Disclaimer: This oneshot is inspired by the 2025 movie Dhurandhar by Aditya Dhar. This is in no way meant to idolize the real people the movie is about; they are bastards, and this is just a fanfic for the appreciation of the movie and the lovely actors who brought the characters to life. SO TAKE A FUCKING CHILL PILL and enjoy <3
Author's note: Iqbal is such a rage-baiting bastard, yawrrrr...I wanna fuck him.
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A Lesson in Diplomacy
Day 0 @ 3 pm
(MEA) Ministry of External Affairs, Delhi, India
Why did diplomat Yamini Sing have to be so fucking good? That's the question of the century to the woman. She ponders this question as she sits in her office massaging her temples. She felt the migraine rising along with the rage. “KABIR WHERE THE HELL IS MY KADAK NIMBU SODA?” she yelled at her assistant out the door of her office. Nimbu soda would have to do, because she can't drink straight vodka on the job.
Being this good is a curse and not a boon. Which is contrary to what most people think. Most people think that being fucking phenomenal at your job gives you perks. And yes she does get perks. Was she allowed to be slightly more bitchy, rude, and unconventional? Yes. Because she got the results. But if you were to ask Yamini if those perks were worth the migraines she would have said absolutely not.
Being that damn good as a diplomat means one thing and one thing only. Yamini is only sent somewhere where relations are fucked beyond repair. Because Yamini Singh is magical, she can manage any situation.
She once talked the economic minister of the UK down from increasing tariffs and tax rates influenced by the mohhle ki kaleshi aunty, the US, with just a drink and a few well scattered slightly scandalous jokes. Another time she repaired tense relations with the eastern european countries by hosting a party with enough hard liquor and fun to get twenty alcoholic diplomats drunk out of their minds. She drank so much she had to go sober for a month but that's okay because relations were repaired.
So yes. Yamini is magical, she is phenomenal, and she is brilliant. Most of all she loves a challenge. The entire ministry knows that. Normally she asks for the hardest assignments, because she has something to prove. Not to the world, but more to herself. But there is one diplomatic relation even Yamini doesn't want to touch with a 10 foot pole and a can of disinfectant.
That relation is the infamous India-Pakistan diplomatic channel. To put it lightly, it was entirely held together by an over inflated diplomatic ego, in other words it was a mesmerisingly devastating dumpsterfire that the hobos of both sides are watching from the sidelines. And everytime the fires escalate the hobos look at each other and say “Look your side started it”. Yet neither side is willing to pick up the fire extinguisher and put it out for good.
All because this dumpster fire provides a warmth that neither side wants to lose completely. And the truth is Yamini Singh absolutely doesn't want to manage the delicate dumpster fire that India-Pakistan relations are.
“KABIR! TU KYA NIMBU KA PEDH UGANE GAYA HAI KYA SAALE?” She fumes looking at her very empty and Kabir-less doorway right now. How long did it take to make a masala nimbu soda? She genuinely contemplates banging her head on the hardwood desk in front of her. Maybe she could plead brain damage to get out of this situation.
But more than that she hopes it will help her forget the conversation that got her here in the first place. Because you can't deny a diplomatic mission when it's given to you by the head of the ministry of external affairs. And you most definitely can't deny it when he asks for you by name. “KABIR!-”
—-------------------
Yamini looked at her watch absent mindedly then she looked at the door. “Yaar lunch ke liye late ho raha hai, kahan hai sir?” she sighed as she looked at the ceiling lazily wondering if the Mexican place would still be open by the time this meeting was over. Suddenly the door to the office opened, making Yamini straighten immediately her mentor was walking in.
Yamini stands up and straightens her blazer as the head of the ministry of external affairs walks in. Her mentor. Her boss. The man she aspired to be, the famous Dr. S. Shankar. “Good afternoon Yamini” he nods to her as he walks in
“Good afternoon sir” she smiles as she shakes his hand. “Please take a seat” Jaishankar says as he takes his own seat behind his desk. Yamini sits down as she looks at Shankar expectantly. He had asked for her personally, and she was incredibly excited. Because he always gave her the best assignments.
But Shankar didn't seem to hold the same excitement. Strange. He was always excited. “Sir...kya hua hai?” she asked carefully, putting her excitement on the back burner for the moment. He huffed a laugh that held no real joy "You are very perceptive Yamini, I like that about you. It's an important skill to have as a diplomat”
Yamini blinked at him. She did not interrupt in thanks because this was a compliment given to soften the blow of whatever was about to come next. “Sir, please just tell me what happened. Your lack of enthusiasm for this meeting is scaring me.” Shankar sighed knowing that would have to spit it out eventually so he better get it over with “India-Pakistan, I'm giving you the delegation”
“Sir no.” she said with a smile of disbelief “You can't be serious”. Shankar nodded gravely “Their delegation is landing tomorrow. I need you to handle it. The dumpster fire has never been more delicate. This has to go well. The fate of two nations rests on this.”
“Sir-” she begins balking for words. “Yamini. Don't refuse me, not when I'm putting so much of my faith into you. Not when I’m personally assigning you this.” Shankar interrupts leaning in to make his point.
Yamini takes a deep breath. She can't say no. She has no choice. But she tries. She stays quiet for 20 seconds as if looking for a loophole out of this situation. There is none. She exhales her breath. “Yes sir, I'll handle this.”
—--------------------
“Sorry ma’am! Woh nimbu nahi mil rahe the!” Huffs Kabir slightly out of breath as he brings Yamini her soda. The glass sits in front of her. The ice cold drink is making the glass sweat in this heat. The soda bubbles rise lazily through the ice, fizzing on the surface.
Yamini sighs as she takes a long drink. This was about to be a long week. “Kabir. Mere lal. Tu ek nimbu ka truck magwale. Agar phirse itna time laga toh phir tujhe hi nichod ke pi jaungi!” she smiles with a sweetness that's deadly. “Ji madam” he gulps.
“M-Madam ek aur baat” He stutters. “Kya?” she hums anticipating another nail in her coffin. Kabir gently rests a thick black dossier beside her nimbu soda. “Um you may want to look at the Pakistani delegation. More specifically the man heading it”
“Why is it always a man yaar?” she sighs under her breath. Yamini furrows her brow and opens the dossier. Her fingers flick though the pages until she lands on the page with the list of delegates. Her eyes widen then narrow and then widen again at the name at the top of the list. “Major Iqbal khan?....... Wait a damn minute” She mutters in disbelief as she stands up from her chair.
She walks to a filing cabinet in the corner of her office and yanks open the drawer. She uses her index finger to comb through the files “P-P-P- Papua New Guinea, Paruguay…..Pakistan!” She pulls out the file on Pakistan and flicks to its military section. Her eyes scan the page quickly
“E-Ek second….Major IQBAL khan?” She starts looking back at Kabir with a raised eyebrow as if she is questioning her own reading skills for a moment. Kabir nods solemnly. Yamini slams the file on Pakistan shut and shoves it back in her cabinet.
“Major Iqbal khan. The head of the fucking ISI. Is coming to India as a diplomat?” She almost can't believe this. “Ji madam” Sighs Kabir already anticipating her next reaction. And honestly her reaction was entirely valid.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?!”
—--------------------
Day 0 @ the same time as previous segment
(MOFA) Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Islamabad, Pakistan
Major Iqbal Khan is not a diplomat. He is the head of the ISI. And yet here he was, the head of the Pakistan-India diplomatic party. How the fuck this happend is beyond him. He sits down in his office with a heavy sigh. The leather chair creaks under his weight as he leans backwards.
Iqbal crosses one leg over the other. An ankle resting over a knee, he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Mir! Meri whiskey kahan hai?” he calls sharply to his junior in the ISI Sajid Mir. Where our heroine Yamini couldn't drink on the job, Major Iqbal was unburdened with that rule. Being the head of the ISI did have certain perks.
Iqbal genuinely did not understand why on earth he was chosen for this diplomatic mission. But as it turns out what he thinks doesn't matter when the President of the nation personally requests for you to head the delegation.
Mir sets his whiskey on the hardwood table in front of him. The amber liquid swirls with the large ice cube in the crystal glass. “Ye lijiye Major sahab” Mir nods. Iqbal takes a large sip from the glass. Sighing deeply as the whiskey burns his throat. Iqbal lights his cigar and takes a deep drag from it. Releasing a curling puff of smoke into the dark wooded office.
“Major sahab kal subah aapki flight hai India ki. Pure delegation ke saath.” Mir says as he hands Iqbal a dossier of his travels and his diplomatic notes. Iqbal nods in acknowledgment, Mir salutes him and leaves the office. He wonders how he got into this mess.
Iqbal’s inability to say no is how he landed in this mess. He remembers the conversation so clearly.
—---------
“Assalam Walikum Janab” Salutes Iqbal, straightening his tall powerful frame to its full height. Aqib Ali Zarwari, the president of pakistan nods in greeting “Walikum Assalam Iqbal, aao andar aao”
Iqbal takes five large strides and crosses the room. His patent leather boots thudding dully on the plush carpet of the presidential office. The room was covered in marble, gold, and other various types of luxury. Zarwari was seated behind his large gilded hardwood desk, his table covered with files and documents meant for his signature.
Major Iqbal stands in front of the desk in relaxed military posture. His hands behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart. His posture straight and his aura undeniable. He waits for Zarwari to speak.
“Iqbal mai chahata hun ki tum kal subha India ke liye rawana ho. We are sending a diplomatic mission to Delhi and mai chahata hun ki tum unke sath jao. Na bas jao, balkai unke delegation ko head karo.” Hums Zarwari as he takes a drink of water.
