

​He grabbed your small hands and kissed your palms, his eyes dancing with mischief despite the exhaustion behind them. "Sirf ek kharash hai, Pari. Dekho, main abhi bhi tumhara wahi purana Uzair hoon." When you tried to keep scolding him through your hiccups, he just laughed, pulling you into a lopsided hug.

​"Tumhare aansu dekh kar toh mera zakhm aur gehra ho jayega~" he teased, nipping at your earlobe to make you jump. "Chalo, ab rona band karo aur mujhe ek chuma do.. Doctor ne kaha hai wahi asli ilaaj hai..~"

You turned and balled your small fists, hitting him right in the center of his buff chest. Thump. It was like hitting a brick wall.

​"I hate you!" you cried, your voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. "I hate you so much, Uzair! You’re bleeding, you almost didn't come back, and you’re sitting here being... this. Why are you so unserious? This isn't a joke! You could have died tonight!"

​You hit him again, but this time he caught your wrists. His hands were massive, his fingers easily circling your thin bones, but his grip was as light as a feather. He didn't stop smiling, though the playfulness in his eyes softened into something more liquid, more focused.

​"Bas, bas... itna ghussa?" He chuckled, pulling you closer until you were standing between his knees.

​You pouted, trying to pull your hands away. "You're a reckless idiot."

​Uzair let out a theatrical sigh, leaning his head back so he could look up at your face. "Acha, maan liya. Main idiot hoon. Lekin itna pyaara idiot toh koi aur nahi milega na?" ​He pulled your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles one by one, his eyes never leaving yours.

​"Lekin sach bataoon? Agar tum mujhe ye 'ilaaj' nahi dogi, toh main waqai mar jaoonga. Khoon se nahi... tumhare is gham se."

​He tugged on your wrists, pulling you onto his lap. You felt tiny against his frame, like a doll being gathered into a giant's embrace. He wrapped his uninjured arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so you could feel the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart.

​You tried to keep your face stern, but as he started making "sad puppy" faces and gently tickling your side, you couldn't help the small, watery laugh that escaped you.

​"Wahi toh! Wahi muskurahat chahiye thi~" he beamed, leaning in until his lips were a breath away from yours. "Ab jaldi karo... maut kareeb hai!~"

​4. Iqbal:

​Iqbal’s wounds were deep. He walked in like a ghost, his face a mask of cold stone, his shirt torn and his knuckles raw and bloody, worst was the huge shot wound. He didn't look at you at first, he hoped you were long asleep. He went straight to the liquor cabinet, poured a drink, and downed it in one go. You stood by the door, you heard him return but when he didnt come to see you , you knew something was wrong. You stood there, trembling, the height difference between you making him look like an untouchable, terrifying giant.

​When the first sob escaped you, he stiffened. He hated tears. To him, they were a sign of a world out of control. He turned toward you, his eyes tired. "Bas karo. Ye rona dhona mujhe pasand nahi.." he said, his voice clipped and cold.

​But as you approached him, reaching out to touch the blood on his wound with a terrified, "Jaan, please...", his expression flickered. The coldness didn't leave his eyes, but his touch became unexpectedly gentle. He caught your wrists, his large hands dwarfing yours. He led you to the chair and sat you down, his movements precise and clinical.

​"Maine kaha tha na? Is zindagi mein khatra hai.." he muttered, his voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. He knelt before you—a rare sight for a man of his stature—and rested his head in your lap for a brief, fleeting second. "Tumhara rona mujhe kamzor karta hai, aur main kamzor nahi ho sakta."

​He looked up at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Meri Begum ko bahadur hona chahiye. Apne aansu poncho.." He let you clean his knuckles, remaining silent and stoic, but he didn't pull away. "Jab tak main zinda laut raha hoon, tumhe rone ki ijazat nahi hai.."

You nodded...it got silent inside the room. Now you stood before him, your frame looking painfully small in the vastness of the room. You weren’t sobbing like you had wanted to, Instead, your jaw was clamped shut, your small hands balled into white-knuckled fists at your sides whenever your hands weren't tending to his wounds. Your eyes were swimming, huge and glassy, but you refused to let a single drop fall. You were trying to be "brave" for him.

​But the sight of you—trembling, silent, and physically vibrating with the effort of holding back your grief—did what no enemy had ever managed to do. It shattered him.

​Iqbal’s cold, stony expression didn’t just crack; it dissolved. He reached out, his large, scarred hand trembling slightly as he cupped your face. His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, which was bleeding where you had bitten it to stay quiet.

​"Mat ro... meri Begum, khuda ke liye mat ro.." he rasped, his voice breaking in a way you had never heard before.

"..Im trying-" you said, you really did, it took all your strength, especially since this was not the first time you had to endure this situation- but this time..this time you simply couldn't.

A whine escaped your throat, tears streaming down your face as you cursed. You couldn't hold up that brave facade, it shattered into a million pieces infront of him for the first time.

As he looked into your eyes, a single, tear escaped his own—a rare, devastating sight, the first and last time you had seen it.

​He took your small hands in his and kissed them with a ferocity that made your heart skip. The protector was no longer just guarding you; he was declaring war for you.

​"Suno meri baat.." he growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal frequency. "Aaj ke baad... agar mujhe dobara is haal mein ghar aana pada, agar meri wajah se tumhari aankh mein ek bhi aansu aaya... toh main wapas nahi aaoonga."

​He gripped your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor you. "Main apne saare dushmano ka khoon baha doonga. Main unhe mitti mein mila doonga taake tumhe kabhi darna na pade."

​He leaned in, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He wrapped his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin, his buff chest a solid wall against your face, it felt like you could breathe again finally.

​"Jab tak main zinda hoon, tumhe rone ki ijazat nahi hai. Kyunki ab se, jo bhi tumhe rulayega... wo kal ka sooraj nahi dekhega. Ye mera waada hai."

​He held you there in the silence, a man who had finally decided that the world could burn, as long as your eyes stayed dry. Instead of asking you to not be weak, he decided he had to become even more lethal to protect whats most important to him..your peace and happiness.

​The Mall was a world away from the dust-choked alleys of Lyari, but for you- the daughter of Rehman Dakait, the air felt just as heavy, all the time. It fucking annoyed you-

Always with a bigass silent Bodyguard by your side, never feeling like you ever had actual free-time... until your Father hired Hamza a few months ago.. damn. He was way too fine to not enjoy being under his protection.

​You moved through the high-end boutiques with grace, your silk dupatta trailing behind you like a whisper.

Behind you, always exactly three paces back, was Hamza. He didn't look like a shopper. He looked like a storm held in check by a black shirt.

​Hamza was your father’s most trusted blade—the "right hand" who had survived more street wars than you had seen birthdays.

He was older, his face etched with a rugged, stoic handsomeness that spoke of secrets and scars. To the world, he was a ghost; to you, he was the only man you had thought about for the last few months..

​"Hamza, look at this!" you said, pausing in front of a storefront. You picked up a deep emerald shawl, the fabric catching the light. turned, draping it over your shoulder, and stepped closer to him—close enough to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and tobacco that clung to him. "Do you think the color suits me? Or is it too much?"

​Hamza’s eyes didn't flicker. He scanned the perimeter of the mall first, his gaze sharp and professional, before finally settling on you. He didn't look at the shawl. He looked through you.

​"It’s fine," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in your chest.

​"Just 'fine'?" You stepped even closer, your hand intentionally brushing his forearm. The muscle beneath his sleeve was like granite.

You felt a spark jump from your skin to his, but he didn't flinch. "You’re supposed to be my protector. That includes protecting me from making a fashion mistake, doesn't it?"

​You leaned in, tilting your head so your hair brushed his shoulder, your voice dropping to a teasing lilt. "Is it that you don't like the color, Hamza? Or are you just afraid to look at me for more than a second?"

​"I am here to ensure you return to your father in one piece," he replied, his tone as cold and distant "The color of your clothes is irrelevant to that mission."

​You sighed, a sharp huff of frustration, and turned away. Spending the next hour being a terror—trying on shoes you didn't want, making the shopkeepers scramble, and constantly darting into his personal space.

You would "accidentally" stumble, so he had to catch your elbow, or ask him to hold your bags just so you could watch the way his knuckles whitened.

​But he was a vault. No matter how much you flirted, no matter how much you pushed his buttons or used the status as the Dakait’s daughter to tease him, he remained a statue of duty.

​The Disappointment .. it was driving you insane.

​By the time you exited the mall, the sun had been swallowed by a bruise-colored sky. The humidity of Karachi was thick, pressing down on the city like a wet blanket.

​you felt a hollow ache in your chest. As the daughter of the most powerful man in Lyari; men usually tripped over themselves to catch your eye. But Hamza... Hamza acted as if you were a chore. A high-stakes, annoying, dangerous chore..

As you reach the parking lot, the air is so thick you can almost taste the salt from the Arabian Sea-

​Hamza’s motorbike wasnt parked far, He swings a leg over it with a rugged grace that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. He looks so effortless, so dangerously masculine in this moment- and those thighs-

​"Get on," he commands. "The weather is turning."

Ah fuck- he interrupted your thoughts again.

​"Let it turn," you mutter, almost pouty, crossing your arms. "I’m in no rush to get back to the cage."

​"On. Now." It’s the voice he uses with the soldiers in the street. It’s a command, and despite your pride, it sends a shiver of thrill down your spine.

​You climb on behind him. The bike is narrow, forcing your thighs to bracket his. Just as you settle, the clouds finally rupture.

​It isn't a rain; it’s a deluge. Within seconds, your silk outfit is translucent, clinging to your curves like a second skin.

The cool rain hits your warm skin, but the only thing you can feel is the heat radiating from Hamza’s back.

​"Hold on," he growls over the sudden roar of the storm.

​You don't hesitate. You wrap your arms around his thick middle, lacing your fingers together over his stomach. You press your chest firmly against his back, feeling the hard ridges of his muscles.

It makes you chuckle softly, being close like this never disappointed in making you blush.

You can feel his heart beating—not the slow, steady rhythm you got used to these last months, he seemed to be a bit more nervous.

​As the bike roars to life and tears through the rain-slicked streets of Lyari, the world disappears. There is only the spray of water, the vibration of the engine between your legs, and the man in your arms.

​The wind whips your hair into his face, and you feel him tilt his head back, inhaling the scent of your damp curls.

He doesn't pull away. Instead, he reaches one hand down, covering your joined hands with his own, his thumb grazing your knuckles.

​The rain is pouring, the streets are flooding, and for the first time, you aren't the daughter of a king—and he isn't a servant. You’re just two people caught in a storm that’s been brewing for years.. ah thats at least what you imagined in your pretty head.

The rain isn't just falling anymore; it’s a physical weight, a torrential curtain that turns the neon lights of the Lyari outskirts into blurred smears of color.

The streets are transforming into rivers, the black asphalt slick and treacherous. Hamza’s bike skids slightly as he maneuvers around a stalled rickshaw, and you feel his thigh muscles tighten like iron under your grip.

​He pulls the bike over beneath the crumbling overhang of an old, colonial-style warehouse—a skeletal relic of a different era. The engine dies with a final, throaty growl, leaving only the deafening roar of the monsoon hitting the corrugated metal roof above.

​"We wait here," Hamza says, his voice cutting through the water. He dismounts, his black shirt now a second skin, mapped perfectly over the broad expanse of his shoulders and the hard lines of his back.

​You slide off the seat, your legs feeling heavy and electric. Your silk tunic is ruined, soaked through and clinging to every curve of your body, turning transparent under the flickering streetlamps.

You see his eyes dart to you—really look at you—and for a split second, the mask doesn't just crack; it shatters.

His pupils blow wide, his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he takes in the sight of you, drenched and defiant.

​But then, the iron shutters go back up. He looks away, his jaw working as he stares out at the rain.

"I’ll call your father.. We need a car. The bike won't make it through the flood."

​"No," you say, a mischievous heat rising in your chest despite the chill of the rain. "No phone calls, Hamza~"

​Before he can grab your arm, you turn and run. Not toward the street, but deeper into the shadows of the abandoned building.

​"Stop!" he barks, his boots thudding on the concrete as he pursues you.

The interior of the building is vast, filled with the scent of damp Earth and aged wood. High above, the roof leaks, sending thick pillars of water crashing down into the center of the floor. It’s a rhythmic, heavy sound—tip, tip, tip—echoing like a heartbeat against the stone.

​You stop in the center of one of those watery pillars. The rain here is cleaner, cooler. You tilt your head back, letting the water wash over your face, laughing as you spin in a slow circle.

​"You’re going to get sick," Hamza’s voice growls from the shadows.

He’s standing just at the edge of the light, watching you. His hands are clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.

​"Is that what you’re worried about, Hamza?" You step toward him, your wet feet silent on the floor. "Or are you worried that if you stay in the dark with me for too long, you’ll forget whose man you are?"

You can see the way his law tightens at your words- his mask of disinterest slipping more and more..

You run your hands through your soaked hair, pushing it back from your face, letting your fingers trail down your neck, over your collarbones, stopping just above the swell of your breasts where the silk is most translucent.

You hum, the melody low and sultry, barely audible over the loud storm..

​He takes a step forward, drawn in like a moth to a flame he knows will consume him.

"Enough," he rasps, but his voice lacks its usual steel. It’s thick with a hunger he’s spent years starving..

​"Make me stop then~" you challenge. You move closer, the space between you vanishing until you can feel the heat radiating off his body, fighting the cold of your wet clothes...then again you slip away with a chuckle, disappearing behind a pillar.

The challenge hangs in the air, thick and suffocating like the humidity of the monsoon. You see the muscles in his jaw ripple, his eyes darkening into twin pits of obsidian.

For a second, you think he’s going to lung—but instead, you let out a low, melodic chuckle that echoes off the high, rusted rafters.

You duck behind a stack of rotting wooden crates, your breath coming in shallow hitches. The cold rain on your skin is a sharp contrast to the fire burning in your belly. You peek through a gap in the wood.

​You see him. He’s standing in a shaft of moonlight that has pierced through a hole in the roof. His wet shirt is plastered to his torso..making your imagination run wild~

​"You’re playing a dangerous game," Hamza’s voice rings out, closer than you expected. It’s no longer the voice of a servant. It’s deep, territorial, and vibrating with a raw edge of desire. "You think because you are Rehman’s daughter, you are safe from me? Do you think I don’t have a breaking point?"

​You move again, slipping behind a rusted iron boiler, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"I think you’ve been hiding behind that 'Right Hand' title for too long," you whisper-shout, teasing him. "I think you’re terrified that if you touch me, you won’t be able to stop. And you hate not being in control, don't you, Hamza?"

​You hear a low, dangerous sound—half-growl, half-laugh—that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

​"I have spent so long watching you," he says, his voice now directly behind the crates you just vacated. "Keeping my hands at my sides while you walked past me. Smelling your perfume on the upholstery of the car and wanting to burn the world down just to have one minute alone with you.."

​The honesty in his voice makes your knees weak. This isn't just flirting anymore; this is the truth of a man who has been living in a self-imposed purgatory.

You try to move to the next set of pillars, but your wet foot slips on a patch of oil-slicked concrete. You gasp, your hand reaching out to steady yourself, and in that split second of vulnerability, the shadow moves.

​Before you can even regain your balance, a massive, warm hand clamps around your waist.

​You let out a small, startled cry as you are jerked backward. Your back hits his chest with a dull thud, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His other arm snakes around your front, pinning your arms to your sides in a crushing embrace.

​He’s a wall of heat. The cold rain dripping from your hair is instantly sizzled away by the sheer temperature of his skin.

He spins you around in his grip, his movements blurringly fast, and slams you back against the cold stone of a support pillar.

​His hands move to your wrists, pinning them above your head against the stone. He’s hovering inches from your face, his chest heaving as he fights for air. The smell of him is intoxicating—

​"Caught you," he rasps.

​The silence that follows is louder than the thunder outside. You look up at him, your chest rising and falling against his, the wet fabric of your clothes offering no barrier between your skin and his. His eyes are scanning your face, searching for fear, but all he finds is the same desperate hunger that’s consuming him.

​"Now what, Hamza?" you whisper, your voice trembling. "Are you going to take me home? Are you going to tell my father I was being difficult?"

​His grip on your wrists tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to show you exactly how much power he’s holding back. He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his beard grazing your sensitive skin..

The silence following your question is heavy, vibrating with the residual energy of the storm outside. You’re pinned between the cold, unyielding stone of the pillar and the furnace-like heat of Hamza’s body.

You can feel the sharp intake of his breath, the way his lungs expand against your chest, and the frantic, heavy thud of his heart—a rhythm that finally matches your own.

​"I should.." he sahs his voice dropping to a register so low it’s almost a growl.

​His eyes drop to your lips, then lower, tracing the path of the rainwater as it trickles down your throat and disappears into the soaked silk of your tunic.

His hand moves with agonizing slowness as he reaches for your dupatta, which is draped haphazardly over your shoulder, heavy and darkened by the rain.

​He doesn't just take it off; he uncurls it from you like he’s peeling back a layer of your soul. His knuckles brush the sensitive skin of your collarbone, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity through you that makes your breath hitch..

He tosses the wet silk aside, and it hits the floor with a soft, sodden thwack that sounds like a gavel coming down.

"​Instead," he whispers, leaning in until his lips are a mere hair’s breadth from yours, "I stop being your father’s dog.. And you stop being a tease.."

He doesn't wait for you to answer. He lunges, his mouth crashing onto yours with a desperate, starving ferocity.

​Its a deep, hungry kiss, gentle- yet full of emotion and starving hunger..

It tastes of the metallic tang of the rain, and the raw, unrefined passion of a man who has died a thousand deaths in the silence of his duty.

You let out a muffled moan, your hands flying to his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his damp shirt to pull him even closer, if that’s even possible.

​He groans deep in his throat, a sound of pure, unbridled surrender. One of his hands slides up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, tilting your face to deepen the kiss.

His tongue slides against yours, claiming you with a territorial hunger that makes your knees turn to water.

​He moves his hands down, gripping your waist with a strength that should be frightening, but it only makes you feel more alive than you ever have.

He hauls you upward, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, your wet thighs gripping the rough denim of his trousers.

​The friction is a revelation. He backs you harder against the pillar, his mouth moving from your lips to the sensitive curve of your neck.

He bites softly at the junction where your shoulder meets your throat, and you cry out, the sound lost in the roar of the thunder.

​"You’re mine," he growls against your skin, his voice possessive and raw. "Not your Father's daughter. Not a prize to be protected. Mine."

“Mine”—it isn’t a question. It’s a claim, a flag planted in the middle of a war zone.

​Your head falls back against the cold stone, a jagged breath escaping your lips. The word anchors you. For years you’ve been a pawn, a princess, a target, or a daughter. But under the weight of Hamza’s hands, you feel like a woman for the first time in your life.

​"Haan.." You gasp, your fingers digging so hard into the muscles of his shoulders that your nails leave crescent moons in the damp fabric.

The sound seemed to shatter the last of Hamza’s iron-clad restraint. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that started deep in his chest and vibrated against your lips.

This wasn’t the stoic protector anymore; this was a man who had been burning alive in silence for months, and you were the only cool water in sight.

​He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in jagged, hot puffs. His eyes, usually so controlled and vacant, were dark—almost black with a raw, predatory hunger.

​"You have no idea," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together, "what you’ve been doing to me. If your father saw me right now, he’d have my head on a stake."

​"Then let him," you whispered, your voice a sultry challenge. You reached down, grabbing the hem of your soaked silk tunic and pulling it slowly over your head.

The wet fabric clung to your skin, resisting, making every inch of the reveal an agonizingly slow tease. When it finally fell to the dirt floor, you stood before him in nothing but your lace underwear, your skin shimmering with droplets of rain and sweat.

​Hamza’s gaze traveled down your body with the weight of a physical touch. You saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. The discipline that defined his life was crumbling in real-time.

​"The ground is filth," he muttered, his eyes snapping back to yours, filled with a sudden, dark resolve.

​He stepped away from you, the loss of his heat making you shiver for a fraction of a second.

He strode out into the torrential downpour, his silhouette a dark shadow against the grey curtain of the storm. For a moment, you thought he might have regained his senses, but then you heard the heavy kick of his motorcycle’s engine.

​He didn't ride away. He backed the heavy machine into the shelter of the building, the headlight cutting a sharp, yellow beam through the shadows. He kicked the kickstand down, the bike leaning slightly, its leather seat wide and still warm from the engine’s heat.

​He turned toward you, water streaming down his face, his shirt now completely translucent. He didn't say a word.

He simply reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the back of your neck, and pulled you toward the bike.

Lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he sat you back against the leather seat of the motorcycle. The contrast was electric—the cool dampness of the air against your skin and the radiating heat of the bike’s engine between your thighs.

​Hamza stepped between your knees, his hands sliding up your thighs, his palms rough and hot. He leaned in, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, just below the ear.

​"I've spent every night imagining this," he confessed, his teeth nipping at your collarbone, sending a jolt of pure fire through your nerves. "Watching you walk through that house... watching you look at me like you knew exactly what I was thinking."

​"I did know," you whimpered, your head falling back, exposing the long line of your throat to him. "I wanted you to stop being so perfect. I wanted you to break."

​"Congratulations," he growled against your skin. "You broke me Shona.."

You let out a soft, triumphant laugh that was more of a breathy purr, your head falling back against the handlebars.

"Only took me so many months," you teased, your eyes fluttering open to find him watching you with a terrifying, singular focus.

"I was starting to think you were made of stone, Hamza. I was starting to think you didn't have a pulse."

​To prove your point, you slid your hand down his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against his ribs. It was racing—wild and untamed.

​"I have a pulse," he muttered, his large hands settling on your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft dip of your hips. "You just spent ninety days trying to stop it."

​"Is that what you call it?" You arched your back slightly, the movement intentional, watching the way his pupils blown out until his irises were just thin rings of amber. You reached out, your damp fingertips tracing the line of his jaw through his beard, then lower, flicking the top button of his soaked shirt. "I thought I was being very subtle."

​Hamza let out a dry, humorless huff, his hands tightening on your hips.

"Subtle? You wore that red dress to the gala and spent the entire night standing in my line of sight, sipping champagne and looking at me over the rim of the glass. I had to grip my holster so hard I thought I’d snap the leather."

​"And here I thought you were just being extra vigilant," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. You nipped the lobe, hearing his breath hitch. "You're a very good actor, Hamza. But you're a terrible liar."

Little did you know how right you were..

​His response was to hoist you higher onto the leather seat of the bike. The cold metal of the frame contrasted sharply with the searing heat of his palms.

He moved with a sudden, rough grace, his hands sliding from your waist to the backs of your thighs, spreading them wide so he could step even closer.

​"I'm not acting now, Shona" he rasped.

​He moved his hand to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, pulling just enough to force you to look at him.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, to where your lace bra was translucent and clinging to you.

​"Tell me to stop," he challenged, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Tell me you want your bodyguard back. Tell me you want the man who stands at the door and says 'Yes, Miss' and 'No, Miss'."

​You reached down, your fingers catching the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to reveal the ridged muscles of his stomach, the dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.

You didn't tell him to stop. Instead, you leaned in, trailing your tongue along the pulse point in his neck.

​"That man was sooo boring," you murmured against his skin, feeling the shudder go through him. "I want the man who’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. I want the man who’s currently wondering if the bike can hold our weight." You hummed.

​Hamza’s grip on your hair tightened, his knuckles grazing your scalp. A dark, predatory smile flickered on his lips—the first real expression of emotion you’d seen from him that wasn't duty-bound.

​"The bike can hold," he promised, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something raw and purely carnal. "The question is.. can you?"

​He didn't wait for an answer.

He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours again, with hungry authority.

You met him move for move, your hands roaming over his back, feeling every scar and every muscle of the man you had finally, successfully, pushed over the damn edge.

​The storm outside was loud, but as your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him flush against you, the only thing you could hear was the sound of his heavy breathing and the silent, shattering end of his restraint.

You sat perched on the black leather of the bike, the yellow beam of the headlight casting long, flickering shadows against the brick walls.

You were down to your lace underwear—a delicate, white set that looked almost glowing in the dim light, the fabric soaked through and clinging to your skin in a way that left nothing to the imagination.

​Hamza didn't move. He stood between your knees, his hands hovering just inches from your hips, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. For a man who lived his life by a code of absolute observation, he was suddenly, violently expressive.

His eyes traveled over you with a slow, agonizing reverence. He tracked the way the rainwater rolled down the curve of your throat, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone before disappearing into the scalloped edge of the lace.

​When his gaze finally settled on your breasts, he made a sound—a low, pained growl. The thin lace was no match for the cold air; your nipples were peaked, straining against the fabric, and the sight seemed to physically wound him.

​"You are..." he started, his voice cracking, "pure ruin."

​He finally reached out, his large, calloused thumbs hooking into the top edge of the lace bra. He didn't pull it away immediately. He let his knuckles brush against the soft swell of your skin, the friction of his rough hands sending sparks through your nerves.

He watched your face, watching your eyes flutter shut as he slowly, methodically peeled the lace back.

​The cool air hit your damp skin, making you shiver, but the heat of his gaze was almost heavy enough to touch- As the fabric fell away, your tits were fully bared to him, shimmering in the rain.

Hamza let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling—a sight that made your heart hammer against your ribs. To see the legendary, unflappable Hamza shaken to his core by the sight of your tits was the ultimate satisfaction.

​"Look at you," he whispered, his palms finally coming up to cup your tits, his thumbs grazing them with a gentleness that made you whine low in your throat. "I’ve spent months wondering if you were real. If any woman could actually be this perfect."

​You arched into his touch, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, but as he lowered his head to taste the skin he’d just uncovered, a spark of playful defiance flared in you.

You weren't just going to let him have his way while he stayed armored in his clothes.

It wasn't enough. Fuck-

​As his mouth grazed your nipple, you suddenly shifted. You planted one bare, damp foot firmly against the center of his chest—right over his heart—and pushed.

​Hamza stumbled back a step, startled, his eyes snapping up to yours. He looked like a man who had been jolted out of a trance.

​"Unfair, Hamza," you said, your voice dripping with honeyed mischief. You leaned back on your elbows against the handlebars, your chest thrust forward, legs spread as you kept your foot pressed against his firm pectoral muscle.

"I’m sitting here shivering in the rain, completely exposed, and you’re still dressed like you’re about to go on a patrol."

​You flexed your toes, digging them into the damp fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath.

"Take it off. All of it. I want to see exactly what I’ve been trying to get my hands on all these months."

​A dark, slow smirk finally spread across Hamza’s face— "Impatience doesn't suit a lady of your station," he teased, though his hands were already moving to his belt.

​"I’ve never been much of a lady," you countered, your eyes dropping to his hands.

​He didn't take his eyes off you as he unbuckled his tactical belt, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy, metallic clank.

Next came the shirt. He ripped the buttons open with a lack of care that made your breath hitch, the fabric fluttering to the ground to reveal a torso that looked like it had been sculpted out of dark marble.

He was covered in scars—thin white lines across his ribs, a jagged mark near his shoulder—each one a testament to the violence of the world he lived in.

​"Satisfied?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble as he moved to his trousers.

​"Not even close," you whispered.

​As he shed the rest of his clothes, the air in the outpost seemed to vanish.

He was massive, all over..his body all muscle and raw power- his cock already hard just from banter and playing around.

He stepped back into the space between your legs, his skin radiating a heat that rivaled the bike's engine.

​He didn't wait for your permission this time. He grabbed your ankle, sliding your foot off his chest and draping your leg over his shoulder. He leaned in close, his nose brushing against yours, his scent—rain, tobacco, and pure man—overwhelming your senses.

​"You're really something, Shona.." he rasped, his hand sliding up your inner thigh to the last remnant of your lace. "You got me on my knees for you..needy..dont expect me to be gentle~"

​You reached out, your hands sliding over his slick, muscular shoulders, pulling him down toward you. "I didn't ask for gentle, Hamza. I asked for you."

He reached out, a single finger tracing the petal-soft skin of your inner thigh, moving upward until he reached your pussy.

​He groaned at the contact, his thumb grazing your clit through the white lace with a deliberate, heavy pressure that made your hips buck off the leather.

"You're soaking," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the way you reacted to him. "And it’s not because of the storm..You’ve been wanting this as long as I have, haven’t you?"

​"Stop talking, Hamza," you pleaded, your head falling back against the handlebars, your breath hitching into a jagged moan. "Just... please."

​"I've spent a hundred nights standing outside your door, listening to you move around," he whispered, leaning in until his breath was hot against your wet skin. "Wondering if you were thinking about me while you touched yourself. Wondering if you were this fucking wet for me.. if those sounds you made were for me to hear only.."