Iqbal blinks. What? This is not at all what he expected. But he revolvers smoothly and begins speaking “Janab mai ISI ka head hun, mujhme aisi diplomatic training nahi hai. I don't think that I am the right man to send for the job. With all due respect.”
“Iqbal it seems that you yourself are unaware of the skill you possess. If I am personally asking you to be there that means I have a certain hope for you don't I? Don't tell me you are second guessing an order by your president” Zarwari raises an eyebrow at Iqbal.
Iqbal straightens more as if that was possible. “Janab, I would never be so bold as to argue against your orders. Jaisa aap chahien waise hi hoga, mai kal subha baaki delegation ke sath India ke liye nikalta hun.” He nods with a salute.
—----------------
Iqbal rests the dossier against his knee as he sips his whiskey. He loosely flicks open the file and begins doing what intelligence agents do best. Understand and psychoanalyze the target.
He would begin with the head of the Indian delegation. Diplomat Yamini Singh. A woman with a reputation that precedes her. Shit show supervisor and an expert in cleaning up fallen raita. She was sent to put out fires and rebuild bridges. How interesting.
Iqbal smirked to himself as he took a deep drag of his cigar. This diplomatic shit show would be entertaining at the very least. Because India, putting her as their first line, spoke plenty about what they were expecting.
They saw that he was the Pakistani head and made assumptions and began maneuvers. They wanted to start the mindgames before the events had even begun. Now the question was whether Iqbal wanted to give them what they expect, or flip every strategy on its head.
Questions. Questions. Questions. And just as many options.
—-------------------------------------------
Day 1 @ 11 am
High Commission of Pakistan, New Delhi, India
“Kabir, remind me. How many more days until I can retire?” Hums Yamini as she straightens her clothes. The small India pin on her lapel had gone askew. Today she wore a powder blue vintage channel boucle set that she had scored on pure chance during her time off in France. She chose this color to match the beautiful blue and white building of the commission. Beneath her blue boucle skirt she wore silk stockings and white patent letter red bottom heels.
She was the picture of elegance with her dark brown wavy hair swept over one shoulder. A white chiffon scarf pinned loosely to her head. Her makeup was minimal with a focus on her eyes. Not just because she had beautiful eyes, no. That was a given of course. But the focus on her eyes was particularly pointed psychological warfare. A bold ‘Look into my eyes Major Sahab’
“Madam, I'm sorry to inform you that that measure isn't in days. It's in years” sighs Kabir as he wipes the lenses of his glasses with his handkerchief. Kabir looks dashing as well in his own tailored slacks, blazer, and white dress shirt. His medium length salt and pepper hair coiffed back handsomely.
“Fuck my life.” She sighs as she gives herself a final once over in the reflection of a window as she passes by. Her white red bottom pumps clicking through the marble halls of the Pakistani High Commission in New Delhi. It was decided that the first meeting of both delegations would happen on relatively neutral territory.
“Madam woh toh hone hi wala hai. Infact ho hi raha hai” Chuckles Kabir darkly. “Kabir, I didn't know you wanted to be unemployed” she smiles.
“Ma’am did I tell you that you look absolutely stunning today?”
Yamini rolls her eyes at the obvious job saving flattery “Thats better”
“Yes madam. I like my job” Kabir smiled as they walked through the halls towards the foyer where both delegations were to meet
—----------------------------
Major Iqbal Khan ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. Dressed in his black debonair structured jacket and well tailored slacks to go along with it. In his corsage pocket rested an emerald green silk handkerchief. To his lapel rested a metal Pakistani flag enamel pin.
He stood surrounded by the Pakistani delegation speaking to each other in hushed tones about various topics. Some spoke about the weather, some spoke about what they had seen in Delhi so far, some spoke in whispers about how Iqbal was sent to head this delegation rather than a proper diplomat.
He placed his hands in his pockets as he looked around the high commission building. They were waiting for the Indian delegation. The commission building was quite nice but nothing special to Iqbal. Marble floors, high arches, chandeliers, massive glass windows, islamic architecture. Major Iqbal was obscenely rich. None of this meant anything to him, honestly it bored him.
“Major Sahab, the Indian delegation is about to arrive. T minus 60 seconds” whispered an aide in Iqbal's ear. Iqbal nodded as he created his throat and fixed the cuffs of his sleeves. He steels himself.
Because it's a well known fact, Major Iqbal Khan, the head of the ISI, is famously Anti-India. Yet here he finds himself the head diplomat in the Pakistan-India delegation. He was told to be diplomatic. He was told to be civil. But he is here very, very openly unwillingly. He has already decided something that he will not back away from. Major Iqbal Khan will not show an ounce of diplomacy.
He looks up from the cuff of his sleeve to find the Indian delegation walking in front the opposite hallway. For a moment. It feels like time itself has slowed down. He hears her first. Heels clicking on the sharp marble floor, a melodious voice laughing politely to a comment made by someone near her.
Then he sees her. White patent leather heels clicking on the floor, long beautiful legs clad in silk stockings, then a powder blue pencil skirt beginning above her knee. Then a tailored jacket much like his, in the same powder blue. The jacket was very well tailored to her, elegant, feminine, just the right amount of class and sex appeal. Dark brown waves swept over her shoulder. A loose white chiffon scarf pinned to her hair. Well balanced features, eyes that could drown a man.
The way the woman walked it was clear she had substance to back her confidence. Her eyes locked on him. He felt her drag them over his body. One of her eyebrows arched as she stepped closer. Her lips twitched into a slight smirk, her head tilted slightly. She was analyzing him the way he was analyzing her.
Oh so this was the famous, or rather infamous, Major Iqbal? Mused Yamini as she walked. He was a tall man with a strong frame. Broad shoulders accentuated by his tailored jacket. A frown on his face, masked slightly by his beard. Dark eyes that pierce her. My my my he was a good looking man. It was clear, the way he stood, he didn't want to be here. And as fate would have it, she didn't want to be here either.
Her delegation walked behind her and his delegation stood behind him. Diplomats on either side stared at each other with a strange mixture of feelings. The room felt as tense as the India-Pakistan border. Hate, intrigue, annoyance, exhaustion. These were just some of the many feelings wafting through the room.
They stopped in front of each other. None of the usual cordial smiles were exchanged. Iqbal stared at her with his intense eyes. He was trying to intimidate her. She stared back, deep into his eyes, trying to tell him passionately that this maneuver of his was bullshit. She wasn't going to let it work.
Grace and etiquette says that the male head of a delegation should extend his hand first if the person leading the opposite delegation was a woman. Iqbal kept his hands firmly in his pockets. He didn't even make a move to pull his hands out of his pockets. Oh! What a bastard.
The Indian delegates blinked. They blinked at the blatant disrespect of Yamini. They were this close to forgetting where they were standing in the name of Yamini’s honor. Kabir took a deep breath to not lose his mind.The Pakistani delegates blinked. They blinked to hide their horror. What the fuck was Iqbal doing.
Yamini didn't let the disrespect bristle her. Her lips remained in the smirk they held ever since she walked into view. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes twinkled with a certain spark. He wants to be a bastard and not make the first move as he should? Fine. She would let him win this round. But not without a stab of her own.
She smiles at Iqbal. A cordial smile that reaches nowhere, openly fake. She folds her hands into a namaste. “Namaste Major Sahab, welcome to India” she nods befores he continues “We are honored that we get to host you for your first ever diplomatic mission.”
“This isn't my first mission” Iqbal hums darkly. “Well that's a surprise” she chuckles. “Is it?” he hums, stepping forward. Tobacco, oud, and something darker in his cologne clouds Yamini’s air. She keeps a pleasant smile on her face “ If this really isn't your first diplomatic mission then it truly is surprising. Yeh lack of etiquette sirf aapke sabse khas padosi ke liye hai?” She steps closer.
Both delegations gasp. Some out loud, some cover it with a cough, some clear their throat awkwardly. Yamini grins at him. Iqbal raises an eyebrow with a smile, his gold tooth showing. “Lack of etiquette? Singh Madam, we have only been in each other's proximity for 30 seconds and you are already questioning my manners?”
“Ji jo dikhega usi pe toh question karenge? Aap intelligence me hai na?” She responds. Iqbal nods. “You must be aware of the impact of first impressions, correct?” Yamini smiles. Iqbal huffs a laugh under his breath. He knows where she is going with this line of reasoning. “Chaliye be the bigger man Major Sahab” She grins.
What a phenomenal bitch, Iqbal has to admire her wit. He wanted to destabilise her greeting to destabilise her this entire diplomatic mission. She didn’t let that happen. How interesting.
He reaches his hand out of his pocket and holds it out in between them. Yamini doesn’t reach for it immediately. She lets it hang in the air. She shows Iqbal that she has the reins here. Both delegations wait with baited breath.
“Welcome to India major sahab” she grins as she shakes his hand. Sparks flutter through both of them. The energy undeniable. Her hand is soft in his battle worn hands. Like a delicate flower petal on a rough rock. Is the spark good? No. Is the spark bad? Also no.
Yamini pulls away first. Now that the heads of both delegations have shaken hands the rest of the members can meet. The border is crossed by both members as they shake hands. Both sides were relieved that there isn’t a diplomatic incident just yet. But both sides knew it was only a matter of time.
—-------------------------------———-----
Same day @ 2 pm
Yamini had excused herself to the restroom for a moment. She had needed a break, she needed a break or she might genuinely say something to cause war between India and Pakistan.