​He kneeled down suddenly, leaned forward, pushing the fabric that was still covering your soeaking wet Pussy aside- His tongue darting out to taste you.

The sensation was electric—the roughness of his tongue against your hypersensitive skin sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl. You cried out, your fingers finding his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for the pleasure.

​He was relentless.. a starved man.

He used his mouth and tongue with a calculated precision, slowly pressing his flat tongue against you, parting your folds as he licked up and down all the way from your enterance to your clit and back, nudging his nose against your clit while his tongue teasingly pushed into your pussy. He was finding every nerve ending, every hidden spark, until you were sobbing his name into the rafters.

​"Hamza, please... I can't—".

Your moans echoed through the empty, dark building, it was a symphony of gasps and pleas, music to his ears.

He didn't just want to taste you. He wanted to devour you, show you just how weak you had made him.

​Once he couldn't bare it anymore, he stood up abruptly, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire.

He didn't give you a second to recover. He grabbed your waist, lifting you slightly so he could easily pull down your lace panties.

​"You're so wet for me, it's going to be a sin.." he growled against your lips.

​He guided his hard, throbbing cock to your entrance, the tip of him thick and scorching hot. Then, he pushed inside.

Fuck...

He paused there for a heartbeat, savoring the way you stretched around him, the sheer friction of the contact making both of you tremble.

​"You want this?" he demanded, his voice a rough command. "Tell me you want your bodyguard to ruin you."

​"Haan-," you gasped, your nails drawing blood on his shoulders. "Ruin me, Hamza. Do it now."

​He lunged forward, a single, deep thrust that buried him inside your clenching, tight Pussy.

The sensation was overwhelming—a perfect, sliding fit made possible by the rain and your own desperate need. You let out a broken scream, your legs locking around his waist to pull him even deeper.

"Hamza- oh fuck-" "You're fine, Baby, you're taking it perfectly for me..good girl"

He praised you, resting again to let you get used to his size and thickness filling you up.

This time, it was you leaning in for a kiss, maybe to calm your nerves- your beating heart that was basically jumping out of your chest. He gave you the time you needed, but once you whispered a soft "..Move.." to him, he grabbed your thighs and snapped his hips against yours.

The friction was incredible—the wetness of the rain and your own arousal making every slide of his body feel like liquid fire.

He didn't pace himself. He couldn't. The months of standing guard, of watching you from the shadows with a stoic face while his blood boiled, exploded into a rhythm that was deep, hungry, pushing your limits. His cock twitched inside you, causing you to clench even more around him.

​"You're a mess," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive cord of your throat. "Look at what you’ve done to me. I’m fucking drowning in you.."

​His hands were shoved underneath your thighs, hooking them even wider and pulling you against him until there wasn't a whisper of air between your skin. Pounding inside you.

Every time he slammed forward, the motorcycle rocked on its kickstand, the metal groaning in protest, but you barely felt the cold steel. All you felt was him fucking you, hard, deep and with an intensity that made you see stars.

​You were a wreck beneath him. Your hair was a wild, damp tangle across your face, your skin flushed a deep, bruised pink, and your voice had long since gone hoarse from crying out.

You reached back, your hands blindly grasping at the handlebars of the bike, your knuckles white as you used the machine to push back against him, your hips meeting his frantic energy with a desperation of your own.

​"Harder, Hamza... don't you dare stop," you gasped, your eyes rolling back.

​He let out a low, guttural roar, He was relentless, his muscles ripping under his skin as he drove you toward the edge. The sound of the rain hitting the tin roof above was a deafening, chaotic symphony, but it paled in comparison to the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin and the hitching, desperate sounds of your shared breath. You looked so lewd, so fucking desperate for him-

​He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face a mask of pure, tortured ecstasy. He saw the way your lips were parted, the way your chest heaved, and the way your eyes were fixed on him with a terrifying devotion.

​"I’m going to ruin you for anyone else," he hissed, his fingers digging into the leather seat beside your hips. "After tonight, you’ll never be able to look at me without remembering exactly how the shape of my cock fills you out perfectly.."

​He hit a spot deep inside you that made your entire body go rigid. A white-hot spark ignited in your core, spreading outward until your nerves were screaming.

,,Yes!- Yes! Ahh!-"

His hands, massive and scarred, slid under your hips and shifted you with an easy, terrifying strength

. He turned you slightly sideways on the leather seat, forcing you to lean back against the heavy metal of the bike’s handlebars. He hiked one of your legs up high, draping it over his broad shoulder so that you were pinned open, completely vulnerable to the the raw hunger in his eyes.

​"Hold on," he commanded, his voice a dark, jagged thread of sound.

​You reached back, your fingers white-knuckled as you gripped the cold chrome of the bike's frame for leverage. The position was deep—agonizingly, fucking deep.

When he lunged back into your Pussy from this new angle, the breath was punched out of your lungs. It wasn't just a physical act anymore; it was an assault on your senses.

The vibration of his growls, the rhythmic creak of the motorcycle’s suspension, and the stinging cold of the rain spray hitting your heated skin created a sensory overload that pushed you to the brink.

​"Hamza... please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the seat, tears of pleasure forming in your eyes.

​He was a man possessed. He watched every flinch of your muscles, every tremor of your thighs, his jaw locked so tight the bone looked ready to snap. He pounded into you with a relentless, driving force, his sweat mingling with the rainwater dripping from the roof until you were both slick, shimmering, and lost to the heat.

​The tip-tip of the rain on the corrugated metal seemed to speed up, matching the frantic pace of his hips. You felt the pressure building in your lower stomach, a coiled spring of tension that was becoming unbearable. Every time he fucked his thick cock into your tight, needy Pussy, you felt how you got closer to cumming.

​"Look at me," he rasped, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing your clouded eyes to meet his. He wanted you to see the man who was breaking every vow he’d ever made. "Stay with me."

​You wrapped your free arm around his neck, pulling him down until your sweat-slicked chests collided. The friction of the movement, the heat of his skin, and the sheer power of his finish finally sent you over the edge.

,,OH FUCK!- AAHH!-"

Your vision fractured into white light as your muscles clamped around him in a violent, rhythmic pulsing. You came, you came so fucking hard you forgot how to breathe for a second.

​You screamed his name, the sound lost to a sudden, deafening crack of thunder that shook the very ground.

​Hamza let out a low, primal roar of his own, The tightening of your Pussy around his cock enough to make him lose his mind. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he pounded into you, slower, but much more harder and deeper, until he came. He fucked his cum into you-his entire frame shuddering as the last of his iron discipline was washed away by the storm.

​For a long minute, he kept thrusting, as if he couldn't get enough of being inside you.

The only sound was the dying rumble of the thunder and the ragged, synchronized gasping of two people who had just crossed a point of no return..

Hamza remained buried in the crook of your neck for a long time, his heavy weight a grounding presence as your heart slowly returned to a normal rhythm.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t immediately reach for his clothes. Instead, he stayed between your legs, his large hands lingering on your waist with a gentleness that felt entirely new—and entirely dangerous.

​You looked up at him, your vision still slightly hazy. A wide, breathless smile spread across your face—a look of pure, unadulterated joy that felt strangely out of place in such a gritty setting. You reached up, your damp palms cupping his face, your thumbs tracing the hard line of his cheekbones.

​"Hamza," you whispered, your voice bubbling with a sweet, naive excitement. "That was... I never felt so good before- i knew you were the one for me~."

​His expression flickered—a flash of shadow passing over his dark eyes. "You shouldn't say things like that, Shona" he muttered, though he didn't pull away. He leaned into your touch almost unconsciously, like a man starved for affection. "The world we live in... it doesn't allow for me to be the one for you.."

​"I don't care," you countered, your eyes bright and defiant. You leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—a stark contrast to the bruising hunger of moments ago. "I don't care what my father thinks. I don't care about the deals or the politics. I’m the daughter of Rehman Dakait, and if I want you, I’m going to have you. He can’t stop us. My Father always praises you, my Mother loves you! Hamza hes never going to say no to me..!"

​Hamza felt a cold chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the damp air. He looked at your face—so full of hope, so convinced that love could somehow shield you from the blood and iron of your father's world..and his hidden mission.

​He knew his mission had just become an impossible knot. He wasn't just a spy anymore; he was a traitor to his mission- falling for the Daughter of one of his biggest Targets..how much she would hate him if she only knew..

​He should have been cold. He should have told you this was a mistake. But as you tucked your head under his chin and sighed with a contented, sweet smile, his resolve crumbled.

​He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest with a fierce, protective ache. He buried his face in your wet hair, inhaling the scent of rain and silk.

​"You’re going to be the death of me," he murmured into your hair, his voice breaking with a sudden, devastating softness.

​"Then at least you'll die happy," you teased, nipping at his shoulder.

​He didn't laugh, but he tightened his grip, his eyes staring out into the dark, receding rain. He was in deep—far deeper than he ever intended—and as he looked at your joyful, trusting face, he knew he would burn the whole city down before he let anyone take this away from you..

The morning sun in Delhi did not slide gently into your room; it pushed its way through the gaps in your heavy, cream-colored curtains, casting long, dusty beams of golden light across your bedroom. It was a space you had meticulously curated to be your sanctuary, a soft, quiet fortress against a world that always felt a bit too loud, a bit too fast, and entirely too judgmental.

Your room was a reflection of everything you kept hidden inside. The walls were painted a muted, calming sage green, adorned not with mirrors—which you avoided whenever possible—but with framed watercolor prints of misty landscapes and overflowing bookshelves that groaned under the weight of classic poetry, historical fiction, and thick fantasy novels. A plush, cream-colored rug muffled the sound of the outside world, and the air smelled faintly of lavender pillow spray and vanilla wax melts from the night before. It was a room meant for hiding, for being small, for blending into the background where it was safe.

In the center of this sanctuary lay your bed, an island of comfort. You stirred beneath the heavy, quilted duvet, a soft groan escaping your lips as the persistent chirp of the birds outside signaled the official start of the day. Slowly, you shifted your weight, the mattress sighing beneath your frame.

You were a girl who occupied space in a world that constantly told women to shrink. At twenty-three, your body carried the kind of soft, abundant curves that painters from past centuries used to obsess over—lush, heavy, and soft—but in the modern era of crop tops and rigid size charts, it was a body that mostly brought you anxiety. You had learned to navigate life by dressing like a ghost. You wore clothes that hid you, styles that didn't draw the eye, and you walked with a slight slouch, a subconscious effort to apologize for taking up room.

As consciousness fully returned, you reached up to push a thick, tangled mass of dark hair out of your face. Sleep had transformed your hair into a wild, unruly halo. It was naturally wavy, thick, and currently a chaotic bird's nest, with stray curls sticking out at odd angles and clinging to the damp skin of your neck. You sighed, running your fingers through the knots, wincing slightly as a particularly stubborn tangle caught on your fingernail.

You looked down at your pajamas, your daily uniform of comfort and concealment. You were wearing an oversized, faded navy blue t-shirt that you had stolen from your father’s closet years ago—it was so stretched out that it slouched off one of your shoulders, exposing a smooth collarbone. Beneath it, you wore a pair of baggy, grey cotton sweatpants that cinched tightly at your waist but ballooned out over your wide hips and thick thighs, pooling around your ankles. There were no bright colors, no lace, no satin. It was a shield, purely functional, designed to wrap you in a cocoon where nobody could perceive the shape of you.

For a few quiet moments, you just lay there, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirred lazily overhead. You loved these quiet, early hours. Here, in the stillness of your bedroom, you didn't have to worry about the way a chair might creak when you sat down, or the subtle, pitying glances of salesclerks, or the complete and utter lack of romantic attention from men your age. You were used to being the invisible friend, the sweet girl with the "pretty face" who sat in the corner while her friends danced, the one who was asked to take the photo rather than be in it. You had accepted it. It was easier to expect nothing than to hope for a fairytale and be reminded of your own reflection.

With a soft sigh, you rolled onto your side, burying your face deeper into the cool fabric of your pillow. You wanted to stretch this peace out for as long as possible, to pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist for just another hour.

But the universe had other plans.

The heavy wooden door to your bedroom didn't just open; it flew inward with a dramatic bang that sent a jolt of adrenaline straight through your veins. The peaceful silence of your sanctuary was instantly shattered.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up, my beautiful, lazy bridesmaid!"

Your cousin, Pooja, practically vibrated into the room. If you were a quiet, steady rain, Pooja was a full-blown storm. She was getting married in 4 months, and her entire existence had become a whirlwind of silk swatches, guest lists, and high-pitched squeals. Today, she was dressed in a pristine, bright yellow kurti, her hair already perfectly blown out, and her wrists jingling with a dozen gold bangles that clattered together like frantic wind chimes.

She marched straight over to your bed, completely ignoring your groggy groan, and grabbed the edge of your heavy duvet. With one swift, merciless tug, she whipped it off your body, leaving you exposed to the cool air and the harsh morning light.

"Pooja, please, it's barely eight.." you mumbled, burying your face in your arms, trying to curl your legs up to hide the sheer bulk of your sweatpants.

"Barely eight? It is 8:15 AM! The boutique closes its VIP bookings by noon, and we have exactly three hours to find my dream reception lehenga..!" Pooja declared, dropping her heavy designer handbag onto your neat desk with a loud bam! She planted her hands on her hips, looking down at you with a mixture of affection and exasperation. "And look at you! You are still looking like a beautiful, messy potato. Get up!"

You opened one eye, peering at her through the curtain of your messy hair. "Do I really have to go? You could go with your mom and the other aunties..They know fashion. I'll just get in the way."

"Are you crazy?" Pooja huffed, stomping her foot playfully. She sat down on the edge of your mattress, the bed dipping under her slight frame. She reached out, gently tugging a strand of your wild hair. "You are my favorite cousin. I don't care about the aunties and their opinions. I need you there. Beside, we need to find something stunning for you to wear too. A gorgeous, heavy anarkali or Lehenga..! You have such a gorgeous face, we need to doll you up! You're one of my bridesmaids after all!"

You offered her a small, weak smile, but inside, a familiar knot of dread began to tighten in your stomach. Shopping at high-end Delhi bridal boutiques was your literal definition of hell. It meant standing in front of three-way mirrors under blinding, fluorescent lights while thin, judging salesgirls measured your waist with measuring tapes that never seemed long enough. It meant hearing aunties whisper “such a pretty face, if only she lost some weight” just loud enough for you to hear. It meant feeling entirely, agonizingly out of place.

"I'll just wear something old, Pooja. Truly. Today is about you," you said softly, your voice dropping to its usual quiet, self-effacing register. You pulled your oversized shirt down over your knees, trying to make yourself as small as possible on the bed.

"No way!" Pooja stood up, entirely bursting with unstoppable bridezilla energy. She grabbed your wrists and began physically pulling you upward. "You are coming, you are helping me choose, and we are going to have fun! Now, stop making excuses. Go throw some water on your face, tame this wild jungle on your head, and get out of those grandfather clothes. The car is outside, the driver is waiting, and Mehraas Design Studio is calling our names!"

She gave you one final, enthusiastic shove toward your bathroom before turning to pace around your room, already pulling out her phone to check her Pinterest boards.

You stood on the cold tiled floor, your oversized clothes hanging loosely around you, your heart thumping with a quiet anxiety about the day ahead.

The transition from the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom to the dazzling, overwhelming opulence of Mehraas Design Studio was enough to give you whiplash. The boutique was located in one of South Delhi’s most elite markets, a multi-story fortress of high fashion that practically oozed wealth. As soon as the glass doors parted, you were hit with the scent of expensive jasmine incense and the chilling blast of heavy central air conditioning.

Every surface gleamed. The floors were polished white marble that reflected the blinding, crystalline chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Rows of gold-plated racks stretched out into the distance, heavy with silks, brocades, and velvets in every shade of the rainbow, all dripping with intricate embroidery, pearls, and crystals. Slim, perfectly manicured sales assistants in matching silk kurtis floated across the floor like elegant ghosts, greeting customers with practiced, sycophantic smiles.

You immediately felt smaller. You instinctively pulled the edges of your oversized, moss-green tunic down, wishing it were twice as long. Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, a protective shield against the environment. You felt like an intruder in a palace, a smudge of gray on a pristine white canvas.

But Pooja didn't give you time to drown in your anxieties. She hooked her arm firmly through yours, leaning her head against your shoulder for a brief second as you both walked deeper into the store. Unlike the stereotypical, demanding brides who dominated these luxury stores, Pooja was a gentle soul. She was bursting with excitement, yes, but her heart was entirely pure. She knew how these environments made you feel, and she had spent the entire car ride there making sure you knew how much she wanted you by her side.

"Look at this place.." Pooja whispered in awe, her eyes dancing as she looked around. "It’s like a Bollywood set. But don't look so terrified, okay? We belong here just as much as anyone else. I’m the bride, and you are my VIP."

You managed a small, grateful smile, squeezing her hand. "I’m just here to hold your bags and tell you how beautiful you look, Pooja. That’s my only job today."

"Pooch!" A sharp voice cut through the air. It was Pooja’s mother, your aunt, who was already huddled in a plush velvet seating area surrounded by three salesclerks presenting a mountain of heavily embroidered crimson fabrics. "Come here quickly! Look at this hand-work. They say this piece took six months to embroider!"

Pooja gave your arm an encouraging pat. "Stay right here, okay? Let me go handle the mothership. I’ll be right back."

As Pooja moved toward the seating area, you drifted toward the edge of the showroom, trying to find a corner where you could blend into the background. You leaned against a pillar, watching the chaotic dance of Delhi bridal shopping. Wealthy aunties argued over discounts, young brides-to-be pouted at their reflections, and husbands looked utterly exhausted.

A few minutes later, Pooja broke away from her mother and jogged back over to you, her face lit up with a massive, mischievous grin. Behind her, a junior sales assistant was carrying a heavy wooden hanger draped in a garment garment bag, but the bottom of the fabric peeked out.

It was a breathtaking shade of soft, icy baby blue.

"Okay, so while Mom is arguing about the shade of red, I went to the bridesmaid section..!" Pooja said, her voice bubbling with excitement. "For the main wedding day, I’ve decided all my bridesmaids—you, Neha, Riya—are going to wear pastels. Look at this."

She carefully zipped down the garment bag, revealing the lehenga inside. Your breath caught slightly in your throat. It was undeniably stunning. The skirt was made of layers of fine, airy tulle over a heavy silk lining, dyed in a serene, dreamy baby blue that looked like a clear morning sky. But it wasn't plain; it was adorned with delicate, shimmering silver gota patti and tiny, scattered pearls that caught the light of the chandeliers like morning dew on grass. The blouse was a matching silk, with an elegant, neckline and sheer, elbow-length sleeves embroidered with tiny silver floral motifs. The dupatta was a cloud of matching sheer organza, its edges finished with a scalloped silver border.

It was a fairytale outfit. But all you could see was a trap.

"Pooja, it's... it's absolutely gorgeous..!" you said honestly, your voice dipping into a hesitant, quiet register. "But... baby blue? Pastels are for... you know. Thin girls. It’s going to make me look like a giant cloud. I’ll look huge in photos next to Neha and Riya."

Pooja’s expression softened instantly. The excited bride persona melted away, replaced by the cousin who had grown up sharing a bed with you, the one who knew every single one of your insecurities. She stepped closer, taking both of your hands in hers, ignoring the bustling shop around them.

"Listen to me." Pooja said firmly, her voice thick with genuine affection. "You are not a cloud. You are my sister. And you are beautiful. I am so tired of you hiding yourself in those dark, baggy tunics. Look at your skin—this color is going to make you look like an absolute goddess. You have the prettiest eyes and the most beautiful smile, and I want you to shine on my wedding day, not fade into the wallpaper."

"But Pooja, the sizing..." you whispered, looking down at your shoes, your cheeks burning. "They won't have my size on the rack. I don't want to stand there while they tell me they have to custom-make it with extra fabric panels. It’s embarrassing."

"I already asked them!" Pooja countered immediately, a triumphant smile returning to her face. "This is a trial piece, and it has an adjustable tie-back corset and a massive margin inside the skirt. It’s just for the trial, to see how the color and the silhouette look on you. If you like it, they will custom-tailor a brand new one to your exact measurements, no questions asked. I’ve already paid the booking fee, so you don't have to worry about a thing."

You looked from Pooja’s hopeful, loving face to the shimmering silver and blue fabric. Your heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The thought of stepping out in front of the mirrors, of being perceived, made your stomach twist into tight knots. But looking at Pooja, you saw how much this meant to her. She didn't want to hurt you; she wanted to celebrate you. She was trying, in her own sweet way, to pull you out of your shell.

"Just try it..!" Pooja pleaded softly, bumping her shoulder against yours. "For me? Just put it on, look in the mirror, and if you absolutely hate it, I swear on my wedding day we will find you something dark navy blue. Deal?"

You let out a long, shaky breath, the wall of your resistance finally crumbling under the weight of her kindness. "Okay. Fine. I’ll try it. But if I look ridiculous, I can wear whatever I choose, deal?"

"Deal!" Pooja squealed, clapping her hands together. She grabbed the heavy hanger from the sales assistant and handed it to you. The fabric was surprisingly heavy, the weight of the silver embroidery pulling at your arms. "The trial rooms are in the back corridor, through those velvet curtains. Go, go! Take your time, don't rush. I’ll be waiting right here!"

You took the lehenga, holding the massive, voluminous skirt against your body as a shield as you walked away from the main showroom. You turned the corner into a long, dimly lit hallway. The walls here were lined with deep charcoal-gray wallpaper, and a thick, plush carpet absorbed the sound of your footsteps, plunging you into a sudden, eerie quiet.

Your mind was racing, entirely consumed by anxiety about the dress.

What if the zipper gets stuck? What if I can't breathe? What if I look into the mirror and just want to cry?

You were so deeply trapped in the downward spiral of your own thoughts, so desperate to find a private space where you could hide and wrestle yourself into the silk and tulle, that you completely stopped paying attention to your surroundings.

Ahead of you, the hallway split. To the right, there was a brightly lit arched doorway with a subtle floral sign. To the left, there was a set of heavy, dramatic double doors draped in rich, dark velvet curtains, with a sleek, minimalist golden plaque mounted on the wall next to it.

You didn't look at the plaque. You didn't notice the masculine, woody scent of sandalwood and expensive leather that replaced the jasmine incense of the main showroom. You didn't notice the complete absence of women’s voices in this wing of the boutique.

All you saw was a heavy, empty-looking door that promised privacy.

With a trembling hand, you pushed past the heavy velvet curtains and slipped through the door, letting it click shut softly behind you. You let out a massive, ragged sigh of relief, leaning your back against the solid wood, thinking you were entirely, safely alone. You had no idea that you had just walked straight into the ultra-exclusive, VIP Men’s Custom Lounge—and that your quiet life was about to be irrevocably shattered.

The room you had stepped into was blissfully quiet, a world away from the chaotic, high-pitched energy of the main bridal salon. It was a spacious, private changing suite, dimly lit with warm, recessed gold lighting that cast a soft glow over the charcoal-gray walls. In the center of the room sat a massive, circular plush velvet ottoman, and anchoring the back wall was an imposing, three-panel floor-to-ceiling mirror framed in dark wood. For a moment, you just stood against the closed door, clutching the heavy baby blue lehenga to your chest like a shield, listening to the heavy silence. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs, a lingering side effect of the anxiety that always gripped you when forced into the spotlight.

Slowly, you let out a long breath, watching it rattle in your throat.

You can do this. you told yourself. It’s just a dress. It’s just for Pooja.

With careful, almost hesitant movements, you walked over to the velvet ottoman and gently laid the heavy garment down. The silver gota patti work winked up at you under the warm lights, the hundreds of tiny pearls sewn into the fabric catching the glow like little stars. It really was an exquisite piece of art, and as you looked at it, a tiny, buried part of you—the part that secretly watched old Bollywood films late at night and dreamed of sweeping romance—ached to see what it would feel like to wear something so magical.

You began the slow, familiar, and often agonizing process of changing out of your armor. You pulled your oversized, moss-green tunic over your head, leaving it on the ottoman, and stepped out of your baggy sweatpants. Standing in the quiet room in just your basic undergarments, you felt exposed, even with no one there to see you. You purposely kept your eyes averted from the large mirrors as you reached for the heavy lehenga skirt.

Lifting the skirt required an actual physical effort; the layers of heavy silk lining, structured can-can netting, and clouds of airy baby blue tulle were voluminous and weighty. You stepped into the center of the skirt, pulling the waistband up over your hips. Your breath caught in your throat as the fabric slid upward. You braced yourself for the inevitable moment of panic—the moment where the fabric would refuse to budge, where you would realize it was too small, where the harsh reality of your body would ruin the fantasy.

But as you pulled the waistband up to your waist, the fabric didn't pinch or tear. The sales assistant hadn't lied to Pooja; the skirt had an incredibly generous, traditional tie-back system with thick, silk drawstrings. With trembling fingers, you pulled the cords taut. The skirt cinched comfortably around your narrowest part, right under your ribs, before flaring out into a majestic, sweeping A-line that completely masked the heavy curve of your hips and thighs. The structural netting underneath held the shape beautifully, billowing out around you like a serene, icy cloud.

Next was the blouse. You picked up the delicate silk piece, your hands shaking slightly as you slid your arms into the sheer, elbow-length sleeves. The silk felt cool and luxurious against your skin. You reached behind your back, your fingers fumbling blindly with the adjustable corset-style laces at the back. Because it was a trial piece meant to accommodate various sizes, the laces were long and forgiving. You pulled them as best as you could, tightening the blouse until it hugged your torso snugly, supporting your chest and smoothing out your curves.

For a long time, you kept your head down, staring at the plush carpet beneath your bare feet. You were terrified to look up. You were terrified that the mirror would do what mirrors always did: mock your efforts and remind you that you didn't belong in a fairytale.

But the silence of the room gave you a strange, fleeting burst of courage. You took a deep, steadying breath, lifted your chin, and finally looked into the central mirror.

Your breath completely hitched.

For the first time in your life, you didn't immediately look away from your own reflection. You couldn't.

The soft, icy baby blue of the fabric did something miraculous against your complexion. Instead of washing you out, the cool undertone of the color made your skin look luminous, almost radiant. The contrast was striking. The delicate silver gota patti embroidery across the neckline caught the overhead lights, drawing the eye upward to your collarbones and the soft slope of your shoulders.

But it was your hair that truly completed the picture. The wild, unruly mass of dark, wavy hair that you had been trying to tame all morning had completely tumbled down over your shoulders and down your back. The rich, deep color of your thick curls contrasted beautifully against the ethereal, pastel blue of the blouse. A few stray, soft tendrils framed your face, making your large, hesitant eyes look incredibly bright and soulful.

You took a step closer to the mirror, the heavy tulle skirt rustling softly around your bare feet. For the very first time, you didn't look like a girl trying to hide in a corner. The structured silhouette of the lehenga didn't make you look "huge"—it made you look beautifull. The soft silk hugged the fullness of your bust and the curve of your waist, creating a timeless, classic Bollywood silhouette. You looked like a painting from an era where beauty was measured in softness and warmth.

A tiny, breathless smile tugged at the corners of your lips. You raised a hand, your fingers gently tracing the intricate silver floral patterns on your sleeve. For a fleeting, beautiful moment, the loud, critical voice in your head went completely silent. You felt pretty. Truly, genuinely pretty.

Then, the heavy wooden door behind you burst open.

The sudden, violent intrusion shattered the fragile magic of the room like a rock through glass. Your heart leapt into your throat, and you spun around in an instant, your bare feet slipping slightly on the smooth floor as your hands flew up to cover your chest in a instinctual, panicked gesture of defense.

A man strode into the room with absolute, unbridled confidence, talking at a mile a minute before the door had even finished swinging shut.

"Oye Vicky, bro, main kya keh raha hoon! This designer guy is totally mental, yaara!" the voice boomed, rich, incredibly loud, and dripping with confidence.

He was a walking explosion of color and energy. He was wearing a ridiculously flashy, neon-pink silk sherwani covered in intricate mirror-work that practically blinded you under the lights. His shirt was unbuttoned entirely too low, exposing an oiled up chest adorned with a heavy, glittering gold chain with a massive pendant. On his face sat a pair of oversized, dark designer sunglasses with gold frames, which he immediately shoved up into his heavily styled, perfectly coiffed hair as he kicked the door shut behind him with his heel.

"He is telling me pink is not my color! Rocky Randhawa not look good in pink? Main toh party piece hoon, bro! Total aatishbaazi!" He was gesturing wildly with his hands, which were covered in heavy gold rings, entirely absorbed in his own dramatic monologue as he reached back to adjust his collar.

Rocky turned around fully, his mouth open to finish his sentence, his eyes scanning the room for his friend Vicky.

Instead, he found you.

The words died instantly in his throat. The flamboyant, high-energy hand gestures froze mid-air.

Rocky’s entire body went completely rigid. His jaw slacked, dropping open just a fraction as his large, expressive eyes locked onto you standing in the center of the room. The absolute whirlwind of noise and chaos that had just entered the suite suddenly evaporated, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.

You stood there, terrified, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. You were painfully aware of your bare shoulders, your bare feet, and the fact that you were trapped in a room with a complete stranger who was staring at you as if he had just seen a ghost. Your cheeks burned with a deep, furious blush that crawled all the way up to your ears.

Rocky’s eyes traveled slowly from the bottom of your sweeping, baby blue tulle skirt, up the shimmering silver embroidery of your waist, across the soft slope of your shoulders, and finally came to rest on your face. He took in the sight of your large, panicked eyes, and the thick cascade of dark, messy waves tumbling over your shoulders.

The loud, arrogant, overconfident Delhi boy completely vanished. In his place stood someone who looked entirely, utterly dazed, as if he had just been hit by a bolt of lightning. His chest heaved once under his open neon shirt.

He blinked once. Twice. He opened his mouth, but for the first time in his life, no loud words came out.

"...Oh—" Rocky muttered, his voice dropping from a booming shout to a soft, breathless, entirely reverent whisper. He swallowed hard, his eyes wide and completely captivated, unable to look away from you for even a single second.

"I—I am so sorry! Oh my god, I am so sorry!" you stammered, your voice cracking as the realization crashed down on you like a tidal wave.

Your eyes frantically darted around the room, finally locking onto a sleek black marble counter you hadn’t noticed before. On it sat a stray leather shaving kit, a masculine silver watch, and a stray can of premium hair gel. This wasn't a unisex bridal suite. This was the men's wing. You had blundered straight into the private dressing room of an incredibly rich, undeniably intense, and—crucially—absolutely gorgeous guy.

Panic seized your throat. Your mind instantly began to spiral, feeding your worst insecurities.

He’s going to think I’m a freak. He’s looking at me because I look ridiculous. A big girl stuffed into a pastel fairytale dress, trespassing in his space.

Your cheeks burned so hot you were certain they were turning the exact shade of his neon-pink sherwani.

"I walked into the wrong room, I didn't see the sign, I am just leaving right now, please excuse me.." you rushed out in one breathless, panicked sentence. You instinctively clutched the sides of your massive, voluminous baby blue skirt, preparing to gather the tulle and bolt past him toward the door.

But as you took a clumsy step forward, your bare foot sliding on the polished marble, Rocky snapped out of his trance. He didn't move away. Instead, he stepped right into your path, throwing his hands out in a wide, dramatic gesture to block the exit.

"Oye, oye, oye! Roko, roko, roko!" Rocky cried out, his voice a mix of sudden alarm and high-pitched excitement. He didn't look angry; he looked like a man who had just witnessed a miracle and was terrified it was about to vanish. "Arey cutie, Maine kuch galat bola kya?"

You froze, your arms still wrapped defensively around yourself. "No, I... I’m in the wrong place. This is for men."

"Men? Arey, chhhodo ji!" Rocky waved his hand dismissively, his heavy gold rings catching the light. He stepped closer, bringing with him the intoxicating scent of expensive oud wood, fresh mint, and pure, unfiltered confidence. He tilted his head, his large brown eyes scanning your face with a look of such intense, undisguised admiration that it made your breath halt.

"Suno ji, Mata Rani ki kasam..when I open that door, I thought my eyes were cheating on me..! Mujhe laga koi parii aasmaan se direct neeche tapak gayi hai!"

You blinked, completely stunned. Your brain stalled, trying to process his words. "What...?"

"Yes! Ekdum sach baat!" Rocky smiled, a dazzling, goofy, incredibly charming grin that showed off perfectly straight, white teeth. He took another step, entirely unbothered by personal space, though he was careful not to actually touch you. He looked at you as if you were a masterpiece, his eyes drinking in the sight of your luminous skin against the icy blue silk, completely blind to the weight you spent your whole life trying to hide. To Rocky, grandeur was beauty, and you were magnificent.

"Tumhara naam kya hai baby? Because from today, my heart is only beating for you. Dhik-chik, dhik-chik, dhik-chik! Hear it? It is totally mental!" He placed a hand over his heavily chain-adorned chest, leaning in slightly with an expression of comical sincerity.

"I... I think you are making fun of me-" you whispered softly, your gaze dropping to the floor. The old, familiar defense mechanism kicked in. A guy who looked like him—with a jawline that sharp, hair that perfect, and clothes that expensive—did not look at a girl your size and react like this. It had to be a joke. A prank.

The goofy smile instantly vanished from Rocky’s face, replaced by a look of genuine, horrified offense. He placed his hands on his hips, his neon-pink silk shoulders puffing out.

"Kya? Making fun? Arey..! look at my face! Do I look like a joker to you? Suno meri jalebi, I am totally, 100% seriously! Tum itni sundar ho, itni pyaari ho, ki tumhare samne toh humari Dhanlakshmi Sweets ki sabse meethi barfi bhi feeki lag rahi hai!"

You looked up at him, your eyebrows knitting together in utter, peak confusion. "Did you just call me a... jalebi?"

"Yes! Because you are sweeter than jalebi, baby!" Rocky grinned, snapping his fingers and doing a tiny, celebratory shoulder shake. "Ekdum sweet, ekdum perfect! Aur yeh jo tumne pastel blue pehna hai na? Ohoho! Total tabaahi! It is looking so bomb on you..! ​Oh Haye re! Yeh jo tumhare kaale-kaale lambe baal hain na... sachi bol raha hoon, agar Yash Chopra ji zinda hote, toh poori picture ka budget sirf tumhare baalon ke flying scene pe laga dete! Ekdum jannat ki parii lag rahi ho! Tumhe dekh kar toh mujhe lag raha hai ki main abhi ke abhi bol doon..."

He suddenly dropped into a dramatic, low stance, one hand sweeping outward as if he were performing on a grand stage, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach do a violent flip.

"...Bol haan ya naa!" he declaimed loudly, quoting the iconic film line with zero shame and 200% passion.

"What?—" you squeaked, your voice barely audible. You took a step backward, your mind reeling. This guy was a whirlwind. He was too loud, too close, completely ridiculous, and yet... there was absolutely zero malice in his eyes. He wasn't laughing at you. His eyes were wide, bright, and completely captivated. He looked like a giant golden retriever that had just found its favorite person in the world.

"What what?" Rocky chuckled, shaking his head at your confusion as he stood back up, adjusting his massive gold chains. "Arey, I am asking for a date, my generous girl!"

"You mean..gorgeous?" You asked, tilting your head.

"Yes that what i said duh~ Suno, hum dono chalenge, badhiya gaadi mein ghumenge, khana khayenge...You just have to say haan! Why you saying what? What-what toh batak karti hai, tum toh meri parii ho!"

A tiny, involuntary bubble of laughter escaped your lips before you could stop it. His English was utterly atrocious, his confidence was absurd, but it was so purely, undeniably silly that it was impossible to stay terrified.

Seeing your smile, Rocky’s eyes lit up like fireworks. He looked like he had just won the lottery. "Haye! Oye hoye! Look at that smile! Dil toh gaya mera, khatam! Ekdum aatishbaazi ho gayi andar!"

Before you could formulate a single sentence to ground yourself back in reality, the heavy velvet curtains at the main entrance of the VIP suite rustled.

"Hey! Where did you go?" Pooja’s sweet, familiar voice echoed from the hallway, sounding closer by the second. "Did you find a room? Let me see how the baby blue looks!"

The sound of your cousin's voice broke the spell. The reality of the situation rushed back, and you realized you were standing barefoot in a men's trial room, being aggressively and hilariously courted by a stranger in neon pink.

"I have to go..!" you said hurriedly, your panic returning full force.

"Oye, wait, wait, wait!" Rocky panicked too, seeing his fairy about to escape. He reached out his hands, gesturing frantically. "Aise kaise jaoge? Suno naaa jaaaan- Give me your details! Naam, address, phone number, hand in marriage... kuch toh de do!"

"What?!" you gasped, your eyes widening to the size of saucers at his casual mention of marriage.

"Yes, everything! Sab kuch chahiye mujhe!" Rocky yelled back over the space between you, his face a picture of hilarious, desperate urgency. "Main dhoond lega tumko, dekh lena!"

"I'm coming, Pooja!" you screamed toward the door, completely ignoring him now.

Without looking back, you gathered the heavy layers of your baby blue tulle skirt in both hands, lifted it up to your shins, and sprinted past a dazed, shouting Rocky. You burst through the heavy wooden door, threw open the velvet curtains, and flew out into the corridor, your heart drumming a wild, frantic, and entirely un-quiet rhythm against your ribs.

Back inside the charcoal-gray VIP dressing room, the heavy wooden door clicked shut, sealing the space in sudden, ringing silence.

Rocky stood exactly where you had left him. His feet were planted wide on the plush carpet, his arms were still frozen mid-gesture, and his lips were slightly parted. The heavy scent of your vanilla and lavender soap still lingered in the air, mixing with his expensive oud, completely mocking the masculine energy of the lounge. For a full sixty seconds, he didn't move. He didn’t even blink. His brain, which usually operated at the speed of a high-octane Punjabi pop song, had completely crashed.

The heavy velvet curtains rustled again, and this time, the actual door swung open. Vicky, Rocky’s best friend and personal trainer, stepped into the room. Vicky was holding two cans of diet soda, looking thoroughly exhausted after spending the last hour trying to keep up with Rocky’s shopping spree.

"Oye, Rocky!" Vicky called out, tossing a can onto the velvet ottoman. "Where did you disappear to, bro?-"

Vicky stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at Rocky, who was staring blankly at the empty space near the door like a man who had just seen a UFO.

"Oye? Kya hua?" Vicky asked, walking closer and snapping his fingers right in front of Rocky’s face. "Did you see a ghost or what?"

Slowly, very slowly, Rocky’s arm dropped to his side. He turned his head toward Vicky, his large brown eyes wide, glossy, and entirely dazed. He reached up, took off his massive designer sunglasses, and let them drop carelessly onto the plush carpet.

"Vicky..." Rocky whispered, his voice cracking with a theatrical, heartbreaking vulnerability.

"Yeah, bro? Speak up!"

Rocky suddenly grabbed Vicky by the collars of his linen shirt, shaking him with immense, dramatic force. "Vicky! main toh mar gaya, yaara! Mera dil... chal gaya! Gayab!"

Vicky rolled his eyes, trying to pry Rocky’s gold-ringed fingers off his shirt. "Arey, what's this nonsense? ek aur kaim kudi dekh li? Tera dil toh har roz hi lutt janda hai yaara!"

"No, bro, no!" Rocky yelled, his voice instantly bouncing back to its booming, passionate register. He let go of Vicky and began pacing the room wildly, his neon-pink silk sherwani rustling like fireworks. "Tu samajh nahi raha hai! koi model ya nakli makeup vaali fukri nahi hai woh! Ekdum asli, kaim aur tabaahi kudi hai! Ek real aurat aayi hai kamre mein abhi, kasam se dil lutt ke le gayi yaar! Upar se neeche tak, ekdum kudrat ka karishma!"

Vicky blinked, utterly confused. "In the men's VIP section?"

"Yes! Arey, bhagwan ka ishara tha yeh!" Rocky slapped his own forehead, his chest heaving under his open shirt. "She was wearing pastel blue dress, and her hair... Ohoho! Itne lambe, kaale baal! Aur uski akhaan... oye jab usne apni un waddi-waddi, dari hui aankhon se meri taraf dekha na, mere dil mein kuch-kuch hone lag gaya! Par woh nikal gayi, Vicky! Ek sohni nili titli ki tarah ud gayi yaar!"

"Okay, okay, calm down, Romeo." Vicky said, rubbing his temples. "If she was in a bridal dress, she must be shopping with her family, na? Let’s just go out and look for her."

"*Arey, toh chal na!" Rocky shouted, grabbing Vicky’s arm and dragging him out of the trial room so fast Vicky nearly lost his shoes.

They burst into the main showroom like a two-man hurricane. Rocky’s eyes scanned the crowd, desperately looking for a cloud of baby blue tulle and a cascade of long black hair, but the main salon was a maze of aunties and clothing racks. She was gone.

"Excuse me! Oye, hello! Suno ji!" Rocky boomed, marching straight toward the nearest junior sales assistant—a young, polite man named Rahul who was currently folding silk dupattas.

Rahul jumped, looking terrified at the sudden approach of the notorious Dhanlakshmi Sweets heir. "Yes, Mr. Randhawa? Is there a problem with the sherwani?"

"Sherwani gaya tel lene!" Rocky dismissed with a frantic wave of his hand, leaning over the counter and invading Rahul’s personal space. "Oye sun yaara, abhi bas do minute pehle ek kudi piche vaale corridor se bhaji hai. Baby blue rang da lehenga paaya si usne. Ekdum jalebi jaisi meethi, parii jaisi sundar. Kaun thi woh? Kiske saath shopping kar rahi thi? Mujhe uska naam, uska number, uski raashi... sab kuch duss yaar, sab kuch!"

Rahul blinked, looking completely bewildered. "Uh... sir? A lot of clients try on baby blue..."

"Don't shit me Rahul!" Rocky pleaded, his voice cracking dramatically as he gripped the edge of the glass counter. "Mera jeevan ka sawaal hai..! Listen na, she was with another girl—that bride girl! Think, Rahul, think! What happened to your brain cells? Completely dead? Rub your mind, bro!"

Vicky pulled out a crisp, heavy bundle of cash from his pocket, subtly sliding it across the counter. "Help us out, brother. Our friend here is... mentally unstable right now."

Rahul looked at the cash, then looked at Rocky’s desperately pleading, big brown eyes. He swallowed hard. "Sir... I don't know her name, but that baby blue lehenga was a custom trial piece booked under the name of 'Pooja’s Bridal Party.' They just left two minutes ago to go to the billing section on the ground floor.."

Rocky didn't even wait for Rahul to finish. He let out a loud, victorious, "YES! CHAK DE PHATTE!" before spinning on his heel and sprinting toward the escalators, leaving Vicky to scramble after him.

Meanwhile, on the bustling streets of South Delhi, the environment was entirely different.

The heavy glass doors of Mehraas Design Studio had long closed behind you, cutting off the freezing air conditioning and plunging you back into the humid, chaotic heat of the city. Traffic roared, auto-rickshaws honked, and street vendors shouted, but you barely heard any of it. Your heart was still pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and your face felt so hot you were convinced you were glowing in the dark.

You were practically marching down the pavement, your hands clutching your oversized handbag against your chest like a shield. Beside you, Pooja was struggling to keep up, her high heels clicking rapidly against the concrete as she looked at you with a mixture of deep concern and intense curiosity.

"Hey! Slow down!" Pooja panted, finally grabbing your arm and forcing you to stop near the parked car. "You ran out of that trial room like you had just seen a ghost! You didn't even change back properly—your hair is a total disaster, and you are completely red! What happened inside? Did the dress tear? Did someone say something to you? I swear ill thriw hands!"

You let out a long, shaky breath, leaning your back against the cool metal of the car door. You looked around nervously, half-expecting a neon-pink whirlwind to burst through the boutique doors and shout about jalebis in front of the entire market.

"Pooja... I walked into the wrong room.." you whispered, your voice trembling as you confessed. "I didn't look at the sign. I walked straight into the private VIP lounge for men."

Pooja’s eyes widened, her jaw dropping. "Oh my god! Seriously? Did someone see you?"

"Yes..!" you groaned, burying your face in your hands, the absolute embarrassment of the memory washing over you. "This guy... he walked right in. And Pooja, he was... he was so loud..! And so intensely... hot."

Pooja’s concerned expression instantly morphed into a massive, delighted grin. She hooked her arm through yours, leaning in close, her inner romantic completely taking over. "Wait, wait, wait. A hot guy caught you in the men's room? In my beautiful baby blue lehenga? Tell me everything! What did he look like? Did he scream?"

"No, he didn't scream.." you said, peeking through your fingers, your cheeks burning. "He was wearing this... completely ridiculous, blinding neon-pink sherwani with mirrors all over it. And heavy gold chains. He looked like a walking Bollywood item song. But Pooja... he didn't get mad. He didn't even ask me to leave at first. He just... he just stood there and started staring at me..!"

"Staring at you how?" Pooja urged, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Like... like I was a painting or something," you murmured, your voice dropping to a shy, self-conscious whisper. "He started speaking this hilarious broken english..He called me 'my jalebi.' He literally told me that I was sweeter than a jalebi, baby."

Pooja let out a loud, high-pitched squeal that made a passing pedestrian turn around and stare. "No way! He called you jalebi baby? That is so cheesy, I love it! What else did he say?"

"He told me his name was Rocky.." you said, the name feeling strange and heavy on your tongue. "Rocky Randhawa. And then... before I could even process what was happening, he dropped into this dramatic Bollywood pose and screamed, 'Bol haan ya naa!' He asked me for a date! He asked for my name, my address, my phone number... and Pooja, he literally asked for my hand in marriage!"

Pooja gasped, clutching her chest. "Marriage?! On the first meeting? Oh my god, he is completely mad! He’s a total filmy hero!"

"He’s crazy, Pooja..!" you said firmly, trying to convince yourself more than her. You shook your head, pulling open the car door and sliding into the cool, leather backseat to hide from the world. "He was just making fun of me. A guy who looks like that... who dresses in custom neon designer clothes... he doesn't look at a girl like me and genuinely mean those things. He was probably just bored and wanted to flirt with the weird girl who trespassed in his room."

Pooja slid into the seat next to you, her playful demeanor instantly softening into something deeply protective. She reached across the console, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly.

"Hey. Look at me.." Pooja said softly, her eyes full of earnest affection. "Why do you always do that? Why do you always assume that if a man looks at you, it has to be a joke? You looked absolutely breathtaking in that baby blue lehenga. Your skin was glowing, your hair looked like a dream, and you looked like a total queen. If this Rocky guy lost his mind when he saw you, it’s because he has eyes, not because he was playing a prank."

You looked out the tinted window, watching the crowds of Delhi pass by, your heart aching with a strange, confusing mixture of warmth and fear. You could still hear his loud, booming voice in your ears.

"He’s just a stranger, Pooja.." you whispered, resting your forehead against the cool glass. "We’re never going to see him again anyway."

But down in the lobby of Mehraas Design Studio, Rocky Randhawa was currently arguing with the security guard, scanning the street with a look of fierce, unstoppable determination in his eyes. He didn't care about the rules, he didn't care about decorum, and he certainly wasn't giving up.

Days passed.

By the time Tuesday rolled around, the sheer, heart-stopping panic of the encounter at Mehraas Design Studio had begun to fade into something resembling a dream. In the quiet, predictable rhythm of your daily routine, it felt entirely impossible that a man clad in a neon-pink silk sherwani had actually dropped to one knee and screamed cinematic dialogue at you.

You had returned to your safe, comfortable routine. You woke up early, wore your oversized father’s t-shirts, hid in your room with your thick novels, and navigated the outside world by trying to look like a shadow. When you looked at your reflection in the small bathroom mirror while brushing your hair, you deliberately stopped yourself from lingering. The city was full of eccentric, loud, rich boys who had too much family money and too much free time. Rocky Randhawa was just an anomaly. A hilarious, borderline-insane story that you and Pooja would laugh about years from now..

You had almost completely convinced yourself of this—until Thursday afternoon.

You were sitting on your bed, cross-legged, a heavy textbook resting against your lap, when your phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a FaceTime call from Pooja. The moment you slid the screen to answer, your cousin’s face filled the display. She was practically vibrating with excitement, her face so close to the camera that her nose was blurred.

"Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!" Pooja chanted, her voice blaring through your phone's speaker so loudly that you had to hastily turn the volume down.

"What, Pooja? Did the caterers finally agree to the live chaat counter?" you asked, a small smile breaking across your face.

"No, well, yes, they did, but that’s not the big news!" Pooja gasped, waving her hands dramatically. "I just got off the phone with the manager at Mehraas. The trial piece! They went through the margins, and the head tailor said they don't even need to order a new batch of fabric. They can start drafting your exact measurements onto the custom pattern tomorrow! They called me specifically to say that the 'baby blue lady' was their top priority."

The moment the words baby blue left her mouth, a sudden, violent jolt of electricity shot straight through your chest. The memory hit you with the force of a physical blow: the cool silk against your skin, the smell of sandalwood, and those wide, dazed brown eyes looking at you as if you were the only woman in the universe. Your cheeks instantly caught fire, the blush creeping all the way down to the collar of your baggy t-shirt.

"Oh.." you whispered, your voice dropping to its usual quiet, hesitant register. "They... they called you?"

"Yes! And the manager sounded so incredibly polite, it was almost weird!" Pooja giggled, completely missing your sudden panic. "Usually, those luxury boutiques act like they're doing you a favor, but he kept asking if 'the beautiful madame' was satisfied with the service. See? I told you that color was destiny!"

You forced a nervous laugh, nodding along as Pooja babbled on about the matching shoes and jewelry. But inside, your stomach was turning into tight, anxious knots. Destiny? No. It was just a dress. You were overthinking it. You took a deep breath, smoothing down your sweatpants, forcing the image of a certain flamboyant, gold-chain-wearing boy out of your mind. You were just a regular girl. A big, quiet, invisible girl. People like Rocky Randhawa didn't actually look for people like you..

Meanwhile, on the other side of Delhi, in a sprawling, multi-million-rupee mansion in the ultra-posh neighborhood of Karol Bagh, Rocky Randhawa was currently staging a full-scale tactical military operation.

His bedroom looked like a cyclone had hit a neon-colored luxury department store. Golden silk shirts, designer leather jackets, and velvet loafers were scattered across the massive king-sized bed. In the center of this chaos stood Rocky, wearing a bright yellow satin tracksuit that read “BOSS” in glittering rhinestones across the back. His hair was perfectly styled but his face was a picture of absolute, uncharacteristic misery.

For the past four days, Rocky had been completely unhinged. He hadn't slept, he hadn't gone to the gym, and most shocking of all to his family, he hadn't even eaten a single piece of Kaju Katli from his own family’s confectionery empire.

"Oye, Vicky! Mujhe lag raha hai main pagal ho jaunga, yaara!" Rocky groaned, throwing himself dramatically face-first onto his pile of silk pillows. "Chaar din ho gaye, Vicky! Chaar din apni dream woman bina! Meri Chandni, meri Shanti Priya! Meri zindagi na ekdum black-and-white film ban gayi hai, bro! Na koi rang, na koi muzic... bas siyapa aur gham reh gaya hai!"

Vicky, who was sitting on a plush leather chair near the window, let out a massive, exhausted sigh. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was currently holding two phones in his hands. He had spent the last 96 hours serving as Rocky’s personal private detective, and he was thoroughly regretting every life choice that had brought him to this moment.

"Rocky, I have called literally everyone in Delhi..!" Vicky said, his voice dripping with utter exhaustion. "Bhai, Mehraas ke manager ko paanch baar phone kiya maine! Usko Dhanlakshmi Sweets ki lifetime supply offer kar di yaar! Par saala manager alag hi bhao kha raha hai, keh raha hai 'strict privacy policy' hai. Client ka phone number ya address dene ko taiyaar hi nahi hai. Keh raha hai illegal hai, kanoon ke khilaaf hai!"

Rocky bolted upright, his eyes flashing with sudden, dramatic anger. "Illegal?! Arey, pyaar kiya toh darna kya, Vicky! Love is above the law, okay? Oye, jaa ke samjha us manager nu! Agar number na mila na, toh Rocky Randhawa uski poori dukaan khareed lega aur usko dhakke maar ke bahar nikaalega! Uske kanoon ki aisi ki taisi, jaa bol usse!"

"You can't just buy every store in Delhi, Rocky!" Vicky yelled back, throwing his hands in the air. "And besides bro, we don't even know her name, okay! All we know is that she was with one bride named Pooja. Are you crazy, Rocky? Do you know how many brides in Delhi are named Pooja? Millions! Everywhere is Pooja! Every street, every lane, every colony, one Pooja is getting married daily!"

Rocky slumped back down, looking completely heartbroken. He clutched a gold pendant around his neck, staring up at his ceiling fan. "Lekin woh waali Pooja ki sister... meri parii... she is only one, Vicky. *Uski jaisi koi nahi hai..If I don't find her, my heart will stop doing dhik-chik forever. It will just do... flop."

Just then, Rocky’s personal phone, which was sitting on the glass nightstand, began to blast a high-energy Punjabi rap song at maximum volume. Rocky didn't move, but Vicky glanced at the screen.

"Oye, Rocky! Look! It's Honey," Vicky said, his tone suddenly shifting. "That flower and decoration wala boss! Who is handling all top-level fat Punjabi weddings in Delhi. You only asked him, 'Oye, check your client diary.' Now you forgot? Kya yaar, Rocky!"

Rocky didn't just jump off the bed; he practically launched himself through the air like a superhero, snatching the phone from the nightstand so fast he nearly tore his satin tracksuit. He slid the screen answer, shouting into the microphone before the call could even fully connect.

"Honey! Mere yaar! Tell me you have good news! Mera jeevan tumhare haath mein hai, batao!" Rocky screamed, his voice echoing off the luxury walls.

On the other end of the line, Honey, a man sitting in a flower-filled warehouse, had to pull the phone away from his ear to protect his eardrums. "Oye, Rocky, relax, bro! Control your volume!"

"Kaise control karoon, bhai? My heart is on fire! Did you find the bride? Pooja? Mehraas Design Studio? Anything?!"

"Listen, listen..!" Honey said, a proud smirk evident in his voice. "You know Honey don't play games. I called my contact at Mehraas who handles the floral arrangements for their VIP bridal previews. I asked him who was booked in the private suite on Monday morning under the name Pooja. And guess what? There was only one major booking."

Rocky’s breath caught in his throat. He grabbed Vicky’s shoulder, squeezing it so hard Vicky let out a sharp yelp of pain. "*Haann...? Bolo, bolo!"

"Pooja Malhotra," Honey revealed smoothly, checking a clipboard on his desk. "Her family has booked me for the floral decor at the main wedding lounge in 4 months.. And Rocky... I have the exact residential address for the Malhotra family home in South Delhi right here on my screen."

Rocky’s eyes widened to the size of massive gold coins. A slow, ecstatic, completely manic grin spread across his face, lighting up his features with the intensity of a thousand stadium lights. He let out a primal, deafening Punjabi roar of victory.

"CHAK DE PHATTE!!! OYE HONEY, TU MERA BHAI NAHI HAI, TU MERA JINNI HAI! MERA BHAGWAN HAI TU!" Rocky screamed, jumping up and down on his bed, sending silk pillows flying in every direction.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Honey laughed. "I’m messaging you the address right now. But listen, Rocky, don't do anything crazy. Her family is very traditional, very quiet—"

"Crazy? Arey, Rocky Randhawa doesn't do crazy, Honey!!" Rocky shouted, hanging up the phone as a loud ding signaled the arrival of the text message.

He stared at the address on his screen, his heart beating a wild, frantic, joyful rhythm against his ribs. The days of misery were officially over. The black-and-white movie was about to get a full, technicolor, neon-injected sequel.

Friday afternoon arrived with a heavy, oppressive Delhi heat that seemed to blanket the entire neighborhood in a sleepy haze. Inside your house, the atmosphere was buzzing with the distant sound of your aunt and mother arguing over guest lists in the living room, their voices rising and falling in a rhythmic, stressful wave.

You needed to escape.

Your bedroom, usually your ultimate sanctuary, felt a bit too cramped today. Your mind kept wandering back to that baby blue lehenga, and every time it did, your heart would stutter in a way that made you deeply uncomfortable. You hated feeling disrupted. You preferred your life like a still pond—flat, predictable, and undisturbed.

"Ma, I’m going to the local market." you called out quietly as you slipped on a pair of oversized, worn-out black leather sandals. "We’re out of brown sugar and green tea, and Pooja said she needed those specific wet wipes for her bridal kit."

"Okay, beta! Take the driver!" your mother shouted back from the sea of wedding invitation cards spread across the dining table.

"No, it's okay! I'll just walk, it's just two blocks away.." you replied quickly, already pushing the heavy wooden front door open. The last thing you wanted was an audience. You wanted to be entirely, completely alone.