She ran a napkin under cold water and then held it to her neck to help calm her racing pulse. Major Iqbal is an ass hat of the highest order. He was testing her in ways she didn't even know she could be tested. He was pushing buttons she didn't even know existed.
—-----------------------
After the barely saved first meeting in the foyer the Pakistani delegation invited the Indian delegation to lunch in the high commission. As is standard. As is protocol. And as protocol dictates Iqbal was to be seated next to Yamini. She took her seat and waited for him as well. The bastard didn't stop next to her.
In fact he walked right by his waiting seat and sat nestled deep between the Pakistani delegation. The entire room paused and blinked. A Pakistani delegate muttered “Ya allah yeh kya ho raha hai” An Indian delegate looked at the ceiling and exhaled long and slow “You have to be kidding me” This was count one. Ruining the seating arrangement, putting her in an awkward position.
Somehow she had covered the situation and the meal had commenced awkwardly. Iqbal raised an eyebrow and smirked. Oh she really is as good as they say. She was hard to shake. And he wanted to shake her. Now more for fun, rather than actual diplomatic gain. He wanted to see what she would look like when she was angry. Would she turn red? Would she stomp away? Would she yell? Iqbal wanted to find out.
The salad course was fine, the soup course was fine, the first appetizer was fine. The second appetizer was not fine. Yamini was making polite conversation with the Pakistani delegates. She was helping to melt the awkwardness she was helping both sides engage and get friendly. “Toh Khan Sahab aap Qawali aur ghazalon ke shaukeen hain?” She smiled at the mustached delegate beside Iqbal. Her smile was pointed carefully, it curved around Iqbal, missing him on purpose. What a bitch.
“Ji haan, humaare abbu Qawali ke shaukeen the, thoh woh shauk hume bhi aya” he responds cordially. “Arresh wah toh phir aapki Mishra ji se kaafi banegi!” she smiled “Haina mishra ji?”
Mishra nods “Ji bilkul madam.” Delegate Khan nods towards Mishra with a smile. Yamini continues “Bas kuch hi dino me yahin Delhi me ek mushaira aur qawalli ka program hai. Mishra ji hi bata rahe the. Maybe you would enjoy it too!” she suggests kindly. Khan and Mishra light up at the suggestion. The atmosphere is warming up.
Then Iqbal ruins the moment. “Khan wishes he could come. Sadly he would be too busy” Ice water is thrown on the warm moment. Khan clears his throat and returns to his paneer tikka. Yamini shuts her eyes and exhales slowly. Iqbal smiles. This was fun for him. Strike two.
She tries to tell a personal anecdote and he cuts it down. Strike three. She laughs and he stares. She places a current affairs topic into the conversation, he clicks his tongue and tells her that this is neither time nor the place. Strike 4.
—---------------------------
“Pardon me” she says with immense forced calm as she places her napkin on the table adjusting her skirt as she gets up. She needs a break. She needs a break or she might insult the entire nation of Pakistan. Her heels click sharply as she heads out of the dining room. Iqbal grins. He had gotten under her skin. Finally, he was enjoying this challenge. She looked good when she was mad.
A Pakistani delegate leaned over to him with great urgency “Major sahab aap ye kya kar rahe hain? We need to be diplomatic and kind! Aap aise pesh nahi aa sakte hain!” He hisses. Iqbal leans in and chuckles darkly “ Iss delegation ka head kaun hai?” The delegate gulps, he knows how dangerous Iqbal can get. “A-ap sahab”
Iqbal rests a hand on his shoulder. The warm weight is like a death warrant. The grin on his face is haunting “Aukat me rahiye aap, Zarwari shab ne hume personally bheja hai. Kisi kaam se bheja hai. Mujhpe ainda sawal na kariyega.” The poor delegate nods, swallowing his concerns. Iqbal continues to make his point “Biwi bacche Lahor gaye hai na? nani ke ghar?”
—----------------------
Yamini takes deep breaths as the cold damp cloth touches her skin. She box breathes. 10 seconds in. 20 seconds hold. 25 seconds exhale. And repeat. Once, twice, thrice, four times. Her heels click on the marble floors of the bathroom. She tries not to let rage consume her. Her reflection in the mirror looks like she is about to strangle a man. Specifically a Pakistani Major.
There is a series of sharp nocks on the bathroom door. “Yamini ma’am? Is there anyone in there or is it okay for me to come in?” It's Kabir. Of course he had noticed her face and body language and decided to follow her. He had known her for her entire career as a diplomat at the Ministry of External Affairs. Very rarely has she excused herself in that manner. Kabir knew she was homicidal.
“Aja Kabir!” She sighs leaning against the sink. Kabir walks in and immediately stands in front of Yamini. Yamini looks at him with the restraint of a slowly maddening woman. “Madam?”
“Kabir im about to strangle a man”
“I know madam”
“Kabir im going to cause a diplomatic incident”
“Please don’t”
Yamini sighs, pinching her nose bridge. Kabir takes the cool towel off her neck. The towel seems to be more of a hot towel than a cool towel. She really was worked up. Kabir raises his eyebrows in shock. Yamini looks at the ceiling begging the universe for strength. “Chalein madam?”
She nods. Kabir gestures for her to lead the way. She shudders and rolls her shoulders as she steels herself to face the bastard again. Yamini will be diplomatic, she will smile through gritted teeth, she will get the fucking job done or so help her god. Kabir falls into step behind her as they exit the bathroom.
—--------------------
Then a dark voice crawls through the halls. Dark enough to stop Yamini in her tracks. It crawls up her spine in unpleasant ways “Areh wah! How nice to see that India encourages its diplomats to get this close and personal with their secretaries” Iqbal drawls lazily with a smirk. His hands in his trouser pockets.
The look in his face makes it clear that nothing good will be coming out of his face “How nice to know that they assign someone to…help get your frustrations out on Miss Singh” He hums with a laugh as he brushes past her.
Yamini stands still for a moment. Her mouth opens and colossuses. Then it opens again, a strangled indignant sound comes out of her throat.
HOW DARE HE? She spins on her heel to watch Iqbal lazily saunter through the halls of the Pakistani High Commission. Iqbal was insinuating, in clear broad daylight, that she was fucking Kabir in the bathroom!?
Kabir can sense her rage. He feels it too, at the disrespect Iqbal is showing her. Kabir would like some stern words and sterner fists. But right now it was imperative to calm Yamini. “Yamini madam please dont commit homicide here”
Yamini takes a deep breath with a scary smile as she watches Iqbal walk away “We are on Indian soil Kabir….kuch jugad lagake we can spin the murder investigation right?” There is murder in her eyes. She would kill him, and she already knew where to bury the body.
Kabir clears his throat, his next words are chosen very carefully. Something she can't argue against. “This is on technicality Pakistani jurisdiction. Please…..PLEASE try to remember that they have the right of inviolability and immunity due to the Vienna Convention of diplomatic relations.”
“God damn the diplomatic version of the doctor's oath.” She curses under her breath as she storms the opposite way back to the dining room.
“THANK GOD for the diplomatic version of the doctor's oath” Kabir mutters weakly as he follows her.
—---------------------------------------
Day 2 @ 12 pm
Hyderabad house, New Delhi, India
Today was day two of the doomed-from-the-begining diplomatic mission. And overnight the news of the disastrous first meeting had spread to the MEA like wild fire. Whispers floated through the halls “Did you hear that the Major was rude?” and “Did you hear Yamini tried her best to handle the situation?”
Thankfully Yamini’s boss Dr. S. Shankar was currently traveling to Australia and hadn't heard anything about this meeting. If he had heard how shit it had gone Yamini would have gotten an earful even though she didn't do anything wrong.
—-------------------------------
Major Iqbal had retired to his suite in the TAJ palace with much satisfaction for the day. Did he want to be in India? Fuck no. But was he having fun now? Fuck yes. He was very happy to have shaken the unshakable woman. He walked to his bathroom as he un-buttoned his coat. He reached into the shower and turned it on to the warm side and let it heat up. Once he undressed fully he stepped into the shower. His hand ran along his bare body with a sigh. Under the warm spay he grinned. He began formulating how to piss her off the next day.
Yamini had retired to her apartment in Delhi with much chagrin. She was this close to killing the bastard. She would have stabbed the man with her fork if she was presented the opportunity. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't sitting next to her. His expensive cologne would have choked her. His gold tooth flashing at her would have pissed her off. And his words. She wanted to sew his mouth shut with a needle and thread. She groaned in her hands when she collapsed on her sofa. The bastard may have won today….But tomorrow will be hers. Because tomorrow is the media conference.
She pulled out her phone and dialed a number “Hello haan Rashmika? I need a favour..” Tomorrow will be hers she grins as she leans back on her sofa.
—------------------------
The Hyderabad house media room was set to perfection. A large stage set with a panel sized long table for both delegations to take a seat. In front of them the media pen was set up with cameras at the front and reporters in the back. Why was it called a pen? Because the media were animals.
The Indian delegation and Pakistani delegation entered the room at the same time from opposite sides of the room. Yamini Singh leading the Indian delegation and Major Iqbal Khan leading the Pakistani delegation. They locked eyes from across the room as both parties walked up the stairs to the stage.
Iqbal was wearing a navy blue jacket set today, on his lapel another Pakistani flag. The gold ornamental buttons on his jacket are done up all the way save for the collar button. The blue slacks below the jacket were sharp and tailored elongating his already tall and strong frame. As always his jacket clinged sinfully well to his broad shoulders. His black leather loafers click sharply as they step on the marble floors.
Yamini was wearing an elegant black sheath dress. Classy enough to be appropriate for the occasion and dangerous enough so the neckline and the tight fit would catch a certain Major’s eye. The tastefully low neckline doses as it was meant to, she can feel his eyes at the plunge of her dress. Her hair is pulled back into a neat bun with a few tasteful strands of hair pulled out. Her lips painted a rosy red to match the red bottoms of her black patent leather heels.
Their eyes met from across the room. Iqbal held a smug look on his face he was riding on his high from last night. He expected her to meet his yes and then look away sharply, or to glare at him with anger. She did neither. She smiled at him. Like she was excited to see him. Strange.
Both delegations stood on the stage and took photos before everyone began to find their pre assigned seats. The chairs in the middle reserved for the heads of both delegations. Yamini strides onto the stage and pulls Iqbal's chair out for him and then she gestures with her eyes. A look that asks ‘Major sahab are you done being a diva?’
Iqbal's jaw clenches. She is humiliating him on purpose. The cameras flash at this strange interaction. In public Iqbal has no choice but to smile goodnaturedly and take the seat she offers him. But not without pulling out her chair for her so he is captured as a gentleman in the eyes of the media “Oh how kind of you Major sahab….A proper Pakistani gentleman” She hums out loud making multiple people chuckle.
“What else would you expect Miss Singh? Yeh kya presumption leke ghum rahi han aap Pakistani mardon ke bare me?” He says with a sigh as he sits down next to her. His response is low enough that the microphones wont pick it up.
She grins as she leans against her chair, pivoting her body to the side in one swing. “Kya kare Major sahab, aap impression hi aisa rakhte ho….you sir are in a grave so deep that the only way left to go is up.” She hums lightly. “Not on a diplomatic stand point. I suppose you are on a relatively alright platform over there. Im referring on a more personal level”
Iqbal chuckles darkly he nods silently “Mashallah..aap humare bare me personal level pe bhi sochne lag gayi? Aapke Kabir ne aapka man sahi se nahi behlaya kya?” he muses leaning forward slightly. Oud, tobacco, and something darker cloud her personal space again.
Yamin leans forward too with a coy smile. Coffee, amber, and something painfully seductive cloud Iqbal's personal space. Her voice drops into a shiver inducing sexy husk “Kya karein Major sahab?” she hums. Iqbal can feel it coil in his gut. “Kabir is nothing compared to you…aapke yeh jo infuriating kartoot hai na? Meri raaton ki neend chura li…. Poori raat aap hi mere sapno me phudak rahe the” She husks at him with a wink.
Iqbal hates how her voice, her perfume, her coy smirk, and her eyes stir lust in his body. He clears his throat “Oh so I infuriate you? Hum kya aapke zehen me baith gaye kya?” he asks lightly with much difficulty. His voice is a deep register even with the immense effort he is putting in.
Yamini can hear it, it pleases her to know that she is having an effect on the usually stoic Major. She fixes her voice back to normal with infuriating ease “Ji haan Major sahab….aap kahan koi halki phulki hasti hain?....Yaad rakhne wali cheez hain aap” she smiles before turning to face forward in her chair. Iqbal blinked. Fuck this woman!....Fuck…this woman. Iqbal shakes out of it.
The press and media conference begins as soon as Yamini nods to Kabir. Kabir nods and addresses the room “Welcome esteemed media! The panel is now ready for questions” he says as he clears his throat.
The questions begin to pour in. Some to Yamini. Some to Iqbal. Some on Pakistan. Some on India. Some on ‘what's the point of this diplomatic mission in the first place?’ Iqbal answers his questions smoothly. Yamini answers hers with admirable finesse. Finesse that makes Iqbal stop and stare for a moment.
He watches the delicate curve of her throat as she speaks. The sparkle in her eye when she gives a cheeky answer. Her delicate and melodious laugh. The way she gives answers that make reporters stumble and scramble for follow ups. “Yes, next question please! And a fun one if you can” she joked while taking a sip of water.
A woman in the media pen grinned. She had been summoned “Rashmika Raina from the NNM! A question for Miss Yamini Singh!” A hand raised from the crowd and a woman in a deep blue salwar suit stood up. She brushed back a strand of hair that had come loose from her pencil made bun. She smiled at Yamini as her pen tapped against her notebook.
Yamini grinned as she saw Rashmika, her best friend who she had known from her college days. She wanted to get up and hug the woman but that would be severely unprofessional. Iqbal would have bullied her mercilessly. So instead she said “Oh hi Rashmika! Long time no see?”
Rashmika smiled to herself as she said the next words.“Hi Yamini! Woh asal me I had gone to Pakistan for a report. Abhi abhi wapas ayi hun” Yamini narrowed her eyes and she couldn't believe it. Rashmika was blushing to herself. What was that about?
“Oh how lovely…” she hums suspiciously. “We must discuss your report soon, I know it will be spectacular. You always have the most interesting takes.” Rashmika nods as she clears her throat and shakes out of whatever day dream she had gone into. She dragged her mind away from a certain dark and brooding SP of Karachi police. Who had her number but still hadn't called.
“Uh Miss Yamini. I would like to ask you what is your first impression of the Pakistani delegation?” Rashmika gets back into reporter mode. “There have been rumors that the first impression yesterday had gone disastrously?”
Yamini hums to herself for a moment, nodding her head in thought. She looks at Iqbal out of the corner of her eye. She gives him a look. A look that says ‘I could fucking destroy your diplomatic mission and the reputation of your country if I wanted to’ Yamini grins as she looks back into the crowd.
Iqbal's jaw sets at the realization. He didn't like the amount of power she had right now. She began speaking “Is that so Ms. Rashmika? I wasn't aware of that rumor actually. Tell me Major sahab, did our first meeting go disastrously?” she hums lightly, turning to Iqbal. Surprising that she is giving him the opportunity. Iqbal opens his mouth to speak “Dekhiye-”
“Areh aap kya bolenge major sahab mai hi bata deti hun” she interrupts, turning back to the crowd. Iqbal's words stop in his mouth. This bitch. This absolute bitch.
Iqbal releases a long breath though his nose. This was her snub. This was her revenge for his behavior yesterday. He humiliated her in private. She humiliated him in front of the world. “Mmm toh Rashmika ji i’d say our meeting was definitely unconventional.”
“Unconventional?” Rashmika raises an eyebrow. “Haan definitely un conventional. Because when you meet a foreign delegation you expect certain standards and protocols to be met for the greeting. Major sahab definitely kept me on my toes. The meeting was anything but standard. It was oh so close to misunderstanding.”
She hums with a grin looking at the seething Major beside her. She pauses long enough to make it seem like she was done talking. Iqbal goes to open his mouth once again but Yamini beats him to it “But thankfully quick thinking from both delegations saved the day” she smiles, ending the answer to Rashmika’s question.
—------------------------
Rashmika quirks her brow. There was something quite juicy here. Before she could probe further, her phone rang. “Thank you Yamini!” she nods as she sits down. The conference continues.
Rashmika looks at her phone. It's an Unknown number. The country code +92, meaning Pakistan. The area code for Karachi, +92 21. All clues point to one person. Her ex-police protection. SP Chaudhary Aslam.
Rashmika excuses herself from the press conference and bites her lip as she walks out of the room in hurried steps. It had to be him. The large conference room doors swing shut behind her. The phone had rang 10 times already without disconnecting.
“Hello? Yaad agayi humari SP Sahab? Bada wakt lag gaya apko” She hums sweetly into the phone. She expects a gruff voice to return her greeting. She leans against the wall smiling like a mad woman as she waits to hear his voice. She anticipates the shiver that would run through her body when she would hear it again.
Much to her surprise the phone disconnects without a word from the other side. Rashmika blinks. What the fuck? She looks at her phone. Did she lose signal? Did her battery die? Did she disconnect it by accident? Was it someone else?
“Fuck yaar” she sighs leaning her head against the cold walls of the Hyderabad House. Then suddenly her phone pings. Its a message
Unknown +92 21-: Phone galti se lag gaya tha.
Rashmika huffs a surprised breath through her nose. It really was him! How did she know? Because only Chaudhary Aslam would wait 10 rings to hear her voice and as soon as she stopped speaking he would cut the call. Sly bastard.
She shook her head with a smile as she went to her keypad to type back her response. Before she could type, three bouncing dots appeared.
Unknown +92 21-: …Waise kya kar rahi ho?
She laughed as she read the message, shaking her head. Sly bastard.
—---------------------
Iqbal can't believe this shit. Twice. Yamini had cut him off twice. She had made him look stupid thrice. His hand fisted in his lap as he held a neutral expression on his face. His knuckles cracked with effort. His mouth stayed shut with immense effort.
She turned and looked at him with a shit eating expression. She had neutralized the playing field. And she had a very devastating realization. The bastard looks much hotter with his mouth shut.
How else could she shut him up? Much food for thought. Her plans for the night had been fixed.
—-----------------------------------------------
Day 3 @ 4 pm
Hyderabad house, New Delhi, India
Yamini hummed through the halls as she walked beside Kabir. She was uncharacteristically cheery. Which was strange because she never skipped through the halls even on diplomatic missions she genuinely enjoyed.
So for her to be happy after 2 days of being volatile was a cause for concern to Kabir. “Yamini madam are you okay?” he asked carefully as he adjusted the files in his arms. “I'm overjoyed Kabir. O-ver J-oyed” she hummed. As she walked through the marble halls of Hyderabad House.
Kabir fell back slightly to watch her skip ahead. He sighed. This only meant one thing. She had decided how she was going to kill Iqbal. “Fuck my life” he groaned as he masaged his temples the files threatening to fall out of his hands.