As you stepped out onto the quiet, tree-lined lane of your residential colony, the heat hit you like a warm wave. You adjusted the strap of your canvas tote bag and smoothed down your outfit. Today, you had retreated completely into your standard uniform: a massively oversized, faded maroon kurta that hung loosely over your frame, completely swallowing your curves, paired with loose black pants. Your long, dark hair was tied back into a low, sensible ponytail, keeping it off your neck. You walked with your usual slight slouch, keeping your eyes trained firmly on the pavement, blending seamlessly into the background of the quiet afternoon.

You had no idea that just fifty meters down the road, parked carelessly against a curb under the shade of a massive neem tree, a violently bright, red Ferrari was parked.

Inside the air-conditioned cabin, Rocky Randhawa was currently slumped in the passenger seat, drowning in a sea of romantic despair. He was wearing a loud, silk Hawaiian shirt covered in a neon-green leopard print, unbuttoned down to his mid-chest to reveal three heavy gold chains.

"Vicky... char ghante ho gaye, yaara.." Rocky groaned, staring miserably out the tinted window.

Vicky, who was in the driver's seat trying to take a nap, didn't open his eyes. "Rocky, just wait.."

"But what if she doesn't come out, Vicky? What if she—" Rocky’s voice abruptly cut off.

Through the tinted glass, he saw a girl step out of the gates of the large, white Malhotra house. He blinked, shoving his oversized gold-rimmed sunglasses up into his gelled hair. His eyes locked onto the long, thick dark ponytail, the slow, hesitant stride, and the unmistakable, soft grandeur of the girl who had occupied every single one of his thoughts for the last four days. Even in an oversized maroon kurta, to Rocky, she looked like a movie star walking a red carpet in slow motion.

Rocky’s heart didn't just beat; it practically did a full bhangra routine inside his chest.

"OYE! VICKY! JALEBI!" Rocky screamed, hitting Vicky’s shoulder so hard the poor guy jumped and hit his head on the steering wheel. "Woh dekh! Meri rani! Gaadi start kar, jaldi!"

"Oye, don't run her over!" Vicky yelled, scrambling to put the car in drive as Rocky practically pressed his face against the windshield.

You walked into the cool, fluorescent-lit oasis of the local premium grocery store, letting out a sigh of relief as the central air conditioning blasted away the Delhi heat. The store was relatively empty at this hour, filled only with a few quiet aunties browsing the organic aisle and the gentle, ambient hum of the refrigeration units. This was exactly what you needed. Quiet. Predictable. Normal.

You grabbed a plastic shopping basket, hooking it over your forearm, and began to drift down the first aisle, looking for the specialty tea section.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

A sudden, aggressive, and highly rhythmic sound echoed from the front entrance of the store. It sounded like heavy leather boots stomping with immense, cinematic purpose. You didn't look up, focusing instead on comparing two brands of green tea.

"Oye hoye! Lagdi Lahore di aa, jis hisab naa’ chaldi aa!"

The loud, rich, flamboyantly melodic voice boomed through the quiet grocery aisle, shattering the peaceful silence of the store like a megaphone. Several aunties dropped their organic avocados in shock.

Your entire body went rigid. The box of green tea in your hand trembled. You knew that voice. It was impossible, entirely insane, but you knew that voice.

Slowly, horizontally, you turned your head.

Stalking down the grocery aisle like he was walking a high-fashion runway in Milan was Rocky Randhawa. The neon-green leopard print shirt practically glowed under the fluorescent lights. His heavy gold chains clattered against his chest with every step. In his hands, he was holding a single, massive red rose, and his large, brown eyes were locked onto you with a look of such intense, dramatic devotion that it felt entirely surreal. Behind him, a deeply embarrassed Vicky was trying to hide behind a stack of cereal boxes.

"You..." you whispered, your voice completely failing you. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, hammering a frantic, panicked rhythm.

Rocky stopped exactly three feet away from your shopping cart. He didn't look at your baggy clothes; he didn't look at your messy ponytail. He looked at your face, his expression melting into a look of pure, unadulterated joy. He dramatically swept his hand through the air, offering you the rose with a low, theatrical bow.

"Maine bola tha na? Rocky Randhawa dhoond lega tumko. Pyaar kiya toh darna kya, cutie!"

"How... how did you find me? Are you stalking me?" you stammered, your face turning a furious, bright crimson as you noticed a store employee staring at you both. You instinctively took two steps backward, pulling your oversized maroon kurta tightly around yourself.

"Stalking? Arey, na ji na! (Oh, no no no!) This is not stalking, this is total ishq wala love, destiny, aur full-on aatishbaazi!" Rocky explained, snapping his fingers and taking a step closer, completely unbothered by the concept of public decorum. "Suno ji, my heart was dying without you. Four days, Vicky is my witness, I have not eaten one piece of sweet! Kyunki tumhare bina sab kuch feeka hai!"

"Please, look, you need to leave.." you rushed out in a frantic whisper, your anxiety flaring up as you looked around the empty store. "This is crazy. You can't just show up where I shop. I am just a regular person. You don't even know me!"

"Then let me know you, naa!" Rocky pleaded, his eyes softening into a look of absolute, puppy-dog sincerity. He began to walk slowly after you as you nervously started pushing your basket down the aisle, trying to escape him.

But Rocky was relentless. He stayed right by your side, matching your hesitant steps with his confident stride, his neon shirt cutting through the mundane grocery store environment like a lightning bolt.

"Look, I’m just buying groceries-" you said, your voice shaking as you reached for a bag of brown sugar, your hand fumbling blindly with the packaging because you were too distracted by his intense gaze.

Before you could grab it, Rocky’s hand—large, warm, and covered in heavy gold rings—reached out and gently took the bag of sugar for you, placing it carefully into your basket. His fingers brushed against yours for a fraction of a second, and a jolt of heat shot straight up your arm.

"*Hum dono milkar banayenge na, meetha~" Rocky whispered, leaning in slightly, his eyes glittering with mischief and romance. He suddenly cleared his throat, stepping in front of your basket to block your path once more. He threw his arms out wide, dropping into that exact same, low, dramatic Bollywood stance from the boutique.

"Bol haan ya naa, meri jaan!" he chanted loudly, his voice echoing off the rows of olive oil and pasta sauce. "Ek date, just ek! Rocky Randhawa tumko total luxury five-star dinner pe leke jayega. Tum haan bolo, baaki sab mere pe chhod do!"

"No! No, please, lower your voice!" you cried out, your hands flying to your face to hide your burning cheeks. A group of teenagers at the end of the aisle had pulled out their phones, whispering and giggling at the sight of the neon-clad giant shouting cinematic dialogue at a shy, oversized girl in a maroon kurta.

"Why lower voice? *Pyaar kiya toh darna kya!~" Rocky countered proudly, standing tall and puffing out his chest, completely blind to the judgment of the teenagers. To Rocky, the world didn't exist—there was only him, and there was you. "Until you say haan, I am not leaving, okay? Main pure store mein tumhare peeche chalega! Bol haan ya naa, baby?*"

"I am leaving right now..!" you whispered, your throat tightening with a mix of intense embarrassment and a strange, terrifying thrill.

You abandoned your basket right there next to the pasta sauces, turned on your heel, and began to walk as fast as your sandals could carry you toward the exit. Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. But behind you, the steady, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of Rocky’s boots followed immediately, completely unfazed, completely unstoppable.

You scrambled down the international foods aisle, your sandals slapping against the polished linoleum in a frantic, uneven rhythm. Your mind was a complete blur of static and heat. You didn't look back, but you didn't have to; the heavy, rhythmic thud of Rocky’s premium leather boots was right on your heels, a loud, confident contrast to your panicked retreat.

"Oye, why running? " Rocky shouted, his voice bouncing off the metal shelves of imported chocolates and olive oils. He was completely unbothered by the fact that a middle-aged uncle had stopped his shopping cart entirely just to stare at the neon-green leopard-print spectacle chasing a girl in an oversized maroon tunic.

"Please stop following me!" you pleaded in a harsh, frantic whisper, keeping your eyes trained straight ahead as you rounded the corner into the dairy section. Your face was burning so hot you were certain you were leaving a trail of steam behind you.

"Why stop? Pyaar ke raaste mein break nahi hota, Jaan~" Rocky declared, effortlessly closing the gap between you with his long, confident strides. He didn't just catch up; he danced ahead of you with a sudden, fluid movement, spinning on his heel to face you and walking backward with absolute, terrifying ease.

He popped his collar, his heavy gold chains jingling like a high-end wind chime, and gave you a slow, devastatingly confident wink from behind his gold-rimmed sunglasses.

"And honestly? Look at me~" Rocky said, his voice dropping into a smug, playfully arrogant purr. He gestured down at his violently bright outfit, his rings catching the harsh fluorescent lights of the supermarket. "I know I am looking totally bomb today. This neon-green? It is limited edition, imported direct from Italian, but it is pure luxury, okay? Pura Delhi mere pe marta hai, aur main yahan tumhare peeche line mein khada hoon!"

You froze right in front of the open milk refrigerators, the sudden blast of chilled air doing absolutely nothing to cool your flaming cheeks. You stared at him, your mouth slightly open in utter, peak disbelief. "You... you are unbelievably arrogant.."

"Arrogant? Arey, nahi ji! This is not arrogance, this is confidence, baby!" Rocky grinned, stepping closer and leaning one hand against the glass refrigerator door, effectively trapping you in his personal space. He tilted his head down, his large, warm brown eyes melting into an expression of ridiculous, theatrical charm. "It is all for you, meri jaan. If you want, it is 100% yours. Free, no tax, full delivery to your heart!"

A few feet behind him, Vicky stood completely still in the middle of the aisle, holding a single box of organic cornflakes he had picked up purely to look busy. His jaw was slack, his eyes wide with an expression of profound, soul-crushing second-hand embarrassment. He looked at Rocky, then looked up at the ceiling supermarket camera, as if praying for a security guard to come and arrest them both just to put an end to the misery.

"Rocky.." Vicky muttered, his voice deadpan and utterly exhausted. "Bro. Stop. You are looking like a total mental case, yaara.-"

"Shut up, Vicky!" Rocky snapped over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact with you for a single millisecond. "Tumhe kya pata romance kya hota hai? You got Minty with pure luck! Yahan do dil mil rahe hain, aur tu beech mein break laga raha hai!"

He turned back to you, his entire demeanor shifting instantly from annoyed best friend to dedicated, dramatic lover. He reached up, slowly sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose so he could look at you over the frames, his eyes completely wide and full of a goofy, puppy-dog sincerity that made no sense given how flashy he was.

"Don't listen to him jaan" Rocky whispered dramatically. "You just look into my eyes. Tumhe sharmane ki koi zaroorat nahi hai. Main sab samajhta hoon.. You are thinking, 'Oh ho, Rocky is so rich, Rocky is so handsome, how can a sweet girl like me go with him?' Arey, tension mat lo!* I am very simple guy. I like you!"

You stood there, pressed lightly against the cool glass of the dairy fridge, your hands clutching the fabric of your oversized maroon kurta. Your heart was beating a wild, frantic rhythm, but for the first time since he had burst into the store, the paralyzing anxiety in your chest began to fracture.

He was just so... incredibly, spectacularly ridiculous.

He was standing in a local grocery store, dressed like a neon jungle, bragging about his looks, completely ignoring his best friend who was losing the will to live, and looking at you—a shy, plus-size girl who spent her whole life trying to pass through the world unnoticed—as if you were a prize he had been searching for his entire life. He didn't look at your body with the critical, judging eyes of the Delhi aunties. He didn't look at your baggy clothes with pity. He looked at you with pure, unfiltered, unadulterated worship, wrapped in the most absurd comedic package you had ever encountered.

A tiny, involuntary twitch pulled at the corner of your lips. You tried to bite the inside of your cheek to stop it, to maintain your wall of quiet, defensive dignity. But Rocky saw the twitch. His eyes lit up like a festival of lights.

"Oye! Oye hoye! Look at that! Thoda sa smile aaya!" Rocky squealed, his voice jumping an entire octave as he did a tiny, ecstatic bounce on his boots. "Mata Rani, thoda aur~"

It was the final straw. The sheer, overwhelming absurdity of the entire situation broke through your defenses, and a sudden, bright bubble of laughter escaped your lips. It wasn't a quiet, polite giggle; it was a genuine, full-bellied laugh that made your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle at the corners.

"You... you are completely out of your mind!-" you laughed, covering your mouth with your hand, your eyes sparkling with tears of genuine amusement as you looked at him. "Do you always make such an idiot of yourself in public?"

Rocky froze, his chest puffing out even further as he watched you laugh. The smug, cocky expression melted away, replaced by a look of sheer, breathless fascination. He didn't care that you were calling him an idiot. He didn't care that Vicky was currently burying his face in his hands behind him. To Rocky, the sound of your laughter was better than any chart-topping Punjabi track.

"Haye..." Rocky breathed out, a soft, completely dazed smile spreading across his face. He lowered his sunglasses completely, letting them hang from his collar as he stared at you. "Tum jab hasti ho na... toh sachi bol raha hoon, poore Delhi ka pollution khatam ho jata hai, baby."

Vicky let out a loud, dramatic groan from the background, physically leaning his head against a stack of condensed milk cans. "I can't do this anymore. Rocky, please, I am begging you on behalf of your family name, let the girl buy her milk and let's leave."

Rocky shushed him without without even looking back.

He stepped a fraction closer to you, his demeanor softening into something incredibly warm, his large frame completely shielding you from the rest of the store. He tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, intense, but completely gentle energy.

"See? You laughed.." Rocky said softly, a triumphant but sweet smile resting on his lips. "Iska matlab, match fix hai. You like me a little bit, I like you a double-triple-quadruple amount. So now... sharmna chhoro, aur mujhe haan bolo. Just one date..!"

The sound of your own laughter still echoed faintly in the cool, fluorescent air of the dairy aisle, but as it died down, the reality of your surroundings rushed back. The heavy weight of your lifelong insecurities, the defense mechanisms you had built like stone walls around your heart, slammed right back into place.

You looked at Rocky. He was undeniably gorgeous—his sharp jawline, his thick, perfectly styled hair, his commanding presence that seemed to warp the very atmosphere of the room around him. And then you looked down at yourself, at the oversized, faded maroon kurta that swallowed your frame, at your plain sandals, at your bare wrists. You were a plus-size, quiet girl who weighed more than him, a girl who spent her life trying to be invisible so that nobody could make a comment about her size.

A guy like Rocky Randhawa—a guy who practically bled wealth, confidence, and high-society glamour—did not just walk into a local grocery store and fall genuinely, deeply in love with a girl like you. It didn't happen in real life. It only happened in the movies he loved to quote, or worse, it happened as a joke. A dare. A cruel prank orchestrated by a rich boy who had too much time on his hands and wanted to see how the "weird, quiet girl" would react to a handsome man throwing himself at her.

The warmth in your chest instantly evaporated, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. The smile slipped from your face, your features closing up as you pulled your canvas tote bag tighter against your side.

"Look... Rocky.." you said, your voice dropping back to its usual quiet, hesitant whisper. You couldn't even bring yourself to look him in the eye anymore, keeping your gaze trained on the shiny gold rings on his fingers. "This was... it was funny. You're very funny. But please, stop. I don't know what kind of weird prank this is, or if your friends dared you to do this, but I’m not interested. Just... leave me alone."

Rocky’s ecstatic, bouncing energy instantly froze. His jaw dropped slightly, the wide, triumphant grin vanishing from his face as if someone had abruptly turned off the lights. He blinked behind his lowered sunglasses, looking entirely, utterly crestfallen.

"Prank?" Rocky echoed, his voice dropping from its booming, theatrical register to a soft, genuinely hurt whisper. "Arey, na ji na! What prank? Mata Rani ki kasam, I am not doing any comedy prank! I am 100% pure real!"

"Just... excuse me.." you murmured, your throat tightening as the anxiety threatened to choke you.

You didn't wait for him to explain. You lunged forward, reaching past his large frame to grab the bag of brown sugar and the box of green tea you had abandoned near the fridge. You stuffed them haphazardly into your bag, turned on your heel, and practically marched toward the billing counters at the front of the store. You didn't look back to see his reaction. You kept your shoulders hunched, your head down, desperate to pay for your items and escape into the blinding Delhi heat where he couldn't follow.

Rocky stood frozen by the open milk refrigerators, his arms slightly raised as if he were still trying to catch a butterfly that had just fluttered out of his reach. He watched your maroon kurta vanish around the corner of the billing aisle, his chest heaving under his neon-green leopard-print shirt. For the second time in a week, he felt like his heart had been physically removed from his body.

Vicky slowly walked up beside him, still holding his completely forgotten box of organic cornflakes. He looked at his best friend’s completely shattered face, the second-hand embarrassment instantly melting away into genuine pity. He had known Rocky since they were kids; he had seen Rocky arrogant, he had seen Rocky angry, but he had never, ever seen Rocky look so entirely deflated.

Vicky placed a gentle, comforting hand on Rocky’s neon-clad shoulder. "It's okay, bro... Chhod na, yaara...It’s okay. Delhi is full of girls. High-society models, beautiful girls who would die to go on a date with Rocky Randhawa. If she said no, she said no. Let's go home.."

Rocky didn't answer right away. He slowly reached down, picked up his gold-rimmed sunglasses from his collar, and slid them back over his eyes. But he didn't look toward the exit. He stared at the empty space where you had been standing just moments ago, the scent of your vanilla and lavender soap still faintly hanging in the air.

"Vicky..." Rocky said softly, his voice thick with a strange, unyielding gravity.

"Yeah, bro?"

"She thinks I am a prank.." Rocky whispered, his fists clenching at his sides, making the gold rings click together. "She thinks Rocky Randhawa is fake guy making a joke on her. Usne dekha meri aankhon mein? My love is pure gold, 24 karat, certified luxury love! And she thinks it is a comedy show!"

"Rocky, she's a quiet girl, she's shy.." Vicky tried to explain, sighing as he put the cornflakes back on a random shelf. "You showed up like a human neon sign shouting Bollywood dialogues in a grocery store. Anyone would think it’s a prank. Just drop it."

"Drop it?" Rocky suddenly spun around to face Vicky, his eyes blazing with a sudden, ferocious, and entirely unstoppable romantic madness behind his dark lenses. The sadness was completely gone, replaced by the fierce, unyielding confidence of a Punjabi boy who had just found his true purpose in life.

"Arey, aurat ka 'no' ka matlab 'no' hota hai, main samajhta hoon! Hashtag no means no..!" Rocky shouted, pointing a dramatic finger in the air, quoting his recent lessons in modern correctness with absolute pride. "Feminism, respect, okay! I respect her 'no'! But Vicky, uska 'no' uske darr se aaya hai, uske dil se nahi! She is scared of me! She thinks she is not enough for Rocky Randhawa!"

Vicky groaned, realizing exactly where this was going. "Rocky—"

"No, Vicky! Listen to me!" Rocky intercepted, grabbing Vicky by both shoulders and shaking him with immense, passionate energy. "Randhawa family ka khoon hai mere andar! We don't give up! If she thinks I am a prank, I will show her reality! If she thinks I am storm, I become her permanent weather, okay!"

He began to pace the dairy aisle again, his boots stomping with a renewed, furious sense of cinematic destiny. He tossed the single red rose he was holding onto the refrigerator shelf and clapped his hands together with a loud thud

​"One time she said no? No problem! Main dus baar aayega, sau baar aayega, hazaar baar aayega!" Rocky declared, his voice rising in an epic crescendo that made the cashiers at the front look up in terror. "Every time shopping—Rocky copy-paste there! Every time window opening—Rocky standing there! Recreate Chandni, recreate DDLJ... I will make full Yash Chopra cinema on her road! Direct from the heart, bro!"

​"Rocky, you are going to get us arrested, I am telling you! Jail karwayega tu humein, sach bol raha hoon. Poori Delhi Police piche pad jayegi!" Vicky muttered, though a small, defeated smile was starting to creep onto his face. It was impossible to stay mad at Rocky; his heart was just too ridiculously huge, his intentions too completely devoid of any malice. He genuinely, truly worshipped this girl.

"Pyaar mein jail jana toh total fashion statement hai!" Rocky laughed, a booming, confident, joyfully defiant sound that filled the entire store.

He strode toward the exit, his neon-green leopard shirt fluttering behind him like a cape. As he pushed through the glass doors of the supermarket, the bright Delhi sun hit his face, reflecting off his gold chains and his polished boots. He looked out at the busy street, his eyes scanning the crowds until he caught a distant, fleeting glimpse of your maroon kurta turning the corner toward your residential lane.

Rocky stood on the pavement, a soft, incredibly determined smile settling on his lips. He adjusted his sunglasses, his heart doing that familiar, frantic dhik-chik routine.

You thought you could just run away. You thought you could just hide in your quiet bedroom, in your baggy clothes, in your beautiful, soft shell, and pretend that the whirlwind hadn't touched you. But you didn't know Rocky Randhawa. He didn't care about societal rules, he didn't care about beauty standards, and he certainly wasn't going to let you go so easily..

The moment you crossed the threshold of your house, the familiar, comforting domestic sounds of the Malhotra household enveloped you. From the kitchen, the sharp, rhythmic hiss of the pressure cooker signaled that lunch was underway. In the living room, the low hum of the television competed with the rustle of wedding invitation cards as your mother and aunt continued their endless debate over fonts and seating arrangements.

"Beta? Did you get the green tea?" your mother called out as she heard the front door click shut.

"Yes, Ma! Left it on the kitchen counter!" you called back, your voice tight, barely recognizing the breathlessness in your own tone.

You didn't wait for her to reply. You practically sprinted up the stairs, your sandals hitting the wooden steps in a hurried, frantic rhythm that completely betrayed your usual slow, deliberate pace. You reached the end of the hallway, burst into your bedroom, and shut the heavy wooden door behind you, turning the lock with a sharp, definitive click.

You leaned your back against the solid wood of the door, letting out a massive, ragged breath that felt like it had been trapped in your lungs since you stood in the dairy aisle of the supermarket. Your bag slipped from your fingers, thudding softly against the cream-colored rug. Your hands flew to your face, your palms pressing against your cheeks. They were burning. They felt hot enough to melt ice, the fiery crimson blush refusing to leave your skin even now that you were safely hidden away.

Your bedroom was exactly as you had left it—dim, quiet, and perfectly still. The sage-green walls offered their usual serene embrace, the watercolors of misty landscapes stood frozen in time, and the whirring ceiling fan cast lazy, predictable shadows across the floor. This was your fortress. This was the place where you were allowed to be invisible, where the demanding, judging eyes of the outside world couldn't perceive the fullness of your frame or the awkwardness of your stride.

But as you stood there, the stillness of the room didn't bring its usual immediate peace. Instead, the silence felt incredibly loud, filled with the phantom echo of a booming, theatrical accent.

Bol haan ya naa, meri jaan!

You closed your eyes, but the moment you did, the darkness behind your eyelids was pierced by a violent flash of neon-green leopard print. You could see him perfectly: the sharp jawline, the thick styled dark hair, the heavy gold chains clattering against a smooth chest, and those large, expressive brown eyes looking down at you over the frames of his gold-rimmed sunglasses.

You walked over to your bed, your legs feeling strangely heavy and weak at the same time, and collapsed onto the mattress. You rolled onto your side, pulling your knees up toward your chest, burying your face halfway into the cool fabric of your pillow. You wanted to scrub the memory from your brain. You wanted to rationalize it, to categorize it as a bizarre, slightly traumatic Thursday afternoon incident and move on.

But your brain refused to cooperate. Every single detail of the encounter kept playing on a loop, like a Bollywood film that had been forcibly burned into your memory.

You thought about the sheer absurdity of it. A grown man, an heir to a massive confectionery empire, had literally stalked you into a local grocery store, bypassed the aunties, ignored the teenagers, and pinned you against a milk refrigerator just to beg you for a date. He had dropped into a full, dramatic musical-theater stance in the middle of the aisle. He had shouted film dialogues next to the pasta sauces. He had threatened to delete his best friend’s Instagram account because the poor guy was trying to introduce a shred of sanity into the situation.

"He is completely, utterly insane.." you whispered into the quiet room, your voice muffled by the pillow.

You pulled your oversized maroon kurta tighter around your body, a subconscious reflex. You looked down at your hands, your fingers lightly tracing the spot on your wrist where his large, warm hand had accidentally brushed against yours when he reached for the brown sugar. The memory of that brief, fleeting touch made a strange, unfamiliar shiver ripple straight up your spine, sending a flock of nervous butterflies fluttering wildly in your stomach.

You tried to force yourself to be angry. You tried to summon the familiar, protective shield of your cynicism. It was a prank..! you told yourself firmly, staring at the green wall. It had to be. Look at him, and look at you.

You were a girl who occupied a space society always told you to apologize for. You were used to the subtle slights—the salesclerks who directed you away from the trendy racks, the aunties who sighed and muttered about your weight while praising your "pretty face" the complete and total absence of romantic attention from boys your age. You had spent years accepting the fact that you were the invisible friend, the background character, the one who took the photos rather than the one who was in them. You had built your entire life around the comfort of expecting nothing, because expecting nothing meant you never had to face the crushing weight of disappointment.

A handsome, wealthy, wildly confident guy like Rocky Randhawa didn't just look at a plus-size girl in a faded, baggy maroon tunic and completely lose his mind. In the real world, men like him wanted high-society models. They wanted girls who were small, girls who fit into the rigid, unforgiving size charts of the luxury boutiques. If he was chasing you, it was probably because he was bored. Because he was a spoiled rich boy who viewed you as a challenge, a funny little conquest to boast about to his friends over drinks

His voice bounced back into your head, defying your cynical thoughts with absolute, unbridled loudness.

You sat up on the bed, running your fingers through your long, dark hair, pulling it out of its sensible ponytail so it tumbled down over your shoulders in a thick, unruly wave. You remembered the way he had looked at you when you had finally broken down and laughed.

He hadn't looked like a prankster who had successfully landed a joke. He hadn't looked smug or malicious. When you had laughed, his entire flamboyant, arrogant posture had completely melted. He had looked at you with a expression of pure, breathless fascination. His large brown eyes had been wide, bright, and completely soft, filled with a kind of reverent wonder that you had never seen directed at you in your entire life. He had looked at you as if the sound of your laughter was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

And he hadn't noticed your size. Not even a little bit. He hadn't given your baggy clothes a pitying glance, nor had he made a single masked comment about your body. To Rocky, you weren't a girl who took up too much room; you were a queen. A "luxury" beauty. A "parii" who had dropped straight from heaven into his chaotic world.

The realization hit you with a quiet, staggering weight. Rocky Randhawa was...something. zhis English was a complete disaster, his fashion choices were a violent assault on the senses, and he possessed absolutely zero volume control. He was an absolute idiot in public...

But he was entirely, completely, undeniably sincere. There was absolutely no malice in him. His heart was as massive and unfiltered as his voice..

You let out a soft, trembling sigh, leaning your head back against the wooden headboard of your bed. The tight, anxious knot that had been sitting in your stomach since Monday morning finally began to loosen, dissolving into a strange, warm, and entirely terrifying feeling of comfort. For the first time in your life, someone had looked past all the armor you wore to hide your body, looked straight into your quiet, hidden soul, and decided it was worth chasing through a supermarket..

The floorboards didn't creak. They were as tired as he was, settled into a permanent, sagging silence.

Jaskirat stood on the wooden chair—a cheap, rickety thing he’d found in a junkyard—and looked at the wall. It wasn't a wall he saw, but a void. The ceiling fan above him hummed with a low, rhythmic vibration that felt like a heartbeat he no longer wanted to share. The coarse hemp of the rope was a rough caress against the skin of his neck, a stark contrast to the softness of the life he had once known. Before he had to bury himself under Hamza, a man that was driven by Revenge. A man he buried 3 years ago, right next to Jassi, a 21 year old boy with a soft smile and big dreams..

He stood perfectly still. His breathing was shallow, disciplined—the breath of a soldier, a ghost, a man who had mastered the art of being invisible.

Outside, the wind whipped through the desolate plains of this nameless town, rattling the corrugated tin roof of his shack. But inside, there was only the gravity of his own existence, pulling at his heels, begging him to just finally kick.. To let go. To end the noise.

His mind, usually a fortress of iron-clad focus, began to fracture.

He wondered about the Government. The men in dark suits who had once kidnapped him from the Police Transport. Did they still look for him? Or had they finally checked a box in a dusty file, marking him as 'Expendable Assets Lost'?

Maybe they knew he was alive. Maybe they let him run because a broken tool is of no use to a machine. He had been their finest blade, sharpened in the fires of vengeance and tempered in the blood of his enemies. But even the strongest steel snaps if you bend it too far. They had pushed him until he wasn't a patriot anymore—just a hollowed-out shell filled with the echoes of screams. He hoped they had forgotten him. He hoped they had accepted his disappearance as a final act of desertion, a silent respect, perhaps.

But the government was a shadow. His family... they were the sun. And the sun burned.

Yalina...

Her name felt like a laceration. He could almost smell the faint scent of jasmine on her skin, hear the way her breath hitched when he laughed. He had left her in the dark. To her, he was a martyr or a criminal—a man buried in a Pakistanj prison or a grave in a foreign land. He had let her believe he was dead because the truth was more dangerous. If he were alive, he was a target. If he was a target, she was leverage.

He closed his eyes, and he could see Zayan..

His son would be older now. Would he remember the way Jaskirat’s hands felt—those same hands that were now reaching for the rope? Would Zayan grow up hating a father who chose a flag over a family? Or would he simply grow up with a hole in his heart where a man’s shadow used to be?

And his mother. His sister. They were mourners of a living man. He imagined them on festival days, perhaps lighting a lamp for him, perhaps whispering his name in prayers meant for the departed. They would never know he was standing in a shack in a small town, 400 miles away, preparing to make their nightmare a permanent reality. They would never know he survived the police, the betrayals, Lyari, Rehman Dakait, Major Iqbal..and the revenge, only to be defeated by a Tuesday night in a room that smelled of dust and despair.

The loneliness wasn't a feeling anymore; it was a physical weight. It sat on his shoulders, heavier than any weight he’d ever carried. For three years, he had been a man with no name. He had worked in fields, cleaned grease from engines, anything where people wouldn't ask his name.

He had spoken fewer than a thousand words in three years.

He was a ghost haunting his own life. Every night, the silence of the shack grew louder, screaming at him about the things he had done—the necks he had snapped, the lies he had told, the blood he had spilled in the name of a 'greater good' that now felt like a punchline.

What was a warrior without a war?

What was a man without a home?

The chair beneath him felt unstable. He liked that. He liked the honesty of it.

He looked at his hands. They were calloused, scarred, and steady. Even now, at the edge of the abyss, his body refused to tremble. It was a soldier’s body, trained to endure. But his soul was tired. It was frayed at the edges, unraveling into nothingness. He had fought for his country, he had fought for revenge, and he had fought to survive.

But he had nothing left to fight for now.

He took a deep breath, the rope tightening slightly. The air was cold. He thought of the endless fields, the fresh punjabi air of his hometown, and the warmth of a kitchen that was now a thousand lifetimes away. He thought of the man he used to be—the one who believed in honor, in justice, in the future.

That man was gone.

"Forgive me.." he breathed, to Yalina? His son? Perhaps his Mother and Sister? To his best friend, Pinda? Which he had lost in the battle? Maybe to all of them..?

He looked ahead, his gaze fixing on a knot in the wood of the wall. One movement. A shift of weight. A release.

The world stayed quiet. No one was coming to save him. No one even knew he was there.

He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, the chair groaning in anticipation.

"Just one step," he thought. "Just one step to go home."

A scream.

It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the phantom echo of his own nightmares or the screams of the men he had left behind. It was real. It was high, sharp, and jagged—a sound that tore through the silence of the Town like a rusted blade.

Jaskirat froze. His muscles, honed by decades of survival, reacted before his mind could catch up.

"Ignore it." his soul whispered. "It’s not your war. You’re already dead."

He closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the rope, forcing his weight back onto the center of the chair. He waited for the silence to return, for the void to reclaim him.

"Nahin! Chhodo mujhe!"

The voice came again, closer this time, followed by the sickening sound of a heavy blow—meat hitting meat—and the clatter of something metal hitting the cobblestones. Then came the laughter. It was a guttural, jagged sound—the laughter of men who knew no one was coming. In these backstreets, in the labyrinthine shadows, a scream was just background noise. People closed their shutters. They turned up their radios. They minded the business of staying alive.

Jaskirat stared at the wall. "Let it go.." he told himself.

But the woman’s sob wasn't fading. It was turning into a wet, desperate wheeze.

Something inside Jaskirat’s chest—something he thought he had successfully killed three years ago when he crossed the border back into India, only to realize he no longer fit in the world he had fought to protect—snapped. It wasn't a sense of duty. It wasn't patriotism. It was a primal, ugly instinct...the instinct of a son, of a brother, of a true man.

He didn't untie the noose. He reached up, his fingers moving with a terrifying, mechanical speed, and sliced through the hemp with a small, sharpened piece of scrap metal he kept in his pocket.

The rope fell. Jaskirat stepped off the chair.

Everything went do fast, almost like in a trance.

He didn't use the door. He moved through the back window, his boots hitting the dirt with the silence of a predatory cat. The air in Toen was thick with the smell of fear. He moved through the shadows, making sure to stay unoticed.

He rounded the corner of the alleyway behind his shack.-

The scene was bathed in the flickering, sickly yellow light of a dying streetlamp. It was exactly as his intuition had mapped it.

Three men. They were young, fueled by a toxic mix of cheap chemicals and the arrogance of the predator. One held a knife, spinning it casually. The second held her down—a young woman, her clothes torn, her face a mask of terror and blood. The third was unbuckling his belt, his face twisted into a grin that made Jaskirat’s vision turn a searing, monochromatic white.

She looked so small. She looked like the world he had failed. She looked like the innocence he had traded for a gun and a fake passport....she looked like Jasleen.

Jasleen... the flashback to that night he found her in that tiny hutt.. alone- hurt.. like this girl right now. She had no facial similarity to his sister whatsoever, but the scenery...something in him snapped.

Jaskirat didn't shout. He didn't give a warning. A spy doesn't announce his presence; he merely changes the environment.

The man with the knife was the first to feel it. He didn't even hear Jaskirat approach. One moment he was laughing, and the next, a hand like a vice gripped his wrist, twisting it until the bone screamed. The knife dropped, but before it hit the ground, Jaskirat caught it in mid-air.

With a fluid, horrifying grace, Jaskirat drove the butt of the knife into the man’s temple

Not a killing blow, but enough to shut his world down. The man crumpled like a suit of empty clothes.

The other two froze. The one holding the woman looked up, his eyes widening as he saw the silhouette of a man who looked like he had crawled out of a grave.

"Kaun hai tu?!" the man stammered, scrambling to rise.

Jaskirat didn't answer. He didn't have a name to give.

He stepped into the light. His face was a mask of cold, dead stone. He grew older, on the edge of 50 by now, but he didn't loose his bite, the hard work on the fields kept him in shape.

The second man lunged, swinging a heavy iron pipe. Jaskirat didn't flinch. He stepped into the strike, narrowing the distance. He took the blow on his shoulder—a dull thud that would have broken a normal man’s collarbone—but Jaskirat didn't even blink. He buried his elbow into the man’s throat.

The sound was like a dry branch snapping. The man fell back, clutching his neck, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

Then there was the third. The one who had been touching her.

He had backed away, pulling a snub-nosed pistol from his waistband. His hands were shaking. "Peechay hat! Main goli maar doonga!"

Jaskirat kept walking. His heart wasn't racing. It was steady. For the first time in three years, the noise in his head had stopped.

"Dar se kaanp rahe ho?" Jaskirat said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp—the first time he had spoken in months. It sounded like grinding stones.

"Main keh raha hoon, ruk ja!"

"You won't pull that trigger.." Jaskirat said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Because if you do, you lose your only chance to run. And I am the only thing you should be running from."

The man fired.

The bullet grazed Jaskirat’s ribs, tearing through his shirt and leaving a red-hot trail across his skin. Jaskirat didn't even break his stride. He was on the man in a heartbeat. He gripped the gun, his thumb jamming behind the hammer so it couldn't fire again. With his other hand, he seized the man’s throat and slammed him against the brick wall with a force that cracked the masonry.

He held him there, inches off the ground. The man’s legs kicked uselessly.

"She was crying." Jaskirat whispered, his eyes boring into the man’s soul. "And you liked it..!"

He could have killed him. It would have been so easy. A sharp twist, a sudden thrust. He could feel the familiar pull of the abyss, the hunger of Hamza to finish the job. The government had spent millions of rupees to turn him into a weapon that didn't know how to mercy.

But then, he heard a small, trembling gasp from behind him.

He looked back. The woman was huddled against a crate, her eyes wide with a different kind of fear. She wasn't just afraid of the men who had attacked her. She was terrified. Terrified of seeing something gruesome.

He didn't kill the man. He slammed his head against the brick once, twice, until the man went limp, and then he dropped him like the trash he was.

The alley fell silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the two survivors.

Jaskirat stood in the center of the carnage. His rib was bleeding. His shoulder was screaming in pain. The noose was still waiting for him in the shack, but the cold, clinical clarity of the mission had replaced the fog of that thought.

He turned slowly toward the woman.

You flinched, pulling your torn shawl tighter around your shoulders. Your hair was a mess, and a dark bruise was already forming on your cheek.

She's young— he thought. Too young to know the kind of darkness that lived in the heart of the man standing before her.

Jaskirat reached out a hand, then immediately pulled it back, realizing how terrifying he must look. He cleared his throat, the sound painful.

"Are you..." he paused, the word 'okay' feeling like a lie. "Can you walk?"

You stared at him, chest heaving. You looked at the three broken bodies on the ground, then back at the man who had appeared from the shadows like a vengeful deity.

"Who... who are you?" You whispered, your voice trembling.

Jaskirat looked toward his shack, toward the life he had tried to end, and then back at the woman he had accidentally saved. The government didn't know he was here. His family thought he was a ghost. He was a man with no country, no name, and no future..

"Nobody." he said, his voice softening just a fraction.

He moved toward you, not with the predatory grace of a soldier, but with the hesitant, broken gait of a man trying to remember how to be human. He reached down and picked up your fallen bag, handing it to her with a hand that—for the first time in three years—was finally beginning to shake.

"Come.." he said. "You can't stay here."

As he helped her up, your fingers brushed against his calloused palm. The contact felt like an electric shock. To him, it was a reminder of a world he had abandoned. To you, it was the first anchor in a world that had just tried to tear you apart.

​"You're bleeding.." you said, your voice small but clear.

The silence between your two started right after he had helped you up, and lasted until you finally found your voice again.

​Jaskirat didn't turn around. "It’s nothing.."

​"It’s not nothing. That bullet... it hit you. I saw it."

​"Keep your head down and keep walking." he rasped. His tone wasn't cruel, but it was thick with a finality that discouraged conversation. It was the voice of a man who had spent years giving orders that meant the difference between life and death..

​You fell silent for a moment, but the adrenaline pulsing through your veins wouldn't let you stay quiet. You were a teacher; you spent your days explaining the world to children, finding logic in chaos. But there was no logic to this man. He lived in a shack that looked ready to collapse, yet he fought like a storm.

​"I’ve lived in this neighborhood my whole life.." You started again, stepping over a puddle of stagnant water. "I’ve never seen you. And I would have noticed someone like you."

​Jaskirat’s jaw tightened. "That was the point."

​"Why did you help me..?" You asked, your curiosity finally outweighing your fear. "Most people... they would have just closed their doors. Especially here. Especially tonight.."

​Jaskirat stopped so abruptly she nearly ran into his back. He turned, and the yellow light of a distant moon caught the scars on his face—scars that told stories of wars and betrayals he would never put into words.

​"I didn't help you to start a conversation." he said, his eyes hard. "I helped you because the noise was annoying. Now, keep moving. We are three blocks from the main road. Where do you live?"

​You flinched at his coldness, but you didn't look away. There was something beneath the frost in his voice—a deep, resonant exhaustion that you recognized. It was the look of someone who had seen the end of the world and was frustrated that it was still turning.

​"The blue gate near the dispensary.." you whispered. "My father... he’s the doctor there."

​Jaskirat nodded once and resumed walking, his pace slightly faster.

​

​As they neared the edge of the residential district, where the houses were built of sturdier brick and the streetlamps actually worked, you felt a strange shift. The terror was being replaced by a profound sense of debt. You looked at his hand—the one that had held the gunman by the throat—and saw that his knuckles were split and raw.

​"My father..!" You began again, more confident this time. "He can help you. If you come inside, he can stitch that wound properly. He won't ask questions. He’s used to people who need help without being asked who they are.."

​"I don't need a doctor," Jaskirat said.

​"You might. Infection in this heat is a death sentence. And you took a blow to the shoulder with an iron pipe. You aren't even flinching, but I know it hurts."

​Jaskirat stopped again, this time turning fully to face her. He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time. Young..around 25, eyes filled with an earnestness that felt like a physical weight on his chest.

​"Listen to me.." he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "I am not a man to worry about, I am not a neighbor. I am a ghost. You go inside that house, you lock the door, and you forget you ever saw me. You tell your Father about these boys, but you do not mention the man from the shack. Do you understand?"

​"I can't do that." You challenged, your voice trembling but firm. "You saved my life. I don't care if you think you're a ghost, Ghosts don't bleed, and they don't save a girl from being hurt. Only living good people do."

​Jaskirat felt a spike of genuine irritation, masked by a deeper, more uncomfortable emotion. She was digging into him, her words acting like a probe into a wound he’d spent three years cauterizing.

​"What is your name?" You asked suddenly.

​The question hit him like a physical blow. Jaskirat. The name felt heavy, forbidden. It belonged to a soldier of India. It belonged to a husband in a fading photograph. It belonged to a man who was supposed to be dead.

​"I don't have one." he said.

​"Everyone has a name."

​"Not tonight."

​You stepped closer, refusing to be dismissed. "Fine. Then keep your name. But remember this: the blue gate. If the wound gets worse, if you find yourself with nowhere to go, or if those men have friends who come looking... you come to the blue gate. My family owes you.. I.. owe you this."

​

​They reached the end of the alley. Ahead of them stood a modest but well-kept house. A sturdy blue iron gate stood at the entrance, a symbol of safety in a neighborhood that offered very little of it. A light was on in the upper window; someone was waiting up for her.

​Jaskirat stayed in the shadows of the last building, refusing to step into the light of your home. He watched you stand by the gate, your hand on the latch.

​"Go inside." he commanded.

​You paused, looking back at the dark silhouette he had become. You looked at the blood soaking into his shirt, and then at his eyes.

​"Thank you.." she whispered. "For the noise being annoying."

​A ghost of a smile—something so faint it might have been a trick of the light—touched Jaskirat’s lips for a fraction of a second before his face returned to its stony mask.

​"Lock the gate, be safe." was all he said.

​He stood there, motionless, as you pushed the heavy iron open. He watched ypu walk to the front door, heard the frantic voices of your family as they saw her torn clothes and bruised face. He heard the door slam and the bolt slide into place.

​Only then did Jaskirat turn away.

​He walked back toward the darkness, his hand clutching his side. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain was beginning to bloom—a sharp, hot fire in his ribs and a dull, throbbing ache in his soul.

​He thought of the noose hanging in his shack. He thought of the chair.

​But as he looked at his hand—the hand you had almost touched—he realized he couldn't go back to the rope. Not tonight..

4 days later;

It had been four long days since the night in the alley..

For you, those four days were a blur of whispered conversations and stifled gasps. Your mother had spent the first forty-eight hours hovering over you, applying cooling pastes to the bruise on your cheek and weeping silently into her dupatta. Your older brother, Rohan, had spent that same time pacing the porch, his hand white-knuckled around a cricket bat, cursing the men who had laid a hand on his sister.

But your father, Dr. Rathore, had been the quietest of all. He had listened to your story with the clinical intensity of a man used to diagnosing hidden traumas. He didn't ask about the attackers; he asked about the man who had stopped them.

"You said he didn't use a weapon?" your father had asked on the second night, his brow furrowed as he cleaned your minor scrapes.

"He was the weapon, Papa" you had whispered. "He didn't move like someone who was angry. He moved like someone who was... certain."

Every afternoon, after the school bell rang and the children dispersed into the dusty streets of the village, you took the long way home. You walked past the row of dilapidated shacks on the outskirts—the place where the seasonal laborers and the drifters lived.

You looked for a man with a beard matted with dust. You looked for a man with a shoulder that should be sagging and a side that should be burning with the fire of an untreated bullet graze.

But there was nothing.

The worry was a constant, low-frequency thrum in your chest. You knew the reality of wounds in this heat. You knew that even a man made of iron could be felled by a microscopic infection. You pictured him lying on a dirt floor, his body shivering with a fever he refused to acknowledge, his pride keeping him from the blue gate you had promised him safety behind.

Dinner on the fourth night was a quiet affair. The house felt smaller than usual, crowded by the unspoken presence of the stranger.

"He hasn't come," your mother said, placing a bowl of dal on the table. She looked at your father, her eyes pleading. "If he is as badly hurt as she says, he might not be able to come."

Rohan looked up from his plate, his jaw set. "I’ve been asking around at the grain market. Nobody knows a man like that. A few people mentioned a 'silent one' who works for them from time to time, but they say he hasn't shown up for work since Tuesday."

You felt a cold knot tighten in your stomach. Tuesday was the day after the attack..

"Men like that don't want to be found.." your father said softly, stirring his tea. "In my years of practice, I’ve seen them before. Soldiers who have seen too much. Men who carry wars inside them long after the guns have gone silent. They think that by staying alone, they keep the world safe from the darkness they carry."

"But he’s not the darkness," you argued, leaning forward. "He saved me. He took a bullet for a stranger. Papa, if he dies in some corner of this town because he’s too proud or too broken to ask for help, how can we live with that?"

Your father looked at you, really looked at you. He saw the way your hands trembled when you spoke of him—not with fear, but with a desperate, protective urgency.

The room fell into a heavy silence. The ceiling fan whirred, cutting through the thick, dry air.

Your father stood up suddenly, his chair scraping against the floorboards. He walked over to the corner of the room and picked up his worn leather medical bag. He checked the seal on the antibiotics, the rolls of sterile gauze, and the bottles of antiseptic.

He looked at the bruise on your face, now fading to a dull yellow, and then at the door.

He reached out and squeezed your shoulder, a silent acknowledgement of the bond you had formed with a man you didn't even know.

"A doctor’s duty doesn't stop at the doorstep," your father said, his voice firm. He looked at you, then at the coat hanging by the door.

"You're the only one who knows exactly where he must live" he said.

He stepped toward the exit, his shadow long against the wall. He paused at the threshold, the moonlight catching the grey in his hair, before turning back to you.

"Bring me there."

You didn't wait another second.

The dry creek bed was a graveyard of discarded industry. Stacks of cracked bricks stood like jagged tombstones under the pale, indifferent light of a Rajasthani moon. Here, the air didn't just feel dry; it felt dead.

"Is this it?" your father whispered, his voice hushed as if afraid to wake the spirits of the place.

You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "The one with the corrugated tin roof. He... he appeared fron the shadows behind it that night..!"

Rohan walked slightly ahead, a heavy flashlight in his hand. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating swirling dust and the skeletal remains of rusted machinery. When the light hit the door of the small, square hut, your breath hitched.

The door was slightly ajar. It hung crookedly on a single hinge, swaying a fraction of an inch in the breeze with a rhythmic, metallic clink-clink-clink

"Stay behind me." your father commanded, his professional mask slipping into place.

As you stepped onto the threshold, Rohan swung the flashlight into the room.

The beam swept over a floor of packed earth, a single wooden chair that had been shoved violently into a corner, and a length of hemp rope lying coiled like a dead snake in the center of the room. Finally, the light landed on a low, wooden cot in the corner.

Him.

He was sprawled on his back, his legs hanging off the edge of the thin mattress. His chest was bare, his skin a terrifying, sickly grey. Even from the doorway, you could see the dark, angry streaks of red creeping upward from his ribcage—the telltale map of sepsis marching toward his heart.

"Oh, God.." you gasped, rushing forward despite your father’s warning.

He didn't move. The man who had moved like a hurricane in the alley was now as still as a fallen statue. His eyes were closed, the lashes dark against his sunken sockets. His breathing was shallow, a ragged, wet sound that rattled deep in his throat.

Your father was on his knees beside the cot in an instant. He pressed two fingers to Jaskirat’s neck.

"His fever is high.." your father muttered, his hands moving with practiced speed. He peeled back the blood-stiffened rag Jaskirat had used to bind his side.

You recoiled. The graze from the bullet had turned into an ugly, weeping crater. The surrounding flesh was swollen and purple, pulsing with the poison of the street-level filth that had entered his bloodstream.

"Rohan, help me..!" your father barked. "We have to get him into the truck. Now. If he stays here, he won't see the sunrise."

Rohan moved to the head of the cot, his initial suspicion of the man replaced by a grim, soldierly respect for the state of his injuries. Together, they began the grueling task of lifting him.

Jaskirat groaned—a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones. For a brief second, his eyes flickered open. They were bloodshot, unfocused, and wild. His hand shot out with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a dying man, his fingers locking around Rohan’s throat.

"No!" you screamed, grabbing his arm. "It’s us! We're helping you!"

The sound of your voice seemed to act as a tether. His gaze drifted toward you, the predatory fire in his eyes fading into a confused, glassy haze. His grip loosened, his hand falling back to the dirt with a heavy thud.

"Yalina...?" he wheezed, the name barely a ghost of a sound.

"No.." you whispered, your heart breaking for a woman you didn't know. "It’s me, From the alley. Please, let us help you..!"

He didn't speak again. He slumped back into unconsciousness, his body becoming a dead weight in their arms.

The drive back to the house was a nightmare of silence and speed. You sat in the back of the truck, Jaskirat’s head resting in your lap. He was burning. You could feel the heat radiating off him through your clothes, a dry, searing fever that made him tremble in violent, sudden jolts.

You used a corner of your dupatta to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Up close, without the mask of his terrifying competence, he looked so...hurt.

"Who are you..?" you whispered to the wind as the truck rattled over the uneven roads. "What did they do to you...?"

You thought of the rope you had seen on the floor of the shack. You realized with a jolt of horror that he hadn't been annoyed by noise, he was distracted from taking his life.

When you arrived at the blue gate, your mother was already there, holding it wide. She didn't ask questions. She saw the state of the man and immediately began clearing the table in the small clinic room attached to the house.

The next few hours were a blur of antiseptic and blood.

Your father worked with a grim intensity. He didn't have the equipment of a major hospital, but he had the hands of a man who had spent forty years stitching the world back together. You stood by his side, handing him instruments, cleaning the sweat from his brow, and holding Jaskirat’s arm steady when his body convulsed in a fever-dream.

"The sepsis is deep.." your father said, his voice tight. "The bullet didn't stay in, but it took pieces of his shirt with it. It’s been festering for days."

He began the process of debriding the wound—cutting away the dead, infected tissue. Jaskirat didn't wake up, but he began to thrash. His muscles corded like steel cables, his body fighting the very hands trying to save him.

"Hold him!" your father shouted.

Rohan leaned over Jaskirat’s chest, pinning his shoulders, while you gripped his hands. His palms were rough, covered in scars..

"He's fighting a war in there.." Rohan muttered, struggling to keep the man down.

Jaskirat began to mutter in his delirium. It wasn't just Hindi. There were snatches of Urdu, Punjabi, fragments of a dialect you didn't recognize, and names—so many names.. Yalina...Zayan, Rehman-Bhai, Uzair...Pinda, Jasleen..

There was the same question in everyones eyes at this moment;

What in gods name happened to this poor man?

As the first streaks of lavender and gold began to bleed across the Jaipur sky, the chaos in the clinic finally subsided.

The wound was cleaned and dressed in thick layers of white gauze. An IV drip was hanging from a makeshift stand, slowly pumping high-dose antibiotics into his veins. The fever hadn't broken yet, but the terrifying grey tinge of his skin had faded into a pale, exhausted white.

Your father slumped into a chair, his surgical mask hanging around his neck. He looked older than he had that morning.

"He's stable.." your father said, his voice raspy. "For now. But the next twenty-four hours will tell us if his heart is as strong as his will."

Rohan and your mother had gone to get some rest, leaving you alone in the quiet room with the man who had no name. The only sound was the steady drip... drip... drip... of the IV and the distant call of a morning bird.

You pulled a chair close to the bed. You watched the way his chest rose and fell—slow, steady, and stubborn. He was a stranger.. He was a man who had tried to die, and yet, here he was, breathing the air of your home.

You reached out, hesitantly, and touched the back of his hand. It was still warm, but the unnatural heat was gone.

"You're save now.." you whispered.

In the quiet of the morning, you stayed there, a silent guardian over a fallen warrior. You knew that when he woke up, he would likely be angry. He would be confused. He would maybe even try to run... But as the sun rose over the blue gate, you knew one thing for certain: the silence of neither his or your life would ever, ever be the same again after this night..

The morning sun didn’t rise so much as it bled into the room, a soft, pale gold that filtered through the heavy curtains of his place.

It was a cruel contrast to the storm Hamza had unleashed across the city’s airwaves.

You stirred against the silk pillows, the transition from sleep to wakefulness feeling like a slow drift through warm water. Your body felt heavy, languid, and marked by a deep, grounded ache that reminded you exactly where you were. For a moment, the events of the previous night—the ultimatum, the car ride, the terrifying coldness in Hamza’s eyes—felt like a fever dream.

Then, you felt the solid, unyielding heat of him beside you.

Hamza was already awake. He was propped up on one elbow, his silhouette dark against the morning light. He wasn't looking at a phone or a television; he was looking at you. His expression was unreadable, a complex tapestry of possessiveness and a haunting, quiet regret that you were too blissful to decipher.

"Morning, jaan.." he murmured. His voice was like low-octave music, vibrating through the mattress and into your skin.

You reached out, your fingers tracing the scar on his forearm, feeling the pulse beneath the skin. "How long have you been awake..?"

"Long enough." he said, his hand coming up to stroke your hair away from your face. His touch was incredibly gentle—the touch of the man who had cradled you during your sleep, not the man who had blackmailed your father three hours ago..

You sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around your waist. The reality of the situation began to settle in. "I... I should probably check my phone...! My father is going to have the national guard out looking for me. I need to go back and figure out how to explain this.."

A flicker of tension crossed Hamza’s face—so fast you almost missed it. He couldn't let you see the news. Not yet. He couldn't let you see your father’s broken face on every screen in the country, pledging his soul to a man like Rehman to buy back a daughter who was currently lying in her "kidnapper’s" bed.

"No.." Hamza said, his voice firm but soft. He caught your hand, pulling you back down toward him. "You aren't going anywhere today."

"Hamza..? I have to..!" you protested, though your heart wasn't in it. The thought of leaving this bubble of warmth for the cold marble of the Minister’s mansion felt like a sentence. "He’ll be out of his mind with worry. If I just go back and tell him I was with a friend, maybe—"

"He won't accept me, never."

The words were blunt, sounding like a confession. Hamza looked away, staring at the far wall, playing the role of the vulnerable lover with a precision that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

"Your father is a Minister. He is a man of 'reputation' and 'legacy..'" Hamza continued, his voice thick with a calculated bitterness. "And what am I? To him, I am a ghost. A man with blood on his hands and no name. If you walk back through those gates today, he will lock you in a golden cage and I will never see you again. He will find a way to take you away forever.."

He turned back to you, his dark eyes shimmering with a manufactured fear that pulled at every protective instinct you had. "I’m scared, jaan. I’ve never had anything worth keeping before. If you leave now, I lose you. I know it."

You felt a wave of fierce love wash over you. The powerful, dangerous man who had intimidated you last night was now admitting his deepest fear: losing you. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him close.

"He can't keep us apart.." you whispered fiercely. "I won't let him."

"Then stay." he urged, his lips pressing into the pulse point of your neck. "Stay here. Just for a while. Let the world settle. Let me find a way to... to make this right so he has no choice but to accept us. If you go back now, it's over."

You hesitated. The thought of your father’s face flashed in your mind—the man who tucked you in, who called you his jewel. But then you looked at Hamza. You felt the raw, desperate need in his hold. You thought about the three weeks of silence and the agony of being without him.

"Okay..." you breathed, the word sealing your fate. "I'll stay. I'll turn the phone off. I'm yours, Hamza. I already chose that.."

He squeezed you so tightly it almost hurt, a jagged breath escaping his lungs. It was a victory, but a heavy one.

He had successfully isolated his "asset." He had ensured that you wouldn't see the headlines: Minister Siddiqui Defects to Rehman Party; Cites 'Personal Revelation.' You wouldn't see the grainy, shadowed photo of your own sleeping form that was currently being used to dismantle your father’s career.

"You're a good girl.." he whispered, the endearment tasting like copper in his mouth.

He stood up, his massive frame blocking the light. "I'm going to make tea.. We have nowhere to be, and the world can wait."

As he walked out of the bedroom, he paused at the door, looking back at you. You were sitting in the center of the bed, wrapped in his duvet, looking like a queen in a fortress of his making. You smiled at him, a bright, trusting thing that made his stomach turn.