—----------------
Major Iqbal Khan and his delegation stormed through the halls of Hyderabad house. She wasn't getting an inch today. Not a fucking inch. He would get his revenge for yesterday or so help him god. The entire delegation whispered duas’ under their breath as they walked behind their angry Major.
Diplomat Khan whispered to diplomat Ajmer “Mujhe aise kyun lagta hai ki aaj kisi ka qatal hone wala hai?” Diplomat Ajmer sighed as he responded “Kal ke baad? Puri possibility hai” another diplomat piped up. Marha whispered between the two men “Aap log Yamini ko discount na karein. She can hold her own, you know?” she adjusted her dupatta as she walked.
Both men nodded. Marha was right, Yamini would go down fighting. There would be a minimum of two bodies to handle in either scenario. The worst part would be that the Pakistani delegation and the Indian delegation would have to work together on that mess. All three sighed.
—-----------------
For the third time on this trip both delegations met. And the room held no presence of niceties this time. Just a smug woman and an incensed man holding a grudge from the day before. Both delegations shook hands with each other once again and then took their seats.
Today actual work was to be done. Both delegations were tasked with reviewing joint policies and re-negotiating on certain points of contention. Today was a long and boring day. Yamini sighed and clicked her tongue lightly as she opened her dossier. She felt Iqbal's stare on her.
He looked good today once again. This was beginning to get boring. And very difficult for the primal parts of her brain that wanted to claw at his shoulders while he fucked her. She hated that part of herself. The primal part that was affected by his bastard-like behavior and his dark and dangerous pheromones. She would leave dark red scars down his well defined muscular back. He wore a dark military green today with silver buttons.
She was catastrophic in her own way. Wearing a maroon dress with a neckline much too similar to yesterday. And much too deep to not be pointed at Iqbal. The somehow office appropriate dress clung to her sinfully well. He himself was having a difficult time not grabbing her and fucking her until she could think straight. Fucking her until all she was capable of doing was moan his name and beg for more. Fucking her until she stopped being infuriating.
The meeting began. Delegates from both sides took turns getting up and presenting their cases. India proposed that there be a designated schedule of meetings between India and Pakistan, seasonal perhaps, so that communications could be kept open throughout the year. Pakistan agreed. Everything was alright until then.
And then Iqbal motions for Khan to stand up. Khan nodded as he took the podium “We propose that Kashmir have its own diplomatic rights.” the entire room paused. What? Kashmir? Kashmir wasn't supposed to be discussed.
All the Indian diplomats looked at Yamini. Yamini looks unfazed. She taps a pen against her cheek. “You mean to say that Kashmir should have an equal Pakistani and Indian delegation?” she asks carefully. Getting a clear understanding was imperative. She crosses her legs elegantly.
“No, we say Kashmir will have its own delegation.” clarifies Khan. Yamini laughs. Both delegations blink at each other as she doubles over in laughter. “What exactly seems to be funny here, Singh madam?" Iqbal drawls lazily
“Well major sahab you seem to be insinuating that Kashmir isn't jointly occupied. You seem to be saying that Kashmir is its own nation?” She smiles leaning in. Iqbal grins too his gold tooth showing “Thats because it is”
“No It most definitely is not” countered Yamini. “We aren't here to debate that. We are here to discuss the diplomatic aspects” hums Iqbal.
“Well in that case we would like to respond with a resounding no to that appeal” She shrugs, shutting her files like she was done talking about this. “It wasn't an appeal.” He narrows his eyes at her, his voice lower than normal now
“Each point here is an appeal major sahab”
“And who decided that? You?”
“Our joint governments did. Not me. Not you.”
“These are excuses. Just say that you are afraid to make a single decision without express consent from your government.” drawls Iqbal lazily as he leans on the table “Fear is one thing major sahab. Respect for the chain of command is another” she emphasized each word so it gets to him.
“You make lovely excuses to avoid the main point. Is this why you were hired as a diplomat?” he narrows his eyes at her.
“Thats it. Im done” she says slamming her hands on the table before she grabs her things and leaves the room. She was about to kill Iqbal and his idiotic and painfully handsome face.
—------------------
Iqbal stormed behind her as she left the conference room. “Singh madam yeh koi baat nahi hui. This is highly professional even for you!” he called out as he followed her. Yamini stops suddenly and spins on her heel. She finds herself very up close and personal to Iqbal. Their faces inches away.
His cologne clouds her. Her perfume clouds him. Her face is red with rage. His strong eyes glower into her. “UNPROFFESIONAL?” she exclaims stabbing his chest with her finger. Iqbal feels lit sear like a brand into his being. She laughs in disbelief. “If I'm unprofessional then what have you been doing this entire diplomatic mission?” she steps impossibly closer to him.
“Im not the one who stormed out mid policy negotiation madam” he hisses “That was you”. She can feel the heat of his body. “And tell me Major sahab…why would I storm out? Backchodi ke liye?”
“Fuck knows madam….but for the first time today I agree with you” the tension between them brews into something painfully thick the breathe hard against each other. His eyes flick down to the swell of her breasts. This angle and the cut of her dress betray her. “Oh do tell major Sahab” she hisses “its good to know ki meri koi baat to aapke dimag me ghussi”.
He chuckles darkly, his voice crawling down Yamini’s spine. “Yeh pure fuckass diplomatic mission aap bakchodi hi kar rahi hain. And that's the truth” he practically spat.
“Oh really?" she asked with an angry laugh. Her head craned upwards to stare into his eyes. They were dark and angry. He leaned in closer. Their lips are inches apart. “Yes.” he hissed.
Like an incessant gravity she leaned forward. She could feel his breath against her. Lips now centimeters apart. “Fuck you major sahab” she whispered against his lips. “You wish Singh madam” he growled.
And yet they felt their bodies move closer of their own accord. His hand ghosted along her hip. Her eyes fluttered shut and a shaky breath exhaled from her lips. He was so close. So unbelievably close. Her lips parted as he leaned in closer. His cologne was making her dizzy.
“Major sahab? Janab?!” yelled a voice down the hall. Diplomat Khan. “Yamini madam?” called out another voice. Kabir. Both of them pulled away before their lips could meet. And immediately both took a large step back. What the fuck were they doing?
Iqbal ran a hand through his hair. Yamini clasped a hand over her mouth as she breathed out of her nose. Without a word both of them walked away from each other in opposite directions.
What the fuck were they doing?
—------------
Night 4 @ 7:30 pm
Durbar Hall, Taj Hotel, New Delhi, India
Today was the final night of the diplomatic mission. And both countries had the bright idea to organize a ball for both delegations. Something to ease the tensions they reasoned.
When Yamini had questioned how on earth they were supposed to relax tensions when everyone was painfully aware of each other? She was told “Oh that's simple. It's a masquerade ball. That should help take away the awkwardness.” Bullshit.
Yamini scoffed as she fluffed out her black sleeveless ballgown. The black lace gloves caught on the chiffon of her structured ballgown. “FUCK” she groaned as she untangled the lace from the chiffon. The warm chandelier light caught on the diamond choker on her throat. It refracted light across her skin using the help of the diamond drop earrings hanging from her earlobes.
Her hair was thrown into a chic messy bun. Strands pulled out tastefully to accentuate her look. The piece de resistance was the black lace mask that obscured her face. Only her eyes, nose, and lips are clearly visible. She looked like herself, yes. But with slightly more plausible deniability.
That was the point of the masks. Plausible deniability. For both delegations. Deniability to say "I didn't know who I was being friendly with! They were wearing masks!” as stupid as it was, it really was a good plan.
She walked into the grand Durbar ballroom of the TAJ palace in New Delhi. The TAJ hotel was where the Pakistani delegation had been housed for the entire mission. This masquerade ball was technically their territory once again.
The ballroom was opulent in every sense of the word. Golden decor, glass sculptures, a grand orchestra playing classical music. Delegates from both sides along with their aides and interns filled the ballroom. There must be 100 or maybe 150 people there at the minimum. Nobody here knew who the person next to them was.
A waiter walked by Yamini and she scooped up a glass of champagne from the tray. The cold fizzy alcohol soothed her as she sipped it slowly. She ran her eyes around the room observing the crowd of masked diplomats. The men in tuxedos and the women in evening gowns. All of them were much too occupied in themselves to notice her.
From across the room she felt a pair of familiar strong eyes drag along her body. She turned to look at the person staring at her. An ornate gold mask lay strapped to his face, his eyes pierced through her body. He was tall, with a strong frame and broad shoulders. He was wearing a debonair black tuxedo with an elegantly tied bow. The coat hugged his shoulders and tapered along his waist.
The mask obscured half of his face while his tamed beard graced the lower half of his face. She had seen those eyes before. That's all she could think. She had seen those strong eyes before. She looked at him over her glass of champagne as she drained it.
His eyes dragged across her from across the room. Her neck, her collarbones, her arms, her chest. The diamond on her throat, the diamonds on her beards. The man's eyes seemed to stare at every sliver of her exposed skin before landing intensely on her lips.
Another waiter walked by and she snagged another chilled glass of champagne. Her body burned under his gaze. She had seen this man before. She had a sneaking suspicion as to who he was. And she hoped she was wrong. Why? The man looked much too good. And she would hate to admit that major Iqbal was clouding her thoughts. That would simply be unacceptable.
Her finger twirled a stray strand of hair away from her face as she watched the man openly. Her lips pursed along the edge of the champagne glass as the liquid slipped down her throat. The Masked major watched back openly as he took a final deep drag off of his cigar.