He stepped into the kitchen and picked up his own phone. A message from Uzair was waiting.

"Siddiqui is on the 9:00 AM broadcast. He’s reading the script. Every word. The party is in shock. Rehman is pleased."

Hamza deleted the message and set the phone face down. He moved to the stove, his hands steady as he began the domestic task of making breakfast for the woman he had just effectively stolen.

Outside, the city was in chaos. Your father was a broken man, weeping in his private chambers between takes. The political landscape of the country was shifting on its axis. But inside the walls of Hamza’s Home, the air was thick with the scent of sleep and the quiet, romantic hum of a man who had won everything—and lost his soul in the process..

He came back into the room a few minutes later with two mugs. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching you drink, his hand resting possessively on your knee.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly.

"About how lucky I am..!" you said, leaning your head on his shoulder. "That you didn't leave me. That you came back for me."

Hamza closed his eyes, the irony of your words cutting deeper than any blade. He kissed the top of your head, his grip tightening.

"I’ll always come back for you.." he vowed. It was the only truth he had left.

He had turned your father into a puppet and you into a captive, all under the guise of the most honest, romantic care you had ever known. And the most terrifying part? He was going to make sure you never, ever found out.

In this bubble of romance, care, and intimacy, three days had passed—three days of silk-soft mornings and whispered promises that had effectively erased the world outside for you.

To you, this was a romantic exile, a necessary cocoon to protect a love your father would never understand.

To Hamza, it was a masterclass in psychological warfare.

It was 3:00 AM. The air in the bedroom was cool, scented with the fading traces of expensive perfume and the sharp, masculine tang of the cigarette Hamza held between his teeth. You were fast asleep beside him, your head pillowed on his thigh, one hand draped across his stomach in a gesture of absolute, unconscious trust.

Hamza’s face was illuminated by the blue glow of a burner phone. He took a long drag of the cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the dark, before he hit the dial button.

The Minister picked up on the first half-ring.

"Hamza?" Siddiqui’s voice was a ghost of its former self—thin, reedy, and vibrating with the kind of exhaustion that ages a man a decade in a week. "Is she... please, is she still there?"

Hamza didn't answer immediately. He exhaled a long, slow plume of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. With his free hand, he reached down and began to idly coil a lock of your hair around his finger. He tugged it gently—just enough to make you murmur in your sleep and nuzzle closer to his hip, but not enough to wake you.

"She’s right here, Minister," Hamza finally rasped, his voice dropping into that predatory, silken register. "Right where I want her.. She’s sleeping like a babe.. You’d be surprised how well she sleeps after she’s been... properly disciplined.."

"You monster..!" Siddiqui choked out. He sounded like he was falling apart. "I’ve done everything. I gave the speech. I signed the alliance. Rehman has the votes. Why haven't you let her go?!"

Hamza gave a low, cruel chuckle that made the hair on the back of your neck stir, even in sleep.

"Because I’m enjoying the company.. Your daughter is a fascinating creature, Siddiqui. She’s spent her whole life surrounded by your lies and your 'prestige,' but it turns out all she really wanted was a man who knew how to break her.. She’s quite fond of me now. She follows me from room to room like a grateful little pup."

"Stop it..!" the Minister pleaded, the sound of his weeping audible through the line. "Don't speak about her like that. She’s a lady—"

"She’s a woman." Hamza corrected, his eyes cold as he watched your peaceful face. "And she’s my woman now..You should see her. She’s stopped asking for you. She hasn't mentioned your name once in forty-eight hours. I think she’s finally realized that the 'powerful' Minister Siddiqui is just a frightened old man who can't even find his own child..~"

Hamza flicked an ash into a tray on the nightstand, his fingers never leaving your hair. He was being intentionally foul, painting a picture of a broken, violated girl to keep the Minister in a state of total, paralyzed terror. It was a strategy of absolute leverage: the more the father believed his daughter was being destroyed, the more he would do to "save" her.

"I’m going to do something for you, Minister." Hamza said, his tone mocking. "Because you’ve been such a loyal servant to Rehman these last few days. I’m going to let you talk to her. Tomorrow morning. I’ll wake her up, and I’ll let you hear her voice."

There was a sharp, strangled gasp on the other end. "Really? You... you swear?"

"I swear." Hamza said, his eyes narrowing as he watched you sigh and shift, your hand moving to grip the fabric of his sweatpants. "But listen to me very carefully. If you say one word about the police, one word about the photos, or one word that makes her think anything is wrong, the call ends. And you won't get another one. Do you understand?"

"I understand. I’ll do whatever you say! Just let me hear her...!"

"Good.." Hamza hissed. "I’ll call you at 9:00 AM sharp. Don't be late. I have things to do with her tomorrow, and I don't like to be kept waiting."

He cut the call before the Minister could offer another word.

Hamza sat there for a long time, the silence of the room pressing in on him. He felt a flicker of something—disgust? Regret?—at the way he had just spoken about you.

He looked down at the way you were curled against him, so innocent and so utterly deceived. He had told your father you were a broken dog, when in reality, you were the only thing that made him feel like he hadn't completely rotted from the inside out.

He leaned down, snubbing out his cigarette, and gathered you up into his arms. He pulled you onto his chest, your weight a grounding pressure against his heart.

"I’m sorry.. jaan.." he whispered into the dark, his voice now thick with a heavy, secret tenderness. "But I have to keep him scared. I have to keep the world away. If he thinks you're happy, he'll fight. If he thinks you're lost, he'll obey.."

You stirred, your eyes fluttering open just a crack, bleary and full of love. "Hamza? Are you still awake?"

"Just watching you.." he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Go back to sleep. I’ve got a surprise for you in the morning. I’m going to let you call your father. I think I’ve convinced him that we deserve a chance.."

Your face lit up with a sleepy, dazzling smile. You didn't see the ice in his gaze or the phone hidden beneath the pillow. You only saw the man who had stayed, the man who was fighting for your "freedom."

"Thank you.." you whispered, kissing his jaw before drifting back into the dark. "I knew you could do it. I knew you were a good man.."

Hamza held you tighter, his jaw set. If you knew.. he thought.

In the morning, you were shaken awake not by the sun, but by the sensation of Hamza’s lips against your ear and his large, warm hand cupping your cheek.

"Wake up, jaan..~" he whispered, his voice like velvet over gravel. "I have a gift for you.."

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking against the brightness. You felt soft, languid, and deeply loved. When you saw the phone in his hand, your heart did a frantic little dance.

"Is it...?"

"Your father.." Hamza said, a small, encouraging smile playing on his lips—a smile that never quite reached his cold, watchful eyes. "I told you I’d fix it. He’s waiting to hear your voice. Just tell him you’re happy. Tell him you’re safe."

He hit the speakerphone and held the device between you, his other arm draped possessively over your shoulders, pulling you into the crook of his chest. He was so close you could feel the vibration of his chest when he breathed.

"Baba?" you breathed, your voice thick with emotion.

There was a ragged, choked sound on the other end—a sob that was quickly stifled.

"My jewel... oh God, is that you? Are you...

are you really there?"

"It’s me, Baba! I’m okay. I’m so sorry I disappeared, but I’m safe. I’m with Hamza."

You looked up at Hamza, beaming, completely unaware of the gun-metal silence on his end.

"He’s been so good to me. He’s taken such good care of me. Please, don't be angry. He’s not what you think."

Silence stretched from the other side, a heavy, agonizing void. You couldn't see your father’s face—the way he was likely clutching his chest, his knuckles white, knowing that if he said the word "kidnap" or "blackmail," the line would go dead and his daughter would vanish forever..

"I... I see.."

Siddiqui’s voice came out as a broken whisper. It sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of glass.

"If you’re... if you’re happy, then that’s all that matters. Are you eating? Are you sleeping?"

"I’m sleeping better than I ever have..!" you said, letting out a small, bubbly laugh of relief, missing the way Hamza’s grip on your shoulder tightened just a fraction. "We spend all our time talking. He’s so romantic, Baba. I think... I think I’m in love. I know it’s fast, but you have to meet him. You have to give us your blessing."

A sharp, hitching breath came from the phone. To you, it sounded like a father’s surprise. To Hamza, it was the sound of a man’s spirit finally snapping.

"I’ve already... given him everything he asked for.." your father managed to say, the double meaning lost on you. "Anything for you. Just stay safe. Please, just stay safe."

"I miss you so much.." you said, a tear of joy prickling your eye. "I’ll see you soon, okay? I love you."

"I love you more than life, my jewel. Never forget—"

Hamza’s thumb hovered over the red icon. "That’s enough for today.." he said smoothly, his voice projecting a false warmth. He cut the call before your father could finish his sentence, the silence of the room returning like a physical weight.

You turned in Hamza's arms, throwing your hands around his neck. "Thank you! Thank you for letting me talk to him. I knew he’d understand once he heard how happy I am."

Hamza kissed your forehead, his touch lingering, almost protective. "I told you I’d take care of it, pyaari. Now, why don't you go take a long shower? I need to step out onto the balcony for a moment—business, unfortunately. The world doesn't stop just because we’re happy."

You nodded, blissfully compliant, and headed toward the ensuite. The moment the door clicked shut and the sound of running water filled the air, Hamza’s face transformed. The lover vanished. The "good man" evaporated.

He stepped out onto the balcony, the morning wind whipping his shirt against his frame. He redialed the Minister's number.

Siddiqui answered before the first ring was done. "You animal! You absolute, soulless animal! How could you make her say those things? How could you make her think—"

Hamza lit a cigarette, leaning his elbows on the railing as he looked out over the city he was currently dismantling. He let out a slow, mocking plume of smoke.

"Make her?" Hamza chuckled, a dark, vibrating sound of pure malice. "I didn't make her say anything, Minister. That’s the beauty of it. She truly believes I’m her savior. She truly believes you’ve had a 'change of heart' and accepted our little union. She thinks we’re a romance for the ages.."

"I will kill you.." Siddiqui hissed, though there was no strength left in the threat. "I will find a way to tell her the truth. I will tell her about the photos, about the blackmail, about the recordings—"

"And she’ll hate you for it," Hamza interrupted, his voice turning ice-cold.

"Think about it, Siddiqui. To her, I am the man who worshipped her, who protected her, who 'persuaded' her father to be kind. If you tell her the truth now, you aren't saving her. You’re destroying her world. You’ll be the villain who tried to ruin her happiness with lies because you couldn't handle her choice. She’ll never look at you again without seeing a liar."

The sound of the Minister’s broken, hitching sobs came through the speaker. Hamza leaned in closer to the phone, his eyes tracking a bird circling in the distance.

"You’re going to keep playing the part..grow pair." Hamza commanded, his voice a low, lethal growl. "You’re going to be the supportive father. You’re going to keep passing those bills Rehman wants. Because the moment you slip, the moment you make her doubt me... I’ll stop being the 'romantic' she loves, and I’ll become the monster you fear.

He flicked the cigarette butt over the railing, watching it fall.

"She’s mine now, Siddiqui. In her mind, in her bed, and in her soul. You’re just the man who pays the bills for the world I’ve built for her. Don't call again unless it’s to tell me the vote passed."

He ended the call and stood there for a moment, the wind cooling the heat of his rage. He took a deep breath, smoothing his expression until it was once again the mask of the man you loved.

He walked back into the bedroom just as you emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, your skin glowing and your eyes bright with hope.

"Everything okay?" you asked, tilting your head.

Hamza walked over, wrapping his arms around your damp waist and pulling you flush against him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and innocence.

"Perfect.." he murmured. "Everything is exactly as it should be."

The steam from the bathroom still clung to your skin, making you feel soft and vulnerable in the morning light.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his broad, warm chest. "You look so deep in thought.." you murmured, your voice muffled by his shirt. "Are you worried about us? Because I’m not. Not anymore."

Hamza went stiff for a fraction of a second—a hairline fracture in his composure that you were too blinded by love to notice.

"You really believe in me..don't you?" he asked. His voice was unusually thick, the gravelly edge softened by a sudden, sharp spike of guilt that felt like a physical weight in his chest.

"Of course I do..!" you said, pulling one of his hands to your lips and kissing his knuckles. "You didn't have to do any of this. You could have left me that night at the gate. You could have walked away when things got complicated with my father. But you stayed. You fought for me."

Hamza flinched inwardly. Each word of praise was like a lash across his back. He had never considered himself a "good" man, but there was something uniquely agonizing about being worshipped for a virtue he didn't possess. He had built a pedestal for himself out of lies, and now he had to watch you climb onto it with a smile on your face.

He pulled you into a hug, but it wasn't the possessive, dominant hold of the previous nights. It was desperate. He buried his face in your hair, his fingers trembling just enough to be felt.

"I’m not a hero, jaan.." he whispered into your ear. "Don't make me into something I’m not.."

"You’re my hero..!" you countered, pulling back to look him in the eye. You reached up, cupping his face, your thumbs tracing the hard line of his jaw. "I know you’ve done things you aren't proud of. I know your world is dark. But with me... you’re different. I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. You have a good heart, Hamza Ali Mazari. Even if you’re trying your best to hide it."

A wave of genuine self-loathing crashed over him.

He thought of the recording he’d played for your father—the sounds of your intimacy twisted into a weapon of terror. He thought of the photo of you sleeping, used as a bargaining chip for political votes. He looked at your bright, hopeful eyes and felt like a man who had stolen a diamond only to realize he had no place to keep it that wasn't covered in filth.

For the first time in the entire mission, Hamza felt the urge to tell you everything. To fall to his knees, confess the blackmail, that he uses you, that hes a spy, that Hamza isn't even his name, and let you decide his fate.

But he knew the moment he spoke the truth, the light in your eyes would go out forever. You wouldn't just leave him; you would break. And he realized, with a terrifying clarity, that he would rather live as a monster in your heart than a memory in your hate.

"I don't deserve you.." he managed to say, the honesty of it bleeding through his mask.

"Well, you have me.." you whispered, leaning in to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. "So you’d better get used to it Jaan~"

You spent the next hour in a bubble of domesticity that felt like a dream. You insisted on making him tea, humming a song your mother used to sing, while he sat at the small kitchen table watching you. Every time you turned around and caught his eye, you gave him a small, conspiratorial smile, as if the two of you were the only people left on earth.

You brought the mugs over and sat on his lap, your legs draped over his thighs. You began to talk about the future—the things you wanted to show him, the trips you’d take when "everything settled down."

"I want to see the mountains with you..!" you said, resting your head on his shoulder. "Somewhere cold, where we can just stay inside and never look at a phone again."

Hamza took a sip of the tea, but it tasted like ash. He held you tighter, his hand stroking your back in that rhythmic, calming way you loved. He was a man trapped in his own trap. He had won the political war, but he had lost the ability to look at himself in the mirror without seeing the man who had tricked his queen into a cage.

"The mountains, mhm?~" he repeated, his voice hollow. "Yeah. I’d like that."

He realized then that he could never let you go. Not because of Rehman, and not because of the mission. He could never let you go because if you ever walked back into the real world, the lie would shatter, and he would lose the only thing that made him feel human. He was a King who had built his palace on a foundation of glass, and as he held you, listening to your dreams for a future that was built on a lie, he knew he would spend the rest of his life making sure the glass never broke.

"I love you, Hamza.." you whispered, your voice full of a pure, unadulterated devotion.

He didn't say it back. He couldn't. Instead, he leaned down and kissed you with a sudden, fierce intensity—a kiss that was meant to silence the truth, to drown out the guilt, and to keep you exactly where you were: safe, happy, and utterly his.

The house had begun to feel less like a temporary refuge and more like the center of the universe. Over the last week, the jagged edges of the outside world had been sanded down by the domestic rhythms you and Hamza had carved out together. The initial tremors of fear and the high-voltage shock of the ultimatum had settled into a steady, warm hum of shared meals, long silences filled with comfortable weight, and the intoxicating sensation of belonging to someone who looked at you like you were the only living thing in a desert.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of sluggish, golden-hued time where the sun stretched lazily across the hardwood floors. You were tucked into the corner of the sofa, your back pressed against Hamza’s broad chest. His legs were spread, framing yours, and his arms were a heavy, protective mantle around your waist. The television was on—some mindless documentary about the migratory patterns of birds—but neither of you was truly watching.

Hamza’s chin rested on the crown of your head. Every few minutes, he would press a slow, lingering kiss to your hair, his breath hitching slightly as he inhaled your scent. To you, it felt like the ultimate sanctuary. You felt cherished, shielded from the political storms and the suffocating expectations of your former life. You didn't see the way his eyes occasionally flickered toward the door, or the way his jaw tightened whenever a car passed by on the street outside. You only felt the steady thrum of his heart against your spine.

"Hamza?~" you whispered, tilting your head back to look at him.

"Hmm?" he hummed, his hand idly tracing patterns on your forearm, his thumb grazing the soft skin of your wrist.

"I was thinking... about what you said. About how my father is starting to accept us.." You bit your lip, a spark of hope lighting up your eyes. "I don't want to hide anymore. I don't want us to be a secret that lives in the dark. I want him to see us—the real us. Not the version he has in his head, but the way you look at me. The way you take care of me..!"

Hamza went still. The rhythmic motion of his thumb stopped. For a second, the only sound was the muffled narration of the TV. The guilt he had been suppressing for days flared up like a raw nerve. He had spent the last week systematically dismantling your father’s life, using your absence as a garrote to force the Minister into total political submission. The idea of your father coming here—to the very place where you were being held under a magnificent delusion—was a tactical nightmare.

But then, he looked at your face. You looked so radiant, so convinced that love could bridge the chasm between a street-bred soldier and a Minister of State.

He realized that to keep the lie alive, he had to escalate it. If he refused to let you see your father, the Home he made for you would start to feel like a prison.

The suspicion would begin to grow. He had to be the hero of this story, the one who invited the enemy into his home to prove his devotion.

"You're right..!" Hamza said, his voice dropping into a low, resolute register. He shifted, turning you in his arms so he could look you directly in the eye. He cupped your face, his palms warm and slightly rough. "I'm tired of the shadows, jaan.. I'm tired of feeling like I’ve stolen you. I want to stand in front of him, in the light, and tell him that I’m not going anywhere. I want him to see that you aren't a hostage to my world—you’re the queen of it."

Your heart soared. You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. "I knew you’d say that. I knew you were brave enough..!"

Hamza closed his eyes, his expression twisting into a mask of sharp, internal agony that you couldn't see. He wasn't brave..he was a shark circling a sinking ship. But he played the part to perfection.

"Call him.." Hamza urged, pulling back and reaching for the phone on the coffee table. He handed it to you, his gaze steady and encouraging. "Invite him for tea tomorrow morning. Tell him we’ll be waiting. Tell him it’s time we sat at the same table."

Your hands trembled with excitement as you took the phone. You hit the speed dial for your father, your breath coming in short, happy gasps.

Across the city, in a darkened office where the air smelled of stale coffee and desperation, Minister Siddiqui lunged for his phone the moment it vibrated. He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and his prestigious suit was rumpled. He lived for these calls—the only proof that his daughter was still breathing.

"Baba?" you said, your voice ringing with a clarity and joy that sounded like a physical blow to the man on the other end.

"Jewel? Is everything... did he hurt you? Why are you calling at this hour?" Siddiqui’s voice was a frantic whisper, his eyes darting toward the door of his office as if the walls themselves were listening.

"No, Baba! Everything is wonderful.." you said, glancing at Hamza, who was watching you with a calm, supportive smile, his arm draped over the back of the sofa. "I have the best news. Hamza and I... we talked. And he wants you to come over. He wants us to be a family. He said he doesn't want to hide anymore."

There was a silence on the other end so profound it felt like the line had gone dead. To you, it seemed like your father was stunned by the sudden olive branch. In reality, the Minister was paralyzed by terror.

He knew Hamza. He knew that an invitation to the safe house wasn't a gesture of peace—it was a summons. It was a move to show the Minister exactly how much control Hamza had over his daughter’s heart and mind.

"He... he wants me to come there?" Siddiqui stammered, his voice cracking.

"Tomorrow morning..for tea..!" you said, leaning into Hamza’s side. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a gesture of such casual intimacy that it made you glow.

"Please, Baba. Do this for me. I want you to see how happy I am. I want you to see that he’s a good man. If you just talk to him, without all the politics and the anger, I know you’ll see what I see."

Hamza leaned in closer, his lips near the receiver, his voice loud enough for your father to hear but soft enough to sound like an endearment to you. "We’ll have everything ready for you, Minister. I think it's time we cleared the air, don't you?"

The double meaning was a jagged blade. Clear the air. It meant reiterate the terms of your surrender. It meant watch me hold your daughter while you smile and thank me for it.

You could hear your father’s heavy, labored breathing. You imagined him sitting in his grand office, perhaps moved to tears by the chance to reconcile.

"I'll be there." the Minister finally whispered, his voice sounding hollowed out, like an old tree struck by lightning. "Tomorrow morning. Send the address... I'll come alone. Just... let me see her. Let me see my girl."

"I'll send it right now! Oh, Baba, thank you. I love you so much!" you cried, your eyes brimming with happy tears.

"I love you, jewel. More than you could ever know."

You ended the call and practically vibrated with relief, tossing the phone aside and throwing yourself into Hamza’s lap. You showered his face with kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw through his beard. "You did it! You actually did it. He’s coming. Everything is going to be perfect now, isn't it?"

Hamza caught your wrists, holding you still for a moment. He looked at you with a gaze that was so heavy with unspoken things it made your breath catch.

He saw the pure, unadulterated love in your eyes, and for a split second, the monster in him wanted to scream the truth just to end the charade. But then he remembered the stakes. He remembered Rehman, the mission, and the fact that he had already gone too far to ever turn back.

"Yes, jaan.." he murmured, pulling you down for a kiss that tasted of iron and honey. "Tomorrow, everything changes. I’m going to make sure he understands exactly where you belong."

You snuggled into his chest, closing your eyes and dreaming of a peaceful morning tea, of handshakes and forgiveness.

"Tomorrow morning.." Hamza whispered into the silence, his voice a chilling promise. "It's all going to be settled."

You drifted off into a light, happy sleep, cradled by the man you trusted above all others, while the Minister sat in his office and began to write a letter he knew he might never get to deliver. The stage was set for a tea party that would either cement a dynasty or finalize a destruction, and as the moon rose over the safe house, the only person in the world who felt truly safe was the girl who didn't know she was the prize in a game of blood.

The air in the living room of the house had thickened, turning into something heavy and pressurized, like the atmosphere before a catastrophic storm. The morning sun, which had felt so hopeful through the bedroom windows, now seemed to expose every jagged edge of the reality you had been living in.

In the center of the room, the small, polished wooden table served as the border between two warring worlds.

On one side sat your father, Minister Siddiqui. He looked diminished, a man whose expensive, tailored wool suit now seemed two sizes too large for his sagging frame. He was a man of the city, of marble halls and air-conditioned offices, and his soft, slightly chubby features were pale and mapped with the exhaustion of a thousand sleepless hours. His hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists on the tabletop, trembling with a mixture of suppressed rage and an all-consuming, visceral terror. Every time he looked at you, his eyes brimmed with a desperate, watery light, but the moment his gaze shifted to the man sitting across from him, that light flickered out into a cold, hollow dread.

On the other side sat Hamza.

He didn't look like the man who had whispered poetry into your ear an hour ago. He looked like a mountain of dark, tectonic energy. He was sitting with his legs spread wide, his heavy boots planted firmly on the floor, claiming every inch of the space as his own. He was a massive, daunting presence; his shoulders were so broad they seemed to swallow the light behind him, his chest and arms thick with the kind of functional, dense muscle that came from a lifetime of violence rather than a gym.

His long, dark locks were pulled back, but a few stray strands framed his face, drawing attention to the sharp, predatory lines of his jaw and the dense, well-kept thicket of his full beard. To the world, he was a warlord in civilian clothes. To your father, he was the devil himself.

Hamza leaned back, his posture one of supreme, terrifying confidence. Between his fingers, he held a lit cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around his head like a crown of grey mist. He didn't look at the tea that had been meticulously prepared; he only looked at your father. His stare was unblinking, a cold, amber-eyed glare that seemed to strip the Minister of his title, his power, and his dignity.

The silence was a physical weight. Your father’s fists were vibrating against the wood, the only sound in the room being the faint, rhythmic ticking of a clock and the slow, deliberate exhale of smoke from Hamza’s lungs.

You stood by the side of the table, your hands clasped nervously in front of you. You could feel the heat radiating off Hamza—a raw, masculine intensity that usually made you feel safe, but today, in the presence of your father’s trembling form, it felt like standing next to an open furnace. You wanted to speak, to bridge the gap, to tell your father that Hamza was kind, that he was the man who held you when you cried. But the words died in your throat. The tension was too thick to pierce.

Hamza finally moved. It was a slow, deliberate shift of his weight that made the leather of his chair groan. He didn't look at your father as he spoke; he turned his head toward you, and in an instant, the predatory mask shattered.

The ice in his eyes melted into a warm, honeyed glow. He reached out, his large, calloused hand covering yours where it rested on the table. His touch was incredibly light, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the sheer bulk of his frame. A small, tender smile played at the corners of his mouth, hidden slightly by his beard, but visible in the way his expression softened just for you.

"Jaan.." he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, intimate cadence that always made your heart skip. "Why don't you go into the kitchen and check on the sweets? Your father and I have a few things to discuss. Just some... men talk. Private matters."

You looked from Hamza’s gentle face to your father’s terrified one. "Are you sure? I wanted to tell him about the—"

"Later." Hamza promised, his thumb grazing the back of your hand in a slow, rhythmic circle. He looked at you with such feigned sweetness, such a convincing display of a man simply wanting to bond with his father-in-law, that you felt a wave of relief. "Go on. Give us five minutes. I want to make sure the Minister understands exactly how much you mean to me..~"

You smiled, the tension in your shoulders finally breaking. "Okay..! Don't be too hard on him, Hamza. He’s had a long week..!"

"I’ll be a perfect gentleman." Hamza lied, his smile widening just enough to show a hint of teeth.

You leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Hamza’s cheek, noticing the faint scent of tobacco and sandalwood that clung to him. You waved a small, encouraging hand at your father, who looked like he was watching his daughter walk toward a cliff.

"I’ll be right back, Baba!" you said.

The moment you turned your back and walked toward the kitchen, the warmth in the room vanished as if a door had been slammed shut.

Hamza didn't move until the kitchen door clicked shut behind you. Then, the smile died.

He leaned forward, his massive chest looming over the table, bringing his face inches away from your father’s. He took a long, final drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke directly into the Minister’s face. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

He simply stared.

The silence returned, but this time, it was lethal. Hamza’s eyes were like flint, hard and unyielding, watching the way the Minister’s fists shook, watching the way a single bead of sweat rolled down the older man’s temple. Hamza looked like a wolf deciding where to bite, his presence so authoritative and dangerous that the air itself seemed to vibrate with the threat of what he could do.

Your father sat frozen, his breath hitching in his chest, his eyes locked on the mountain of muscle and hair across from him. He wanted to scream for you to come back, to tell you the truth, but his throat was paralyzed.

They sat there, two men at a table, a king and a captive, caught in a glare that held the weight of a thousand secrets and a single, devastating truth: you were gone, and the man holding you was never, ever going to let you go.

The kitchen door was closed. You were out of sight. And for the first time since the tea had been poured, the real conversation began without a single word being spoken.

The kitchen door clicked shut, the soft latch sounding like the dropping of a guillotine blade in the sudden, suffocating silence of the living room.

Hamza didn’t move for a long moment. He simply sat there, a massive, immovable wall of muscle and shadow, letting the smoke from his cigarette drift across the table to sting the Minister’s watering eyes. The tender, romantic mask he had worn for you didn’t just slip—it disintegrated, revealing the cold, jagged flint of the man beneath.

He leaned forward, his elbows hitting the wood with a heavy thud that made the teacups rattle. His physical presence was overwhelming; next to the Minister’s soft, aging frame, Hamza looked like a prehistoric predator carved from granite. His long, dark hair caught the light, and his beard moved slightly as he bared his teeth in a slow, mirthless grin.

"You look like you’re having a heart attack, Siddiqui.." Hamza rasped, his voice a low, lethal vibration that seemed to crawl up the Minister’s spine. "Breathe. You wouldn’t want your precious jewel to come back in here and find you slumped over the biscuits, would you?"

The Minister’s knuckles were white, his fists shaking so violently the table began to hum. "You... you filth.." he hissed, his voice cracking with a decade of suppressed rage. "What have you done to her? She sounds like a stranger. She looks at you like you’re a god..!"