He released the smoke through his nose as his hand curled around his whiskey glass. The woman he saw in front of him was the most eye-catching thing this entire trip. Wrapped in a black chiffon ballgown, black lace up her arms, black lace on her face. Elegant diamonds along her throat that looked like they belonged. He had seen her before no doubt.
The woman watched him with the same intensity he watched her with. Her lips twitch around her champagne glass. The Major drains his own whiskey and he must go to this woman. The major takes a step towards her. The woman grins as she drains her own glass. She was waiting for him to take the first step. She sets down the second empty glass and takes a step forward too. The orchestra pauses for a moment.
Both Yamini and Major pause. Then the orchestra plays again. The violins begin first and the both of them already know what piece was about to be played. “An invitation to dance” by Carl Maria von Weber Op.65.
Major Iqbal, the masked man, walks across the room. He stops directly in front of Yamini , the masked woman, and offers her his hand. A silent invitation. A silent dance with me. She bows her head in a small nod as she places her lace clad hand in his large hand. She smells his cologne in the air as they walk. The scent is familiar once again.
Iqbal silently leads her to the dance floor. Neither of them speak because then the mystery would be ruined immediately. Once in the middle of the dance floor one of his hands rested on her waist. Her free hand rests on his shoulder as his other hand clasps her lace gloved hand. Iqbal can smell her perfume in ernest now. It smells painfully familiar.
The music swells and they begin to waltz around the room. Small and controlled movements first. Both of them testing the waters between them. Testing if the other knew how to dance this particular dance. Yamini stares into the man’s eyes. Trying to prove her suspicions correct.
Iqbal led the dance in strong confident movements. Waltzing her around the ballroom as the orchestra swelled. She followed each movement with grace and competence. Each step was perfect. Each stride was confident. His hand on her waist tightened as he spun them around. Her hand clutched at his shoulder to keep her balance as her chiffon ball gown flared behind her.
Iqbal stared into her eyes when he wrapped both hands around her waist and lifted her into the air. Her warm brown eyes glowed in the chandelier light. She lands with a little flounce, a small gasp as his hands brace her against him. Iqbal has heard that gasp before.
They slow down along with the music. Waltzing in slow controlled movements as they stare into each other's souls. The person across from them is all too familiar. Iqbal prayed it wasn't her. Yamini prayed it wasn't him. The air between them was thick.
The music climaxes and Iqbal begins spinning them with the music working to a big finish. She gasps as she follows the movements. They can feel the air get more difficult to breathe. They can feel the eyes of everyone in the ballroom on them as they dance. The two figures in black waltzing on the floor as one.
The music picks up into the finale. All the instruments bidding their finales to the piece. The drums, the violins, the violas, the flutes. All singing their final goodbyes. Iqbal spins her out to make her gown flare. She holds his eyes as she spins back into him. He leans her into a tip.
Her hands grip the lapel of his tuxedo for balance. The fabric crumpled under her hand. The elegant line of her neck stretches as her chest heaves to catch her breath. His eyes follow helplessly.
He holds her in his arms a moment more than he should. A moment more than necessary. Her plush lips part as she pants to catch her breath. Eventually both of them stand back upright. The ballroom erupts in cheers. They bow to each other. Folding at the waist as they hold each other's eyes. Iqbal can't stop his eyes from flicking to the dip of the fabric in her cleavage, the soft flesh behind the dress threatening to almost spill out. She grins as she catches his eye.
Not a word is said between them and yet they have a whole conversation with their eyes. Her hand fixes her mask as she gives him a salute and walks away into the crowd.
—--------------
Same day @ 10 pm
Durbar Hall, Taj Hotel, New Delhi, India
It had been hours since the dance yet the heat had not died down. Everywhere the masked man touched her burned with heat. Everywhere he dragged his eyes little fires sprouted along her skin. Three more glasses of cold champagne did nothing to extinguish them. In fact they made the burn worse.
An hour ago he had disappeared with a group of men as he smoked his cigar. The smoke curled around his face. It whispered through his clothes leaving a trail behind him. His eyes met hers as he walked by, once more he had scanned her body with shameless openness. She stared back. Her eyes burned into his broad back as he walked away. She had been 3 drinks into the night at that point
Now an hour later she was 5 drinks into the night. The champagne loosening her inhibitions. The champagne probed her to find the masked man. The champagne whispering dirty thoughts into her mind. Follow him. Find him. Fuck him. She swallowed hard and motioned for the waiter to get her a fresh glass.
That man had to be Iqbal. It had to be. If only he wasn't wearing a mask. Fucking plausible deniability. An aide walks over to her and hands her a note suddenly “Madam the man in the golden mask and the black tuxedo has asked me to give you this note”
“Oh thank you” she takes the note, the aide nods with a smile and leaves. Yamini unfolds the note. It's written in a neat english scrawl. And it simply says:
Aap nachti bada achha hain…do you play cards as well as you dance? (Vazir Hall)
She smiles to herself she brings the note to her nose. It smells like his cologne. As a matter of fact she does. Yamini is damn good at cards. She folds the note and tucks it into her bra.
—--------------------------------
Same day @ 10:15 pm
Vazir Hall, Taj Hotel, New Delhi, India
Yamini climbs up the steps to the secluded halls of the Taj hotel. They had main ballrooms and halls but they also had more private and secluded rooms as well. Her heels click on the marble floors as her ballgown swishes around her feet. Eventually she reaches the door of the Vazir hall.
It's a dark, wood paneled room. Deep red carpets. Low lighting. Poker tables and lounges placed sporadically. The room was deserted save for one table against the most secluded corner of the hall.
Yamini walks slowly. There he is. The man in the golden mask and black tuxedo. He is reclined in a leather armchair. An ankle over the other knee. A cigar between his fingers as he watches her carefully. The sway of her hips. The silhouette of her body in the low lighting. For a moment neither person speaks.
“You called?” she hums lightly. Keeping the seductive husk in her voice so who she is isn't entirely apparent yet. Iqbal laughs darkly, tapping ash off of his cigar into a crystal ash tray. “You came?” he asks with a low rumble that shoots through her spine. He gestures for her to take a seat across from him.
She settles into the plush leather arm chair with a coy smile. “Tell me what games do you want to play?” she hums lightly as she sets her seventh champagne glass on the poker table in front of her. “Well poker for now” he says as he takes a long drag off of his cigar.
“For now?” she hums with a grin as she rests her chin in her palm. “For now” he hums with a dark rumble. “How will we play? I don't see a dealer” she questions with a raised eyebrow. Iqbal grins and claps his hands once. The sound reverberates in the empty room.
From a curtained alcove in the wall beside them a hand extends and waves at Yamini in greeting “Dealer in the wall” he grins.
“How very innovative and discrete” she muses. “What's on bet? Cash? Im sorry to say i dont have any on me” Iqbal leans back stroking his beard in thought.
“Let's make this interesting. Lets bet the chips like we have the funds to back them. An IOU of sorts.” He begins and Yamini nods as if understanding the game. He continues “And the person who loses the round not only loses their money they lose a piece of their dignity.” he grins darkly to finish.
“Dignity? Strip poker you mean? How very perverted of you masked man” she narrows her eyes at him through the masquerade mask as she sips her champagne. “Scared?” he laughs while taking another drag of his cigar. Yamini laughs into her glass “Of you? I don't even know who you are. So no. I'm not scared”
“Chaliye. Lets play then” Iqbal claps his hands once again.
—-----------------------------
Authors note: Please listen to Sharab by Himesh Reshammiya for this part….TRUST ME
The dealer begins by opening a fresh pack of cards in front of them. He shuffles them against the table with immense artistry. The cards curve and dance in the dealer's hands as Iqbal observes the masked woman in front of him. Yamini examines the masked man in front of her.
Ye botal bhari bharaayi
Na honton se lagaayi
Ghazab toh dekho yaaro
Usne aankhon se pilaayi
The dealer splits the cards and deals 2 cards to each player at the table and sets five cards face up onto the green velvet table. Texas Hold’em poker. Yamini was good at this game. She hides her smile behind her mask as she checks her cards. It's a strong hand. She bets 10 thousand rupees.
Iqbal checks his cards. Good but not great. He sees she has bet low. Was it a strategy or were her cards bad? “I raise the pot to 30 thousand rupees” he hums as he takes a swig of whiskey.
“I call” she smiles as she matches the pot, which now rested at 60 thousand rupees. The dealer taps his hands to the table. As he takes Yamini’s chips to the mide of the pot.
“Show” hums Iqbal as he throws 5 thousand more into the pot as the price to make her show her cards. “Eager aren't you?” she hums
Pehle toh nazar milaayi
Phir dekh ke muskurayi
Ghazab toh dekho yaaro
Usne aankhon se pilaayi
Yamini throws her cards onto the table. Straight flush. Iqbal throws his cards on the table. Full house. Not as strong as Yamini’s cards. She claps in triumph. “Chaliye take it off now” she hums as she leans in closer. He grins and takes off his tux jacket tossing it to the ground. “Well played” he hums. Yamini watches intensely as she sips her champagne.
The white shirt beneath it is tailored to him just as well. It clings to his strong muscular frame. His fingers undo the buttons at his cuff as he rolls up his sleeves to his forearms. Cigar hanging loose from his mouth. His hand undoes his bowtie letting it hang loose around his collar.