Hamza let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, flicking his ash onto the floor without breaking eye contact. "She’s a fast learner. I’ll give her that. I have to admit, I was shocked at first—shocked to see just how many manners I had to beat into her soul. You raised a spoiled brat, Minister. A girl who thought the world owed her a smile because of her father’s name."

He leaned in closer, his face inches from the older man’s, the scent of tobacco and cold steel filling the gap between them. "But look at her now. Well-behaved. Attentive. I’ve refined her, Siddiqui. I’ve stripped away the Minister’s daughter and left only what belongs to me."

"I’ll kill you..!" the Minister whispered, the words sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "I’ll have the ISI tear this house apart! I’ll see you flayed..!"

Hamza didn't even flinch. He just stared, his amber eyes cold and unblinking. "With what hands? The ones currently signing Rehman’s legislation? The ones that just handed over the swing votes for the next decade? You’re a neutered dog, and we both know it."

He reached out, his massive hand slowly closing around the neck of the teapot, his grip tight enough that the ceramic groaned. "And even if you could kill me... what then? Do you think she’d thank you? Do you think she’d run back to your marble halls and play the dutiful daughter again?"

Hamza leaned back, a cruel, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. "She’s mine now. Completely. Body, mind, and every pathetic little dream she has. If you took her from me today, she’d go crazy within a week. She’d spend every night screaming for the man who 'saved' her from the cold world. She’d look at you and see a murderer, a liar who stole her happiness. I’ve woven myself into her very blood, Siddiqui. You can't excise me without killing the girl you love."

The Minister let out a broken, strangled sob, his head bowing for a second. The weight of the psychological cage Hamza had built around you was more terrifying than any physical bars.

"Why?" Siddiqui gasped. "Why do this to her?"

"Because she was the only currency you cared about.." Hamza replied, his voice turning clinical. "And because, frankly, I enjoy the work. There is a certain... satisfaction in taking something so 'pure' and making it recognize its master."

He took one last, long drag of his cigarette and crushed the butt into the center of a delicate porcelain saucer, a deliberate act of desecration. Then, his expression shifted. The raw malice smoothed out into a terrifying, professional calm.

"But let's talk business. You’ve been a good boy, Minister. I watched the news. Your speech was moving. The way you choked up when you pledged your loyalty to Rehman... that was a nice touch. It sold the lie beautifully."

Hamza reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted drive, sliding it across the table until it tapped against the Minister’s clenched fist.

"You did what I wanted. You broke the deadlock. You gave Rehman the keys to the kingdom. And because I’m a man of my word, it’s time I paid you back."

The Minister looked at the drive as if it were a venomous snake. "What is this?"

"The photos." Hamza said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The recordings. The 'evidence' of her stay here. It’s all on there. The only copies. Consider it a bonus for your cooperation. As long as you stay on the leash, as long as you keep voting the way you’re told, those images never see the light of day. Your reputation stays intact. Your daughter stays 'safe' with the man she loves."

Hamza stood up then, his massive frame towering over the table, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the entire room. He adjusted his shirt, his muscular arms rippling beneath the fabric, his presence so authoritative it felt like the walls were closing in on your father.

"Don't look so miserable, Siddiqui.." Hamza mocked, his hand coming down to rest heavily on the Minister’s shoulder, a grip that felt like a brand. "You should be happy. You’re going to be the father of the bride to the most powerful man in the shadows. You’ve secured your legacy. All it cost was a little piece of your soul."

The Minister looked up at him, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. "You aren't a man. You're a curse."

"I'm the future." Hamza corrected, his eyes flickering toward the kitchen door.

He heard the sound of the latch turning. In a heartbeat, his posture softened. The predatory tension vanished. The hand on the Minister’s shoulder became a friendly, supportive pat. A warm, tender smile spread across his face, hiding the monster behind a mask of perfect, domestic bliss.

"And here she is..!" Hamza said, his voice turning into silk. "Right on time.."

The door opened, and you stepped back into the room, carrying a tray of steaming sweets, your face bright with hope, completely unaware that in the fifteen minutes you were gone, the two men you loved most had just finished signing the warrant for your father's soul.

The air in the room was still thick, but to your eyes, it was merely the lingering haze of Hamza’s cigarette smoke. You stepped fully into the living room, the silver tray in your hands rattling slightly with the vibration of your own excitement. Your gaze darted between the two men—the two pillars of your life—searching for a sign that the bridge had finally been built.

Your father looked as though he had aged a decade in the five minutes you were in the kitchen. He sat slumped, his face a ghostly, waxen pale, his hands still anchored to the table as if he were trying to keep the floor from slipping out from under him. But Hamza... Hamza looked radiant.

The moment he saw you, he stood up. His massive, muscular frame seemed to expand, filling the room with an effortless, dominant grace. He didn't look like a man who had just spent the last minutes mentally flaying a Minister; he looked like a man who had just conquered his greatest challenge for the sake of love.

"What were you two talking about?" you asked, your voice breathless, your heart hammering a frantic, hopeful rhythm against your ribs. "It was so quiet in here. I thought... I was worried you were fighting."

Hamza didn't answer with words at first. He crossed the small distance between you in two long, predatory strides, his heavy boots thudding softly on the rug. He reached out, his large, calloused hands taking the tray from you and setting it down on a nearby sideboard without ever taking his eyes off yours. Then, he wrapped his arm around your waist, hauling you flush against the hard, unyielding heat of his chest.

The contrast was staggering—his sheer bulk, the rough texture of his beard, and the scent of tobacco and spice against your softness. He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with a feigned, liquid tenderness that made your knees weak.

"Fighting?" Hamza repeated, his voice dropping into that low, intimate baritone that always felt like a caress. He smiled, and for the first time, he let the smile reach his eyes—a masterclass in deception. "No, jaan. We weren't fighting. We were discussing the future."

You looked toward your father, your brow furrowing at his silence. "Baba?"

Hamza’s grip on your waist tightened just a fraction—a silent command to stay focused on him. He nudged your chin up with his thumb, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I didn't want to wait any longer, hmm?~" Hamza whispered, loud enough for your father to hear every word, every twist of the knife. "I told the Minister that life is too short for shadows and secrets. I told him that I’ve never seen anything as precious as you, and that I have no intention of ever letting you go."

Your breath hitched. "Hamza..."

"I asked for your hand..~" he said, the lie rolling off his tongue with the smooth, polished ease of a prayer. "I told him that I would spend every breath I have making sure you are the happiest woman in this country. I told him I would protect you with my life, and that I wanted his blessing to make you mine... legally, and forever."

The world seemed to stop spinning. The room, the safe house, the political turmoil—it all vanished, leaving only the heat of Hamza’s body and the impossible weight of his words. You felt a tear prick at the corner of your eye, a sob of pure, unadulterated joy catching in your throat.

"And?" you whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer. "What did he say?"

Hamza turned his head slightly, his green eyes locking onto your father’s shattered expression. There was a challenge in that look, a cold, lethal reminder of the encrypted drive sitting on the table and the votes that had already been bought in blood.

"Tell her, Minister." Hamza prompted, his voice silken and dangerous. "Tell her what we decided.."

Your father looked up. His mouth moved, but no sound came out at first. He looked at you—his only child, his "jewel"—and he saw the way you were looking at Hamza. He saw the adoration, the absolute, shimmering trust, and the way you leaned into the monster’s touch as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. He realized, with a soul-crushing finality, that Hamza was right. If he told you the truth now, he wouldn't be saving you; he would be the villain who shattered your heart.

"I..." your father began, his voice a dry, hacking rasp. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting to the floor before forcing them back to yours. "I agreed. Hamza... he made a very compelling case. He’s shown me that he can provide the kind of... security... that I can no longer offer you."

"Baba!" You broke away from Hamza’s hold, throwing yourself at your father. You draped your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, weeping with relief. "Thank you. Thank you for trusting him. I promise, you won't regret this..! He’s so good to me. You’ll see. We’ll be so happy..!"

Over your head, your father’s eyes met Hamza’s.

Hamza was leaning against the wall now, arms crossed over his massive chest, watching the scene with the detached, satisfied air of a puppeteer watching his lead marionettes embrace. He didn't look guilty. He didn't look ashamed. He looked triumphant. He raised his hand, idly stroking his beard, his lips curling into a tiny, mocking smirk that only your father could see.

"It’s a new era, Minister.." Hamza said, his voice dripping with a cruel, understated irony. "A new family legacy. I think we should celebrate."

You pulled back from your father, wiping your eyes and laughing through your tears. You went back to Hamza, sliding your hand into his massive, scarred palm. You felt like you were floating. The man you loved and the father you adored were finally on the same side. The war was over.

"Tomorrow morning..!" you said, looking at your father. "You’ll come back for breakfast? We can start planning? There’s so much to talk about..!"

Your father stood up, his legs shaking so badly he had to catch the edge of the table. He looked at the drive Hamza had given him—the price of his daughter—and then at you.

"Tomorrow, my dear." he whispered, the word sounding like a death knell. "I’ll... I’ll be here."

"I’ll walk the Minister to his car." Hamza said, his grip on your hand firm and unyielding. "Give us just a moment to say our goodbyes, jaan. Go and pick out that tea you wanted to show him for tomorrow."

You nodded, too happy to question anything. You watched them walk toward the door—the tall, hulking shadow of Hamza and the broken, shuffling frame of your father.

As they stepped onto the porch, out of your earshot, Hamza stopped. He didn't look at the Minister. He looked at the horizon, the sun catching the sharp, beautiful angles of his face.

"Nine o'clock sharp, Siddiqui." Hamza hissed, the tenderness vanishing as if it had never existed. "Bring the signed documents for the second phase of the bill. And bring a smile. If my girl sees one tear on your face, I’ll consider the deal breached. And you know what happens to breaches of contract in my world."

The Minister didn't respond. He couldn't. He simply walked toward his car, a ghost of a man, leaving his heart behind in the hands of a predator.

Hamza watched the car pull away until it was nothing but a speck of dust in the distance. He stayed on the porch for a moment, breathing in the air of a world he now owned. He felt the weight of the lie, the sheer scale of the deception, but as he turned back toward the door, he felt no remorse. He had what he wanted.

He had the power, he had the leverage, and he had you.

He stepped back inside, and the moment the door clicked shut, he heard your voice calling him from the kitchen, bright and full of a future he had stolen for himself.

"Hamza? Which tea should we use? The jasmine or the rose?~"

He walked toward the sound of your voice, his expression softening into that perfect, beautiful mask once more.

"Whatever you want, meri jaan.." he called back, his voice echoing through the silent, gilded cage of the safe house. "Whatever you want is yours."

The sound of your father’s car fading into the distance was the final note in a symphony of deception, leaving a silence in the house that felt heavy, charged, and thick with the scent of spent adrenaline. You didn’t wait for Hamza to come back into the room; you met him at the door, flinging yourself into his arms with a force that would have knocked a lesser man off his feet.

"You did it...!" you sobbed against his chest, your fingers digging into the hard, thick muscle of his shoulders. "Hamza, you actually did it. He’s okay with us..! I can breathe again!"

Hamza’s arms came around you, his large hands splaying across your back, pulling you so tightly against him that your heartbeats felt like a single, frantic rhythm.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his beard grazing your skin, and let out a long, shuddering breath. To you, it felt like the relief of a man who had fought for his woman and won. To him, it was the sound of a man drowning in his own success.

"I told you, jaan hmm.." he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in his chest. "I told you I wouldn't let the world take you from me.."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face flushed and your eyes shimmering with a blind, terrifyingly pure devotion. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp, rugged lines of his cheekbones. You looked at him as if he were a saint, a savior, the only truth in a world of shadows.

"I love you so much." you whispered, the words trembling with the weight of your surrender. "I would go anywhere with you. I would leave everything behind if I had to. As long as I’m with you, I’m home."

Hamza flinched. It was a microscopic movement, a tightening of the muscles around his eyes, but inside, he felt as if he were being carved open. He looked at your lips, at the way you looked at him with such absolute, guileless trust, and he felt a wave of visceral horror at what he was doing.

He was using your heart as a ladder. He was climbing to the top of Rehman’s empire on the broken back of your father’s dignity, and he was using your love as the grease for the gears..

But he couldn't stop. The ambition was a sickness in his marrow, and the need to be more than a ghost in the streets was stronger than his conscience. He needed the Minister’s support to reach the heights he craved, and you were the only key to that kingdom..

“Meri jaan, tum nahi janti tum mere liye kya ho..” he whispered, his voice thick and broken with a genuine, agonizing Need.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes closing tight. He felt small in the face of your love, a beggar draped in the robes of a king. He began to kiss your face—your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose—with a frantic, needy desperation. He wasn't the dominant man from minutes ago now; he was a man begging for absolution from a goddess who didn't even know he had sinned..

"Don't ever look at me differently.." he rasped, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his fingers digging into your hips. "No matter what happens, promise me you’ll stay right here. Promise me you’re mine.."

"I'm yours," you breathed, caught in the intoxicating whirlwind of his intensity. "Always. Hamesha."

The devotion in your voice was his undoing. He felt a sharp, stinging heat behind his eyes.

He loved you—God, he loved you with a ferocity that scared him—but it was a dark, poisonous love that required your total ignorance to survive. He was a man who had stolen a star from the sky and was now terrified of the dawn.

He needed to get away from the living room, away from the table where the ghost of your father still sat. He needed to be somewhere where the world couldn't reach them, where the lie felt like the only truth.

"Come with me.." he whispered.

Without waiting for an answer, he hooked his arms under your knees and back, scooping you up into his massive chest as if you weighed nothing at all. You let out a small, surprised gasp, winding your arms around his thick neck, your face pressed into the warm hollow of his throat. He carried you up the stairs, his boots thudding rhythmically on the wood, his breathing heavy and purposeful.

He didn't stop at the bedroom. He continued up the narrow spiral staircase that led to the flat roof of thehouse—a place you had spent the last few afternoons transforming into a secret garden of comfort.

The roof was bathed in the soft, hazy light of the late morning. You had dragged up dozens of plush pillows, heavy wool blankets, and silk cushions, creating a sprawling, cuddly nest in the center of the terrace, shielded from the wind by the high brick parapets.

Hamza stepped onto the roof and walked toward the center of the blankets. He lowered you down with agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. He settled you onto the pile of cushions, and then he followed you down, his large frame looming over you, casting a shadow that felt like a sanctuary.

The air up here was fresh, carrying the scent of rain and the distant, muffled hum of the city that was currently bowing to his will. But here, on the roof, there was only the two of you.

“Tum bohat khoobsurat ho..” he murmured, his hand reaching out to stroke your cheek, his thumb grazing your lower lip.

He began to touch you then, his movements slow and reverent, his large, scarred hands moving with a gentleness that seemed impossible for a man of his size. He traced the line of your collarbone, his fingers feather-light against your skin, as if he were afraid you might shatter if he pressed too hard.

He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was deep, slow, and tasted of a desperate, silent apology. He wasn't just kissing you; he was worshiping you. He was trying to pour all the love he felt—and all the guilt he couldn't speak—into the touch of his skin against yours.

His hand slid down, his palm flat against your stomach, feeling the way you arched toward him, the way your body hummed in response to his presence. He moved his hand lower, his touch becoming more possessive, more demanding, even as his eyes remained soft and wet with a strange, haunting devotion.

"You're my peace.." he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and ragged. "Meri Jaan.. Everything I do... it’s for us. Remember that. Sirf hamare liye."

You ran your hands through his long, dark locks, pulling him closer, your heart overflowing with a love so blind it didn't see the wolf in the fold. You were happy. You were safe. You were exactly where he wanted you to be.

And as Hamza began to undress you under the open sky, his hands trembling with a need that was as much about survival as it was about desire, he finally managed to quiet the voice in his head. For now, there was no Minister, no Rehman, and no lies. There was only the heat of the sun, the softness of the blankets, and the girl who loved him enough to let him destroy the world for her..

The heat radiating between you and Hamza was a physical, pulsing thing. He knelt over you, a massive silhouette against the pale blue sky, his shadows stretching long and dark across the nest you had built.

He didn't move quickly. His movements were weighted with a thick, agonizing deliberation, as if he were savoring the final collapse of the walls between you. He reached out, his large hands trembling—a sight that made your heart swell with a dangerous, blind love. This was the man the world feared, the man who had stood like a titan against your father, and yet here, his fingers were shaking because of you.

He reached for the tie of your hair, his fingers nimble despite their size. With a single, sharp tug, he released the weight of your tresses. Your hair spilled across the pale cushions like a dark, silken river, and Hamza let out a low, guttural groan at the sight. He buried his hands into the thick mass of it, tilting your head back, his eyes wandering over your face with a hunger that was almost frightening.

He leaned down, but he didn't kiss you yet. He took the hem of his thumb and pressed it to the corner of your mouth. With a slow, firm stroke, he smeared the crimson lipstick across your cheek, erasing the last vestige of the "Minister’s daughter" who had walked into the room for tea. He rubbed the color away until your lips were bare and bruised-pink, reclaimed by him, stained only by his touch.

"I don't want anything on you that I didn't put there.." he growled, his voice a vibration that you felt in your very marrow.

Then, his hands moved to the collar of your kameez. The delicate silk felt like nothing against his calloused palms. He began to undo the buttons, one by one, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. Each click of a button felt like a heartbeat. When the fabric finally fell open, revealing the curve of your shoulders and the rise of your chest, Hamza stopped. He simply stared, his breathing becoming a ragged, uneven staccato.

He leaned in, he whispered, his voice cracking. “Kitni naram ho tum...”

He lowered his head more, his long, dark locks brushing against your skin as he began his worship. He started at your eyes, pressing the softest, most reverent kisses to your fluttering lids, as if thanking them for seeing him as a hero. He moved to your temples, then down the bridge of your nose, before finally claiming your mouth.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of smoke, of desperation, and of a man who was trying to drown his soul in the only pure thing he had left.

He groaned into your mouth, a deep, visceral sound that came from the pit of his stomach, his tongue seeking yours with a needy, frantic hunger. You arched into him, your hands clawing at the thick, corded muscles of his back, surrendering every thought, every loyalty, every shred of your identity to the heat of his touch.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jawline to the sensitive hollow beneath your ear. He bit softly at the curve of your neck, his beard a delicious, rough friction against your skin.

"Tell me.." he demanded, his voice a jagged rasp against your pulse point. "Tell me you're mine.. Tell me you don't want anyone else."

"Only you.." you gasped, your head tossing back against the pillows, your body a live wire of sensation. "Always you, Hamza. Sirf tum."

He let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, and moved lower. He kissed the slope of your chest, his mouth hot and demanding. He seemed obsessed with the contrast of your textures—your silk-soft skin of your tits against his rough, scarred palms; your fragile frame pinned beneath his massive, muscular bulk. He moved to your stomach, his kisses becoming more frantic, his hands sliding beneath you to lift you closer to his mouth, then pulled down your remaining clothes, the pants of your two piece suit as well as your silky, white lace panties.

He worshipped the curve of your waist, his teeth grazing your hip bone, making you cry out into the open sky..

Hamza hovered over you, his massive frame trembling with a restrained, feral energy. His long, dark hair fell around his face in tangled waves, casting flickering shadows over your flushed skin as he looked down at you.

He looked starved. Not for food, or for the power he had spent the morning brokering, but for the very essence of you. His green eyes were dark, dilated until the gold was almost swallowed by the black, reflecting a devotion so intense it bordered on madness.

He moved with an agonizing slowness, his large, scarred hands sliding down from your waist to your thighs. He didn't just touch you; he claimed you, his fingers digging into your soft skin with a possessive strength that made you gasp. He began to part your legs, his movements reverent yet unyielding, creating a space for himself between your thighs.

When he finally lowered himself, settling his heavy weight between your knees, the world outside the parapet walls ceased to exist. There was no city, no Minister, no lies—only the heat of his breath against your inner thigh.

It started as a kiss. A slow, lingering press of his lips against the sensitive skin of your knee, then another an inch higher, and another. He was taking his time, savoring the scent of your skin, his beard a rough, delicious friction that made your breath hitch in your throat. He groaned into your skin, a low, vibrating sound of pure hunger that you felt deep in your bones and your exposed pussy.

"Hamza... please.." you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his thick hair, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once.

He didn't listen. He was a man possessed. He moved higher, his tongue tracing the delicate blue veins of your inner thigh with a meticulous, agonizing passion. He treated your body like a holy relic he had finally been allowed to touch after a lifetime of exile.

When he finally reached your already wet pussy, the first touch of his tongue was a revelation. It wasn't a tentative stroke; it was a deep, authoritative claim. His tongue rolled over your folds, spreading them in the process.

You let out a strangled cry, your head tossing back against the pillows, your back arching off the blankets as a lightning bolt of pure sensation shattered your composure.

He was thorough. He was relentless. He started to lick up and down your glistening, wet folds with rhythmic intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He used his tongue like a velvet blade, tracing every inch, every sensitive nerve, his breathing becoming a ragged, desperate growl against your clit, He seemed to want to taste every secret you held, to absorb your very soul through the intimacy of the act.

You couldn't breathe. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he would shift his pressure, his teeth grazing your clit just enough to make you sob, his tongue flicking against the sensitive pulsing center of your pussy with a precision that made your toes curl into the plush wool of the blankets. You were drowning in him. Your hands tightened in his hair, your knuckles white, as you pulled him harder against you, needing the friction, needing the heat.

He was a man who had been starved for days, and you were the only feast that mattered. He didn't rush toward the end; he lingered in the journey, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, anchoring you to the pillows as he devoured your every moan and every gasp, he wanted to hear every sound, every broken syllable of his name that escaped your lips.

“Bolo mera naam..” he commanded, his voice a dark, vibrating hum between right against your jumping clit

"Hamza.! Hamzaaa..! Jaan!~" you sobbed, your voice breaking as the pressure built into something unbearable, it consumed you fully, the friction of his beard grazing the sensitive skin around your inner thighs and the violent desperate way he was lapping his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit and back left you breathless.

“Roo mere liye... chillao mera naam... mujhe sun-na hai ke tum meri ho! ” he roared, his voice muffled as he buried his face back into you. He groaned, a deep, primal sound of satisfaction, as he felt your body begin to tremble, the first waves of your release beginning to ripple through your muscles.

He didn't let up. He only slurped with more need, sucked with more desperation, tongue-fucked you more hungrily, his mouth wide and demanding, his tongue a constant, swirling force that drove you over the edge of paradise.

You screamed into the open sky, your body shaking with a violence that left you limp and shattered against the cushions as you came, an orgasm so intense your vision went blurry..

He stayed there for a long time, even after the echoes of your cries had faded into the wind. He pressed his face against your soft stomach, his breathing heavy and laboured, his large hands still clutching your hips as if he were afraid you might float away.

He looked up at you then, his face flushed, his lips and beard wet and his eyes shining with a terrifying, beautiful devotion. He looked like a man who had finally found what he was looking for in the wreckage of his own life.

He crawled up your body, his heavy weight a comforting pressure, and tucked his head into the crook of your neck. He was shaking. The man who had broken a Minister was trembling against your skin.

"You're mine.." he whispered, his voice a ghost of a sound. "Don't you ever leave me.."

You wrapped your arms around his massive back, pulling him into you, your heart full of a love so blind and so total that you didn't even care that he was the one who had built the cage you were now so happy to live in.

"Never," you promised. "Never..."

He didn't care about the lies anymore. He didn't care about the Minister or the mission. In this moment, on this roof, he was a man who had found his salvation in the very girl he was supposed to destroy.

He started to steal the sweetest, most agonizingly tender kisses from your lips, a gesture of pure, true, deep love, love that shouldn't be, love that he didn't deserve..

Yet..

He had won. He had the girl, he had the power, and he had the future. But as he sat there, holding the woman who loved him for a lie, a single, hot tear escaped his eye. It tracked a path through the dust and sweat on his cheek before disappearing into his beard.

“Maaf kar dena, jaan-e-man..” he whispered into the silence, so low you couldn't possibly hear it....

TO BE CONTINUED ...

"You’re chasing a ghost, Jaan.." he rasped, his knuckles bruised and trembling. "The man you love died in the blood of revenge; there is nothing left here but the wreckage."

​You stepped into his space, pressing a hand to his frantic heart. "Then let me love the wreckage.."

Ankaha.

The untold.

Three years of silence. Three years of scrubbing blood from his soul in a nameless town where the wind howls louder than his past.

Jaskirat has buried the man he used to be, trading his blades for the quiet anonymity of a nameless man with no home and no stories to tell.

He made a vow: No more violence. No more names. No more looking back.

...But vows are fragile things when a scream pierces the midnight air.

He saved your life. Now, you might be the only one who can save his soul.

Coming Soon.

The dark was never just dark. For a man like Jaskirat, the dark was a theater of ghosts, and the fever burning through his veins was the price of admission..

He layed in a comfortable bed in the quiet House, but his mind had slipped the leash of the present. It plunged backward into a red, suffocating abyss where time didn't exist—only the weight of the things he had done, the things he had seen, and the blood that refused to wash out from under his fingernails.

Suddenly, he wasn't in the clean, safe room behind the blue gate. He was standing in a derelict hut on the outskirts of a forgotten village, the air thick with the metallic stench of a slaughterhouse. His hands were dripping. His chest was covered in someone else's blood.

Jasleen..

The memory tore through his fever-addled brain like a jagged shard of glass. His youngest sister. They had taken her. They had dragged her into the dark, torn her dignity away, and locked her in a tomb of wood and mud.

In the dream, he relived the fury. It wasn't the disciplined, tactical precision of an operative; it was the raw, animalistic rage of an elder brother turned butcher.

He remembered the door splintering beneath his boot. He remembered the faces of the family that had shielded her abusers—the men, the cousins, anyone who stood between him and his blood. He had used everything. A rusted sickle he’d torn from the wall. A heavy-caliber pistol that kicked like a mule, shattering wrists and blowing holes through brick. He had hacked and fired until the walls were painted crimson, until the family that had dared to touch his blood lay in a mangled, silent heap at his feet.

And then, the quiet after the storm. He remembered dropping the gun, his knees hitting the dirt as he crawled toward the corner of the hut. There she was.

Bound. Broken. Her eyes wide with terror. He had reached out to pull her to his chest, but in the dream, her skin turned to ash, slipping through his fingers like sand.

The scenery shifted The smell of copper faded, replaced instantly by the suffocating reek of open sewers, melting asphalt, and cheap diesel.

Lyari.

His first day in the sweltering, lawless belly of Karachi. He was an Indian spy playing a part, wearing the skin of a new Man.. Hamza. He was entirely alone in a city that ate outsiders alive. The memory focused on the dusty threshold of Aalam’s shop. He had been tired, his guard lowered by the sheer exhaustion of crossing borders and changing identities.

Then came the shadows. Babu Dakait’s men.

They had smelled the foreignness on him, misinterpreting his silence for weakness. In the dream, the memory became claustrophobic. Rough hands grabbing his collar. The laughter of men who ruled the slums with iron and depravity. They had touched him, their breath foul, their fingers tearing at his pants. They didn't just want to rob him; they wanted to break him, to violate the very core of his manhood to show him who owned the streets of Lyari.

He remembered the paralyzing conflict in his own chest—the spy fighting the survivor. He had hesitated only a moment,He had been seconds away from tearing the throat out of the man closest to him with his bare teeth..but then he stopped seeing Aalam-Bhai. He was beat, men holding him down, about to pull down hos pants when the shrill, sudden wail of a police siren cut through the alley. The men had scattered like rats, leaving him gasping in the dust, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Even now, under the cool sheets of the house, his fingers twitched against the mattress, flexing as if searching for a throat to crush..

The heat of Karachi intensified, turning into the blinding white light of a celebration. A wedding. The sound of dhol drums clashing with the sudden, terrifying roar of automatic gunfire.

Naeem.

Jaskirat’s chest heaved as the fever twisted the memory into a mockery of joy. He had been given a mission: save the boy. Use the rescue of the gang lord’s son to buy his way into the inner sanctum of Rehman’s syndicate. It was supposed to be his ticket into the heart of the enemy.

But the calculations of didn't account for the chaos of that night, or Faisal, the younger son.

In the dream, the sequence played out in agonizing slow motion. He saw Naeem—a boy who was barely old enough to shave, caught in the headlights of a rival gang’s ambush, there was also the younger one, scared, alone. He tried to safe them, safe then both, and he almost succeeded..but when he went to look after Naeem once the shots fell silent, it was too late.

He had failed. The boy was dead.

The fire of the wedding morphed into a cold, suffocating silence. The air became heavy with the scent of expensive tobacco and aged leather.

Rehman.