Tujhe jaisi na koi teeno lok mein
Sab kuch luta doon tere shauk mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
“Shal we keep the pot going if you aren't too greedy?” rumbles Iqbal as he leans forward now. Yamini laughs. “Why not”
The pot stands at 65 thousand now as the dealer re-deals the cards. Yamini checks her cards. They seem alright. Iqbal checks his cards. It's a strong hand. Iqbal throws in 20 thousand. Yamini throws in 10 thousand. Iqbal calls once again, throwing 5 thousand into the pot.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
The pot now stands at 1 lakh. Yamini throws her cards. Three of a kind. Iqbal grins as he throws his cards on the table. Full house. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. Iqbal grins like a wolf “ And what will you be taking off?”
He assumes that she would take off her dress. He had her in an unfair position. A tuxedo had more parts. A ballgown had barely any parts. “Have some patience” she hums as she reaches under the table.
Her hand goes under her dress. She shuffles slightly in her seat as Iqbal watches curiously. She hums to herself lightly as she fumbles with her clothes. Her hand hooks into the waistband of her panties. She shucks them off and steps her heels out of it. She pulls her hand out from under her dress. Under the table.
She holds the fabric up. A slinky scrap of black lace and satin. Iqbal's throat goes dry as he realizes what he was seeing. She grins and throws it across the table to him.
Iqbal has to clear his throat before he responds. His thumb and index finger rub the lace. Fuck this is what she was wearing underneath. He can feel the gusset. It’s damp. “Eager are we?” he finally rasps as he holds up the fabric in front of his face. “Wearing a ballgown…I don't have many choices do I?” she smiles with a shrug.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Iqbal chuckles as he taps the table to make the dealer deal another round. Iqbal pockets her underwear discreetly as she turns her head momentarily. He feels the silky fabric slip into the pockets of his trousers. Lust swirls inside of him. This masked woman would be the death of him.
The dealer behind the curtain splits the cards and shuffles them once again. He deals the cards to both parties once again. The pot still sits at 1 lakh.
Chanchal kajrari aankhen
Haaye shikari aankhen
Dil pe chalaye chhuriyan
Teri katari aankhen
Iqbal looks at his cards. Shit. Not very good. Yamini looks at her cards. Very good. Very very good. She drains her champagne glass with a grin as she crosses one leg over the other and bounces her foot. Iqbal takes another deep drag off of his cigar. The smoke cures around her as he exhales. She was bare beneath that ballgown. Iqbal's hand twitched by his thigh.
She tosses 20 thousand into the pot. Iqbal tosses 25 thousand into the pot. Enough to raise and call on the same bet. The dealer taps his hand on the table making both of them throw their cards on the table. Yamini had a straight flush, Iqbal had straight. “Back to you” she hums with a grin.
Dil pe chalaye chhuriyan
Teri katari aankhen
Naagin si haye zulfein
Iqbal huffs a laugh as he places his cigar between his lips again. He leans back slightly and pulls his shirt out of his trousers. His hands make quick work of the buttons. Yamini stares at the masked man's body as he bares it.
His shapely chest is revealed first. Strong pectorals, hair on his chest. He unbuttons the shirt entirely and begins shucking it off of his shoulders, his biceps flexing behind his back as his abs come into view. Yamini stares openly. Dragging her eyes on every aspect of his fit muscular body that is littered with scars. A gunshot wound. A jagged knife scar. Each element adds to his rugged sex appeal. His cigar smoke curls around his own body.
“Like what you see?” he grins at her open staring. “Not bad.” She hums lightly, her voice slightly strained now, making him laugh as she throws his dress shirt to the ground.
Kaali ghataaye zulfein
Maaregi tauba tauba
Teri balaaye zulfein
Maaregi tauba tauba
Teri balaaye zulfein
The dealer splits and deals the cards once more. The pot sits at 1 lakh 45 thousand. But neither party really cares about the pot anymore. In fact they never cared at all. Iqbal looks at his cards again. Today just wasn't his day. Yamini looks at her cards. Today was her day.
“I bet 25 thousand” she hums, throwing in more chips to the pool. Iqbal sighs “Call. And an extra 5 thousand to show” the chips clatter on the large pile. The pool now sits at 2 lakhs. Yamini throws her cards on the table, a royal flush her grin is triumphant. Iqbal threw his cards face down. What he got didn't even matter anymore.
Toote chaand ka guroor
Tere chehre ka noor
Tujhe dekh dekh hota hai
Deewane ko suroor
“Ab kya utarenge?” she hums leaning back against the leather arm chair. Iqbal leans down and takes off his shoes, then his hands go to his belt and it comes away with a clatter. He tosses both things to the ground. “Hopefully that's satisfactory?” he chuckles as he ashes his blunt cigar.
“Not really ... .make it fun. Unbutton your trousers at the very least” she tsks off handedly as she fiddles with her lace mask. Iqbal grins behind his golden mask. “Why not?” he hums as he flicks open the button to his trouser pants.
Tujhe jaisi na koi teeno lok mein
Sab kuch luta doon tere shauk mein
“Shall we? Keep going that is.” he hums to her as he indicates to the dealer to re-shuffle the cards. The dealer's hands reach through the curtains and collect the cards on the table. He shuffles them artistically.
Yamini looks at the masked man with a grin. “Sabkuch lutane ka shaunk hai kya aapko?” The dealer begins to deal another pair of cards to both of them. “Kyun nahi?” he grins as he checks his cards. His luck had begun to turn and he had a strong hand.
“Hmm.. quite a risk taker aren't you? Not much dignity left for you to preserve.” She tsks at him as she oles his muscular body once more. Iqbal chuckles as he throws in 45 thousand. Yamini raises a brow at his bet. But matches it anyway with an extra 5 thousand to call him.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
The pot now sits at 3 lakhs. But the money meant nothing. It was all on the cards. Iqbal throws his cards in. Royal flush. Yamini curses under her breath as she throws her cards face down onto the table. They weren't even worth showing.
Iqbal grins lazily as he leans back in his leather arm chair. Yamini reaches behind her. Iqbal expects her to unzip her gown. He even hears the zipper move slightly. She burns under the intensity of his stare. Her hand works fast, unhooking her bra behind her back. She pulls it out of her dress and zips it up again. The strapless matching satin and lace bra is pulled out into the air like a prized fish.
She tosses it across the table to Iqbal who catches it in his hand. His fingers fist around the material as he places it in his lap gently. “Youre a wild card aren't you?” he rumbles. His voice has gone gravely with restraint. Lust swirls in his dark eyes behind the gold mask. He can feel his trousers getting uncomfortably tight.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Yamini doesn't speak. Instead this time she signals to the dealer. Another round. Once again the dealer's hands reach through the curtains and collect the cards on the table. He shuffles them artistically. The cards flying through the air.
Yamini and Iqbal watch each other carefully. Her thighs clench the way he stares at her. His eyes dragged over her dress as if he had x-ray vision. He was imagining her bare beneath it. She could feel her nipples pebble with anticipation. Yamini looks at her cards. They were decent.
Iqbal could feel the way her eyes dragged along his bare skin. Each place her eyes rested for more than a moment burned. His thighs shifted apart as he manspread to create more room for his poor aching cock. The trousers are too tight for comfort. He looked at his cards. Decent.
Yamini gathers all of her remaining chips in her hand. 3 lakhs worth of chips in her palms. Iqbal mentally counts his chips. 5 lakhs worth of chips. She curls an eyebrow at him. She is telling him to make his move.
Iqbal’s tongue licks his teeth once. He doesn't think too hard “All in” he says gruffly as he shoves his chips into the pot. Yamini matches “all in”. Both of them now lean forward. The pot now rests at 11 lakhs. But the money didn't matter to either of them. Dignity was on the line. Both of them threw their cards down. It was a draw.
Both of them blink at the cards for a moment. They hear a soft clap and a rustle behind the curtain. The dealer was gone. The Vazir hall was empty. The masked woman and the masked man were alone. The game was a draw.
“How fucking anticlimactic” she scoffs as she stands up. Iqbal watches her carefully, not speaking, just observing. She hikes up her knee and climbs onto the poker table. Iqbal narrows his eyes at this as he watches. She begins to crawl towards him on top of the table.
Her black chiffon gown against the velvet of the poker table. She shoves the cards and chips out of her way as she crawls to him. She holds his eyes intensely. Iqbal has most definitely seen those eyes somewhere.
She reaches her hand forwards. “Chaliye ab khel khatam. Wapas dijiye. We will split our winnings fairly” She is asking him for her bra and underwear again. He grins at her darkly, there is a flash of gold in his teeth.
“Aise kaise de den hum aapko ye wapas?” he hums raspily as he leans in closer to her “maine jeeta hai inko. Fair and square.” he reasons as she looks at her. Iqbal fists his hand in her bra that sat in his lap. Yamini laughs it off even as anticipation and arousal pools in her gut. “Jeeti toh mai bhi hun. So I deserve my property back don't I?"
He laughs darkly, the laugh makes her core flutter “ I won too masked madam. It's a draw. Ab kya karna hai?” he leans in closer. Their faces are painfully close to each other. Yamini swallows hard at the proximity to the man in the gold mask. “ Well then there is only one thing left to do to make it fair to the both of us. Its a big step.”
“Kya karna hoga?”
“Ab toh sirf ye fair hoga ki agar hum dono apni dignity ke last shreds ko bhi hatale. Naga hona padega sahab”
Iqbal leans forward if that was even possible. The green velvet of the poker table makes Yamini’s palms sweat. His lips are inches away from hers when he whispers with a painful amount of restraint “Will you do it…if I do it?
She nods as she swallows. Her eyes are dilated behind the mask. Arousal pools in her body. She trembles in anticipation. The entire Vaizir hall is thick with tension. It's just them here. The air is impossible to breathe. His hands curl beneath her chin so she looks square into his eyes. “Use your words princess.”