This was the wound that ran deeper than the bullet graze on his ribs. Rehman wasn't just a target. He was a warlord, a criminal, a man who had ordered deaths with the casual nod of his head. But to Jaskirat, during those long, bleeding years in Pakistan, Rehman had been something else. He had been a mentor. A man who looked at the man that saved his son and gave him a place at his table, a strange, distorted kind of love that Jaskirat had never expected to find in the house of his enemy.

Killing him was supposed to be easy. Jaskirat had so much hate in him that he was sure he wouldn't be affected.

In the dream, he was back in these woods, beating down a man that danced at his wedding.

Jaskirat had carried a dying, bleeding Rehman to the emergency room, his finger stuck deeply into the wound on his throat to prevent him from dying before they reached the Hospital, before "Hamza" could be seen trying to save him.

The adrenaline had carried him through the act, making it clean. The 'tearful act right after was a masterpiece of emotions..

But after, the Adrenaline had stopped working.

He watched Rehman die, his face full of hate, betrayal, like it screamed at Hamza "Why you? Why you?"

The crimson stain spread slowly, Jaskirat tried to walk away, to run back toward the Indian border, but his boots were stuck in the blood flowing from Rehmans neck to his boots.

He had hated Rehman for what he was—a monster who bled his country dry, who brought the weapons to kill innocent people, a man that betrayed his own Baloch community for money and influence..

But as he stood over the corpse, the realization hit him with the force of a tidal wave: the monster had loved him. The enemy had given him a home when his own country had turned him into a weapon and thrown him away...

"Stop... please..." Jaskirat muttered, his head thrashing violently from side to side on the pillow.

The ghosts were converging now. Jasleen was crying, her hands reaching out from the ashes. Babu’s men were laughing in the dark corners of the room. Naeem was falling, over and over again, his blood splashing against the walls, And Rehman sat in his chair, bleeding quietly, staring at him with those heavy, disappointed eyes.

He was drowning in them. He wanted the darkness to win. He wanted to let go of the cot, to let the sepsis pull him down into the quiet where the ghosts couldn't reach him anymore.

But then, through the smoke of the burning village and the roar of the Lyari streets, a new sound pierced the chaos.

It wasn't a scream of terror. It wasn't a gunshot. It was a soft, steady murmur—a voice that smelled of rain and cool earth, a voice that didn't belong in Pakistan or his past.

You’re safe. Stay with me. Please, just stay.

A hand—cool, gentle, and remarkably steady—pressed against his burning forehead. The touch was a shock to his system, a thin, silver wire dropped into the depths of his hell. He reached out in his mind, his soul clawing its way toward that coolness, away from the blood of the hut and the guilt of the study.

He didn't wake up. The fever still held him fast, but the thrashing slowed. The ghosts retreated into the shadows, waiting for the night to deepen, but for now, the weapon layed still, anchored to the world of the living by nothing more than the touch of a stranger who refused to let him die.

The transition from the fire to the frost was violent.

One moment, Jaskirat was suffocating under the weight of Rehman’s blood, the screams of the Lyari slums ringing in his ears like a deafening siren. The next, the noise stopped. The crimson haze vanished, shattered by the sharp, clinical smell of rubbing alcohol and the steady, rhythmic ticking of a wall clock.

His eyes snapped open.

The light was blinding—a soft, golden morning sun filtering through sheer curtains, casting long shadows across a whitewashed ceiling he didn't recognize. Instantly, his body went into a defensive lock. Every muscle, still stiff and screaming from the fever, coiled like a spring.

Where am I? Safehouse? Safehouse in Karachi? Did the goverment find me?

Panic—cold, sharp, and rare for a man of his training—surged through his veins. He tried to sit up, but a jagged, white-hot lance of agony tore through his right ribs, dragging a harsh gasp from his throat. He looked down. His chest was wrapped in tight, professional layers of white gauze. An IV line was taped to the back of his left hand, the clear tube snaking up to a plastic bag hanging from a makeshift stand.

He wasn't in his shack. He wasn't in a cell.

His heart hammered against his ribs—a frantic, irregular beat that threatened to rip open his stitches. He frantically scanned the perimeter of the room, his eyes wild, darting toward the window, the door, calculating escape routes, looking for a weapon, looking for a threat.

"Hey... hey, stop. Please don't move."

The voice came from his left. It was the same voice from his dream—the cool, steady rain that had pulled him out of the fire.

Jaskirat whirled his head around, his jaw clenched, his hand rising instinctively to strike or defend.

You stepped backward slightly, your hands raised in a universal gesture of peace. You looked exhausted; there were dark circles under your eyes, and your hair was pulled back loosely, a few stray strands framing a face that was still holding the faint, fading yellow bruise from Tuesday night. You were holding a fresh bowl of water and a clean rag.

He froze. His hand stayed suspended in the air, his fingers trembling—not from fear, but from the absolute sheer exhaustion of a body that had just fought off a mortal poison.

He stared at you. The wild, predatory glare in his bloodshot eyes began to fracture, replaced by a slow, dawning comprehension. The memories of the alleyway, the three men, the heavy iron pipe, and the young woman who had refused to leave him behind came rushing back, filling the blanks in his fractured mind.

"The... the blue gate.." he rasped. His voice was barely a whisper, a dry, grating sound like sandpaper on stone. His throat felt like it was coated in ash.

"You're behind it." you said softly, taking a cautious step closer to the bed. "You're safe. My father... He cleaned your wound. The fever finally broke a few hours ago."

Jaskirat let his arm fall back to the mattress. The tension didn't entirely leave his body—men like him never truly unpack their bags—but the lethal edge evaporated. He slumped back against the pillows, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

"You shouldn't have brought me here.." he muttered, his eyes still closed. "I told you... to forget me."

"And I told you I don't forget my debts." you replied, your voice gaining a fraction of its usual warmth as you saw him settling. You moved to the side of the bed, dipping the rag into the cool water, wringing it out with practiced care. "You were dying in that shack. If we had waited one more day, the infection would have reached your heart. You survived a bullet just to let dirt kill you?"

He didn't answer. He kept his eyes shut, but he didn't pull away when you gently pressed the cool, damp cloth against his forehead. A long, shuddering breath escaped his lips at the contact. The contrast between his harsh, violent world and the quiet tenderness of your touch was almost too much for him to bear. It felt dangerous. It felt like something that could make a man soft, and softness in his line of work meant a shallow grave.

For several long minutes, the room was silent save for the chirping of early morning birds outside the window. You wiped the sweat from his temples, your movements slow and deliberate, giving him the space to breathe, to realize he wasn't under attack.

When he opened his eyes again, the redness had cleared a bit, revealing the deep, dark brown depth of his gaze. He looked at you with a quiet intensity that made your breath catch.

"Your family.." he started, his voice still thick. "They know about me?"

"They know you saved my life." you said simply. "My brother Rohan helped Papa carry you into the truck. My mother has been making broth for you since dawn. They don't care who you are running from. They only care that you are alive."

Jaskirat looked away, staring at the sunlight shifting across the floor.

They don't care who I am..

he thought bitterly. Because they don't know what I've done.

If they knew about the bodies in the Lyari slums, about the blood on his hands from his years in Pathankot and Pakistan, they wouldn't have let him cross their threshold. They would have locked the blue gate against him.

"You talked in your sleep.." you murmured, placing the cloth back into the bowl.

Jaskirat’s entire body went rigid again. His eyes snapped back to yours, cold and sharp. "What did I say?"

"Names.." you said gently, refusing to flinch from his glare. "You sounded... like you were in a war."

Jaskirat closed his eyes again, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the sheet. The ghosts had followed him here. They were sitting in the corners of your room, bleeding into the pristine space.

"You shouldn't ask questions about things you don't want the answers to.." he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.

"I’m not asking for the whole story." you said, stepping closer, your hand hovering over his blanketed shoulder before gently resting there. The warmth of your palm seeped through the layers, a silent anchor. "But I think... if I am going to keep a man in my home, if I am going to watch over him while he heals, I should at least know what to call him when the nightmares come back, Mhh?"

You looked at him, your eyes steady, filled with an unshakeable resolve that surprised him. You weren't a soldier, but you had a different kind of courage—the kind that stood its ground against a broken beast.

Jaskirat stared at your hand on his shoulder. For three years, the only contact he had had with another human being was the violent collision of fists, or the casual exchange of dirty rupee notes at the grain market. No one had touched him like this. No one had looked at him as if he were a man worth saving rather than a tool to be used.

The wall he had built around himself—the fortress of anonymity he had build, shaked at your kindness. He was tired. He was so incredibly tired of being a ghost.

He swallowed hard, the movement painful in his dry throat.

"Jaskirat." he whispered.

The word was small, almost lost to the breeze coming through the window, but to your ears, it sounded like thunder.

You smiled, a soft, relieved expression that made the corners of your eyes crinkle. "Jaskirat.." you repeated, testing the weight of it on your tongue.

"Don't wear it out.." he muttered, turning his head away to hide the sudden, unfamiliar tightness in his chest. "It’s a dead man’s name."

"Then we'll just have to bring him back to life." you replied quietly.

You stood up, picking up the bowl of water, but as you turned to leave the room to let him rest, you felt his gaze following you. For the first time since you had met him in the dark alley of the slums, the shadow in his eyes didn't look like death. It looked like a spark—faint, buried deep beneath the ash, but undeniably alive..

A man like Jaskirat did not know how to occupy a quiet room.

For the first forty-eight hours after his fever broke, he remained trapped in a state of hyper-vigilance that was more exhausting than the sepsis itself. Every time a door clicked, every time a crow landed heavily on the tin roof outside, his eyes would snap open, his muscles locking into a rigid, defensive stance. He was a creature of the dark, suddenly dragged into a space defined by white linen, the scent of parandhas, and the soft, domestic rhythms of a family home.

He tried to leave on the second night.

You had caught him sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet hovering over the cold stone floor, his face white with pain as he tried to detach the IV line from his hand. The gauze over his ribs was already leaking a fresh, dark circle of crimson where the stitches had strained against his stubbornness.

"Where do you think you’re going?" you had asked from the doorway, holding a tray of warm lentil broth.

He hadn't looked at you. He had kept his eyes fixed on his own hands, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle ticked. "I’ve stayed too long. A man in my position... I bring shadows with me. Your father has done his duty. Let me go."

"You can barely stand." you had said, crossing the room with a quiet, unyielding authority that surprised even yourself. You placed the tray on the side table and stood directly between him and the door. "If you walk out that gate, you’ll collapse before you hit the main road. And then my brother will have to carry you back again, and he’s already complaining about his back. Sit back up."

He had looked up then, his green eyes flashing with a spark of the old, dangerous operative—the man who had killed to survive, the man who had torn through Lyari like a gale. But you hadn't flinched. You had stayed right there, meeting his gaze until the fire in his eyes died down, replaced by that deep, heavy exhaustion you were beginning to understand.

With a low, defeated groan, he had leaned back against the pillows.

From that night onward, a silent pact was formed. Jaskirat stopped trying to run, and you became his shadow.

Because your father had the clinic to run and Rohan was busy with the grain market, the task of tending to the stranger fell entirely on your shoulders. You became the guardian of his isolation. You watched the sunrise from the chair beside his bed, and you watched the moon climb over the Aravalli hills from that very same spot.

The days fell into a quiet, repetitive rhythm.

Every morning began with the changing of his dressings. Your father would supervise the deep wound on his ribs, but the smaller injuries—the split knuckles, the dark, purple contusions across his shoulders where the iron pipe had struck, the deep, rope-burned ring around his neck—those were yours to tend.

You would sit on the edge of his cot, a bowl of antiseptic solution between you. Jaskirat would remain perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling or the distant window, refusing to look at his own battered body.

You would take his hand—the heavy, calloused hand of a soldier—and gently dab the cool cotton against his torn knuckles. The first time you did it, his fingers had twitched violently, his instinct screaming at him to pull away from the vulnerability of a soft touch. But by the fourth day, he let his hand lie limp in yours, his fingers slightly curled, trusting you with the split skin.

"You have the hands of someone who has worked the fields.." you murmured one afternoon, your thumb brushing over a thick scar near his wrist.

"I’ve worked whatever job didn't require a name." he said, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "Wood, iron, dirt. It all feels the same after a while."

"And before that?"

The room went instantly cold. Jaskirat didn't move a muscle, but the silence that stretched between you was heavy with the weight of the things he wouldn't say.

"Before that.." he said quietly, "I didn't have hands. I had weapons."

You didn't push further. You simply dipped a clean cloth into the water and wiped away the dried blood from his wrist, your touch lighter than a breath. You were learning to read his silence. A tightening of his jaw meant the pain was spiking; a sudden shift of his gaze toward the door meant he was remembering a ghost; a soft, nearly imperceptible sigh meant the medicine was finally taking hold.

Feeding him was another battle entirely.

Jaskirat ate like a man who expected his plate to be taken away at any second. He ate quickly, efficiently, and without pleasure.

"Slow down.." you scolded him on the fifth day, sitting on the chair with a bowl of your mother’s specialized vegetable khichdi. He had already finished half the bowl in three massive, mechanical bites. "Nobody is going to steal it from you. My mother made it specifically to help you regain your strength.."

Jaskirat paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He looked at the steam rising from the bowl, then at you.

"...Food was a rare luxury the last three years." he said, his voice dropping to that dry, historical tone that always made your chest tighten. "I learned to swallow before tasting..for..many reasons."

The realization of what he had endured hit you like a physical blow. You looked at his broad shoulders, now slightly hunched under the cotton shirt your brother had lent him. You thought of the sheer volume of history buried under his skin—the secret wars, the black sites, the absolute isolation of a deep-cover asset who had crossed borders and erased his own existence for a flag that had ultimately left him to rot..

You reached out, your fingers gently covering his wrist, forcing the spoon down slightly.

"You're not there anymore, Jaskirat," you said, your voice thick with an authentic, grounded warmth. "You're in my father's house. The doors are locked. Eat your food."

He stared at your hand on his wrist. His skin was dark, weathered by the sun; yours was paler, softened by ink and the pages of schoolbooks. The contrast was beautiful, a striking reminder of the two entirely different worlds that had collided.

Slowly, deliberately, Jaskirat took a smaller bite. He chewed slowly.

"It’s good.." he whispered, his eyes dropping to the bowl. "Tell your mother... thank you."

It was the first time he had expressed gratitude for anything other than the "annoying noise" of your scream. A small, triumphant smile broke across your face, and for a fleeting second, Jaskirat’s gaze caught the light in your eyes.

By the seventh day, Jaskirat was able to sit up without assistance. The angry red streaks of the sepsis had faded into a dull, brownish shadow beneath his skin, the antibiotics having successfully driven the poison back into the dark.

He spent hours just watching you.

You would bring your grading to his room, sitting in the corner by the window, the red ink scratching rhythmically against the notebook pages as you corrected the grammar of the village children. You thought he was sleeping, but every time you looked up, you would find his deep, analytical gaze fixed on you.

He was studying you the way an operative studies a target, but there was no malice in it. He was fascinated by your normalcy. He was captivated by the way you hummed under your breath when you found a particularly funny mistake in a child's essay, the way you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the way you treated the world as if it were fundamentally safe.

"Why do you stay here?" he asked suddenly, breaking a three-hour silence. The sun was setting, painting the room in deep shades of amber and violet.

You looked up from your grading, blinking. "What do you mean?"

"You are young. You have an education.." he said, gesturing vaguely toward the stack of books. "You could be in Jaipur.. Delhi. Somewhere with paved roads and libraries. Why are you teaching children in a village where the electricity cuts out three times a day?"

You smiled, leaning back in your chair. "Because someone has to teach them that there is a world beyond the dry creek, Jaskirat. If everyone who can read leaves, who stays to help the ones who can't?" You looked at him significantly. "Besides, if I were in Delhi, who would have been in that alleyway to make an annoying noise?"

A low, rumbling sound came from his chest—a sound you had never heard before. It took you a second to realize that Jaskirat was laughing. It was a rusty, unused sound, like an engine turning over after years in a garage, but it was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard.

"You are stubborn.." he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"I have to be." you replied, closing your notebook and standing up to check his IV line. "I’m dealing with a very difficult patient."

As you reached up to adjust the plastic clamp on the tube, your hip brushed against the edge of his mattress. Jaskirat didn't move away. He stayed right there, his breathing steady, his presence a warm, solid reality in the darkening room.

You lowered your hands, finding yourself inches from his face. The smell of him—antiseptic, clean cotton, and the faint, musky scent of woodsmoke—filled your senses. You looked into his eyes, and for the first time, you didn't see the soldier. You didn't see the ghost of Rehman or the pain of Jasleen.

You saw Jaskirat. A man who was slowly, agonizingly, remembering how to live...

Who knew a simple look like that could forever change your life?

The first time Jaskirat walked out of the clinic room on his own, the entire house seemed to hold its breath.

It was a Tuesday, exactly two weeks after the night your father and brother had hauled his burning, delirious body out of the abandoned brick kiln. He stood in the doorframe, his hand bracing against the chipped wood, wearing a pair of Rohan’s old linen trousers and a faded gray shirt that hung loosely over his freshly bandaged ribs. He was thinner, the severe angles of his jawline sharper than before, but the dead weight of the sickness was gone.

Your mother, who was rolling out dough for rotis in the kitchen, froze. Rohan stopped mid-sentence as he cleaned his boots on the veranda.

You were sitting at the dining table, a stack of vocabulary tests spread before you, and your heart leaped into your throat. You rose instinctively, stepping toward him, your hand extending to offer support.

Jaskirat looked at your hand, then up into your eyes. There was a faint, stubborn flicker of pride in his gaze, but it wasn't the cold, aggressive armor he had worn when he first woke up. Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head.

"I have to do it.." he said, his voice still carrying that low, gravelly weight. "If I don't walk now, the ground will forget my feet."

He took a step forward. It was a hesitant, uneven thing, his left leg dragging slightly to compensate for the sharp pull of the stitches in his side. But he didn't fall. He crossed the threshold of the clinic room and entered the main house, his eyes taking in the framed photographs of your grandparents on the walls, the colorful hand-woven rug in the sitting area, and the small brass temple tucked into the corner where a single oil lamp flickered.

Your father stepped out of his office, stethoscope draped over his shoulders, and watched the man take his fourth, agonizingly slow step. A quiet, satisfied smile touched the doctor's face.

"The architecture of a house is different from a shack, Jaskirat." your father said, his voice rich with a calm, professional warmth. "There are chairs here. Use them when your body tells you to."

Jaskirat didn't sit immediately. He walked all the way to the screen door leading to the veranda, looking out at the small courtyard where a neem tree cast dappled shadows across the packed dirt. He stood there for a long time, just breathing the air of a functional, living home. He had spent three years treating the world like a combat zone where he was an unauthorized combatant.

Over the next week, the stranger slowly, almost invisibly, became part of the geography of the house.

Jaskirat was not a man who knew how to be a conventional guest. He didn't sit on the sofa waiting to be served; he couldn't endure the sensation of being taken care of without giving something in return. Because he was still too weak to lift heavy crates at the market or return to the labor that had broken his skin, he found small, silent ways to make himself useful.

Your family, possessing the deep, intuitive emotional intelligence of people who had lived in a small community for generations, didn't question him. They simply opened the circle.

It started with your mother. She was a woman who expressed her love through the quantity of food she forced onto people's plates, but she was also fiercely protective of her kitchen. Yet, on the fourth day of his mobility, she found Jaskirat standing by the back door, silently gathering the dried red chillies that had been spread out on a jute mat to dry in the sun. His movements were steady, his scarred hands handling the spices with a strange, respectful delicacy.

Instead of shooing him away, your mother had simply handed him a wicker basket.

"If you're going to do that.." she had said, not looking at him as she stoked the chulha, "make sure you separate the stems. The stems make the powder bitter."

Jaskirat had nodded once, sat on the stone floor of the veranda, and spent three hours sorting chillies. By the end of the week, he was the one who woke up before dawn—a habit hispast would never let him break—to sweep the courtyard before your mother even set foot outside. He did it with a quiet, sweeping rhythm that became the first sound of the morning, replacing the anxious silence that used to hang over the house.

Rohan, who had been the most suspicious of the man, broke on a Thursday night. He was struggling to repair the rusted chain of the family bicycle, swearing under his breath as the grease stained his knuckles.

Jaskirat had walked out, leaning against the wooden pillar of the porch. He didn't offer advice; he simply reached down, took a small wedge of scrap wood from the woodpile, and jammed it beneath the rear tire to elevate the frame, allowing the chain to slip perfectly into the sprocket.

Rohan looked up, wiped his brow with the back of his arm, and let out a short, surprised laugh. "You've fixed things like this before."

"Worse things." Jaskirat replied quietly.

He had knelt in the dirt, his side giving a small, warning throb that he completely ignored, and held the iron steady. That night, when dinner was served, Rohan sat next to him, complaining loudly about the grain merchants but casually sliding the larger portion of the potatoes onto Jaskirat’s plate.

Through all of this, you remained his constant center. Even as he integrated into the house, his eyes always sought you out the moment you entered a room. You were the one who knew the exact depth of his nightmares; you were the one who had heard the names of the dead whispered in the dark.

He became your shadow in a different way now.

Jaskirat’s stride grew surer, the dangerous limp fading into a measured, grounded walk. He was still a man carved from granite—he still slept with his back to the wall and woke before the birds—but the permanent white-knuckle clench of his jaw had softened. He had stopped looking at your family as a logistical complication and began looking at them as people.

One night, during dinner, he even talked about himself, just a bit. Mentioning seasonings from Punjab, the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the endless fields of yellow flowers near his home.

The room had fallen into a warm, stunned silence. It was the first piece of his identity he had volunteered without being begged. You had looked at him, your heart swelling as he quietly confessed his roots. He was Punjabi. He was a Sikh. To find out that he shared the same cultural bloodline, the same ancestral rhythm as your own family, felt like a missing puzzle piece snapping into place.

After that night, the distance between you didn't disappear, but it changed. It became a respectful space rather than a defensive wall. When you walked beside him in the courtyard, his shoulder would occasionally brush yours, and instead of flinching, he would linger in the contact for just a second longer. He was accepting your attention, letting your warmth melt the edges of his frost.

The real shift happened on a Friday morning.

"We are going to the Gurudwara in the next town.." you told him, standing by his door. In your hands, you held a neatly folded, five-meter length of fine, unstitched cotton cloth. It was a deep, rich crimson—the color of a life renewed. "..I want you to come with us."

Jaskirat stared at the fabric. His eyes went remarkably dark, a profound, heavy emotion passing over his features that he quickly tried to swallow down. He hadn't worn a Dastar since he returned to India.. not in three years. To wear it meant to stand tall. To wear it meant to reclaim the honor he thought he had drowned in the blood of his revenge..

"I am not fit for a house of prayer.." he whispered, his voice trembling a fraction. "My hands..."

"Your hands saved me." you interrupted firmly, stepping into his space and placing the cloth into his palms. His fingers closed around it instinctively. "Your hands are healing. Let the past stay in the dirt, Jaskirat. Come with us."

He looked at you for a long, agonizing moment. Then, with a slow nod, he took the fabric.

An hour later, he stepped out onto the veranda. Your breath caught in your throat. He stood tall, his broad shoulders squared, his posture commanding and regal. The crimson dastar was tied with a flawless, practiced precision, crowning his sharp features and dark beard. He no longer looked like a broken ghost hiding in a shack.

Your father looked at him and simply nodded in deep, silent respect. Your mother wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. As you walked down the dusty path toward the main road, Jaskirat walked close to your side. For the first time, he didn't look back at the perimeter. He looked ahead, his hand occasionally brushing against your sleeve, tethered to the present.

For a few beautiful hours, the ghost was at peace.

When you returned and you sat on the veranda in the late afternoons to grade papers, he sat down on the lowest step, a small piece of sandstone in his hand, using it to sharpen your father’s old garden shears. He didn't speak , but the steady, scraping sound of the stone against metal became a comfort to you. It was the sound of a warrior repurposing his skills for peace.

"You're doing that thing again.. " you said, looking up from an essay.

Jaskirat paused, the sandstone hovering over the metal blade. "What thing?"

"The scanning.." you said, pointing your red pen at him. "Every three minutes, your eyes go to the main road, then to the side gate, then to the roof line of the neighbors. We've lived here twenty years, Jaskirat. The only thing that comes down that road at this hour is the milkman's goat...you were much more relaxed during prayer."

The corners of his beard twitched in that faint, elusive ghost of a smile you had come to look for. "Old habits. If you don't look at the perimeter, the perimeter changes without you."

"The perimeter is safe." you said softly, leaning your chin on your palm. "My father is inside reading his journals. My mother is making tea. You can lower your guard. Just for an hour."

Jaskirat looked out toward the blue gate. The sun was setting, casting a long, amber glow across the dirt courtyard. The light caught the silver threads in his dark hair and the deep lines around his eyes. He looked like a man who had spent his entire life in a storm, suddenly waking up on a calm shore, completely unsure of what to do with the lack of wind.

"It’s hard.." he whispered, his voice dropping so low the wind almost took it. "When you spend 20 years living like i did, you are just..aware of everything around you..the silence feels like a Trap.."

You stood up from your chair, walked down the three wooden steps, and sat directly beside him on the stone. The fabric of your kurta brushed against his arm. He didn't move away. He didn't tense.

"Then let us be the trap, Jaskirat." you said, your voice filled with a grounded, unshakeable warmth. "Let the tea, the chillies, and the vocabulary tests trap you here. There are worse places to be caught."

Jaskirat looked down at your hands, which were resting on your knees. Slowly, with a hesitation that broke your heart, he laid his hand flat on the stone step, just an inch away from yours. His pinky finger brushed against your skin—a tiny, microscopic point of contact that felt louder than a gunshot in the quiet afternoon.

"Yes.." he murmured, his eyes fixing on the horizon where the first stars were beginning to bleed through the blue. "There are far worse places..."

900 miles away, Karachi, Pakistan;

In Karachi, the air was thick with the suffocating reek of sea salt, humidity, and political unrest. Inside the fortified walls of the Central Police Office in Lyari, the ambient noise of a sprawling metropolis was muted, replaced by the rhythmic clicking of ceiling fans and the sharp, military bark of orders.

Omar stood by the wide window of his office, staring down at the labyrinthine slums below.

He was no longer the frustrated inspector who had chased shadows through the alleys three years ago. The brass stars on his shoulders were new, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He was now the Superintendent of Police—the SP of the City. He had more power, more men, and more resources than ever before.

Yet, his office felt like a cage. Because no matter how many gangs he broke, or how many criminals he threw into the barracks, one file remained open on his desk. A file that didn't officially exist.

The file of the Indian spy. The man who had torn through Lyari, killed, and vanished into thin air like a phantom, or more - was simply let go by the government after a bit of pressure. He had tried everything, even talking to Yalina, only to be shut down by her Father, Jameel Jamali, a politician with enough influence to shut down his requests.

A heavy knock rattled the door. Omar’s deputy stepped inside, looking anxious, holding a leather folder " They told us to drop it..again.. They said the case is closed, the target is presumed dead, and any further investigation will strain diplomatic channels, besides..Uzair Baloch faces the death penalty for his crimes.."

Omar didn't turn around. His hands stayed clasped behind his back, his fingers tightening until his knuckles turned white.

"Presumed dead-" Omar repeated, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "They think because he crossed back into India, he simply ceased to exist. They don't know him like I do. A man like that doesn't just die quietly in a ditch...that Baloch guy is a criminal yes, but not a spy..they all know that."

"But sir, the higher-ups—"

"The higher-ups are politicians in uniforms!" Omar snapped, turning around violently. His eyes were sharp, fueled by a relentless, obsessive fixity. Three years of silence hadn't dulled his memory; it had only made the itch worse. He had been humiliated by a man who had played his entire department like a violin.

He walked over to his desk, ignoring the official memos, and picked up a personal ledger. Inside were handwritten notes, tire tracks, coordinates, and informal intelligence gathered from the black markets of Sindh and Punjab.

"He ran.." Omar whispered, his finger tracing a line on a map that led straight toward the border. "He ran.. He’s hiding where nobody asks his name, doing manual labor, trying to pretend he’s just another face in the crowd.."

"Sir, if you go across the line without authorization... if the Ministry finds out..."

Omar slammed the folder shut, the sound echoing like a pistol shot in the small room. He looked at his deputy, his face a mask of unyielding, rogue determination. He didn't care about the brass stars on his shoulders. He didn't care about the peace treaties or the chain of command.

"I don't need their permission to find a dead man, do i?" Omar said, his voice cold and final. "Assemble the trusted boys from the special cell. No uniforms. No official vehicles. We are going to find out where the ghost went to sleep.."

The hunt was back on. And while Jaskirat was learning to pray in the warmth of a quiet village, the iron hounds of his past were already catching his scent in the wind...