Yamini’s breath hitches. His words. She swallows and nods before she stammers out “Yes. Yes I will” Iqbal's lips crash against her and its kiss of teeth and tongue. No sweetness or fondness. It's a kiss of deep need. The need to consume the soul of someone who already clouded you.
—------------------------
She moans into his mouth in surprise and Iqbal swallows it down. He pulls her off of the poker table with his strong arms. She lands on the floor beside him with a thud as he kisses her. Her hands rove along the hard disciplined plane of his body with an appreciative groan into his mouth.
Iqbal's hands go to her zipper behind her back. She loops her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulls him in closer. She tastes like champagne and he tastes like whiskey and cigars. Together they taste intoxicating.
“Fuck” she gasps against his lips as he pulls the zipper down. The metal teeth sounded painfully loud in the tense room. Iqbal’s hands pulled at the fabric and pushed it onto the floor as fast as he could while he consumed her breath. And then she was bare in front of him.
Iqbal pulls away to look at her flushed and panting face. Her ample breasts heave under her labored breathing under his gaze. “Just as I imagined. Fucking stunning.” he groans as he takes a breast into his palm. The warm heavy weight sat perfectly as he massaged the flesh which spilled through his fingers. She choked on a moan as her body arched towards him.
His hands cupped both of her breasts rolling her pebbled nipples between his calloused thumb and index finger. His lips attacked her throat leaving hot open mouthed kisses along her skin. She breathes shakily in his arms, sparks of pleasure shooting through her body with every rough twist and pinch. “Imagined?” she finally gasps “You were imagining me?”
Her soft hands trace along his bare torso. Her nails lightly drag on his skin. He groans against her throat as he nips below her ear. The diamond earrings brushing his face. “Ever since I saw you in the ballroom. Ever since I danced with you. I've been undressing you in my mind” he rasps as he pulls away reluctantly to look at her face.
“Do you like what you see? Do you like what you see without knowing who I am?” rasps Yamini as her eyes flutter shut in pleasure. She feels him latch onto her nipple with a hard suck. His teeth scrape along the top as his tongue flicks at the underside.
Without stopping his assault of licks, bites, and sucks on her breast Iqbal reaches for his half finished glass of whiskey. He pours out his remaining drink along her shoulder. The whisky traces cold rivers on her flushed skin. None of it goes to waste. His tongue traces every drop. He kisses and bites her skin to collect every drop of his whiskey.
Her hands fist in his hair with a gasp. The silk ribbon holding his mask up tangles in her fingers. She could pull it off if she pleased. “Fucking stunning.” he rasps as he licks off the last of the whiskey from her skin.
Before she could utter another word Iqbal pushed back onto the poker table. The chips and cards pushed away haphazardly framing her body. The image looks like a twisted poker porno. The light hanging above the table illuminates her diamond necklace. His hair is messy, the look in his eyes is crazed and obsessed. Like he was discovering something holy.
His hands roved along her hips. Along her waist. His hands were rough with years of use and grueling training. Her skin was so soft, so delicate. He breath hitched when he groped and squeezed the flesh of her thighs. Her legs crossed of their own accord.
His body was scared and hers was untouched. A man like him doesn't even deserve to be looking at such pristine perfection. Iqbal leans in and bites her beautiful unmarked skin. Yamini hisses in pain as his teeth clamp into the soft flesh of her stomach. He litters her body in bites and kisses as he works his way up.
She writhes on the green velvet poker table. Small sounds of pleasure escaping her throat in the form of whines and moans. Her hands find purchase on his shoulders. In his hair. Her thighs clenched tight. The friction helped the burning slick forming there.
Each sound she makes drives Iqbal even more insane. He trails sloppy kisses up her jaw, capturing her plush lips again. Her lips part automatically as he kisses her deeply. His hands groping the flesh at her hip making her gasp into his mouth. His pants are unbearably tight now, almost painfully so. “Please.. Need more” she gasps against his mouth.
That's what Iqbal was looking for. Within seconds he has her flipped onto her stomach. Poker chips clatter on the soft table. Yamini moans as her sensitive nipples rub against the velvet. “Oh fuck!” she gasps startled. Iqbal laughs darkly at her as he brings her hips to the edge of the table. He shoves his leg between hers and kicks her ankles apart forcing her legs to open wide for him.
She gasps again as the cold night air hits her soaked folds. The difference in temperature makes a shiver run up her spine. “So fucking desperate arent you shehzadi?” he hums darky as his fingers trace her wet folds. “Soaked and i’ve barely fucking touched you”
Her face burns in embarrassment. She hates the heat that pools in her stomach when he calls her princess or shehzadi in that deep tone. She can feel herself dripping, her hole clenching around thin air. She can feel how her body responds to him. “Are you just going to stand there and feed your ego or will you do something?” she seethes through gritted teeth.
Iqbal chuckles darkly at her bitchy mouth. “Dont be impatient” he whispers against her shoulder blade as he plants a kiss there. She squirms as his hands hold her in place. The velvet is rough against her soft skin now. His ring and middle fingers part her slick folds. And before she can prepare herself he thrusts them deep into her.
A strangled moan rips from her throat at the intrusion of his fingers. The stretch is massive, she can feel his cold gold rings against her skin. Her back arches as his rough fingers drag against her g-spot. The motion makes sparks shoot through her body.
As her back arches Iqbal uses the moment to tangle his paw-like hand into her hair. He grips it and yanks her backwards. His fingers still inside of her, her back arches like a taught bow. She hisses in pain and pleasure. Her cunt flutters on his fingers. The stretch still burns. He shifts his fingers slightly making her moan wantonly. “So fucking tight princess…you can barely take my fingers.” he coos in her ear condescendingly.
“How on earth will you take my cock?” he tsks. She whines as her hands wrap behind her, around his neck. He begins to thrust his fingers in and out of her. Slowly at first. The pads of his fingers rub against her inner walls gently. His bare chest against her spine. One of his hands in her hair, one of his hands in her cunt. The heel of his palm hitting against her clit.
She grinds against his hand as he begins fucking her with his fingers propperly. His long and slender digits curled against her g spot. The heel of his palm hitting her clit. “More..need more” she gasps as her eyes flutter shut.
He laughs darky by her ear. He obliges and speeds up his fingers. “You are such a slut aren't you?” he starts darkly, his fingers thrusting hard. “You don't even know who I am and you are riding my fingers like a desperate slut begging for more” she moans loudly at his words and the way his fingers massage her walls expertly.
“Can’t the same be said for you? Hmm?” She laughs breathlessly against him “Look at you, fingering an unknown woman in a dark hall” she giggles with a moan as he curls his fingers inside of her. Iqbal pulls her hair harder for her insolence making her hiss. “Ahh!” she hisses “Take off the mask. Be brave and take off your mask”
“Bohot baat karti ho tum” he growls in her ear as his fingers speed up. “Darr gaye?” she moans as she rides his fingers harder. Each thrust hitting against her g spot. “Mai darta nahi hun shehzadi…if only you knew” he hums in her ear as he feels her cunt flutter around his fingers. She was close. Iqbal wanted to feel that around his cock.
He loosens the hand in her hair and brings it to her breast. He begins massaging the soft flesh in time with his fingers. He bites and kisses along her shoulder. She cries out in pleasure as she feels the pull of her orgasm. “That's it princess cum for me” he husks into her ear. “Fuck!” she exclaims as her walls quiver and sparks fly through her body
Wetness gushes on Iqbal's fingers as she cums. He chuckles darkly by her ear. “Well done” he hums as he pulls his fingers out of Yamini making her gasp. He brings his fingers to his face. He parts his lips and places his fingers inside. She tastes amazing, he moans around his fingers. The sound makes a fresh wave of wetness coat her folds.
A flush creeps up her face. Her chest heaves as she catches her breath. Her mask threatens to slip and loosen; Iqbal fixes it. Tightening the ribbon that held it in place with painfully gentle fingers. Before she can speak he takes a step back.
His hand pulls his cock out of his trousers with no flourish. He doesn't even take the moment to undress fully. Yamini’s eyes go to his cock with no shame. God damn he was big. 6 inches easily. Perfectly veined in such a way she was clenching her thighs in anticipation of the feeling. She leans back against the poker table.
With a deep groan he pumps his aching cock. The grin on his face is shit eating as he sees her wide eyes on him. He sits down in the large leather armchair again. It creaks slightly beneath his weight. His hand fists his cock lazily as he watches her through his golden mask.
His cock twitches lazily in his hand as he watches her hips, her breasts, the marks he left on her, the flush in her face. He calls to her in his deep and gravely voice. “Come here princess….. Like the cock hungry bitch you are”
She laughs darkly as she walks toward him. Hips swaying and breasts bouncing with every motion. “Im cock hungry?” she hums as she stands before him. “Arent you pussy starved? Don't tell me that this is one sided. Don't lie to yourself when your cock is that painfully hard”
Iqbal laughs darkly at her words. “Fine princess, I won't lie to myself. Come here so I can sink my aching cock into your tight cunt” She climbs into his lap. Her knees on either side of him. Her dripping cunt hovering over him.
Yamini holds his face gently in his hands. She pulls him close as she kisses him again. Iqbal's hands wrap around her waist as he groans into the kiss. She taunts him again, whispering against his lips “Take off the mask… don't worry. I won't make fun of you if you’re ugly”
Iqbal hums against her lips. He feels her slick drip onto his aching cock. “Why are you so desperate to know who I am?” His large palms brace her hips as he slams her down onto his cock. Practically impaling her. She screams into his shoulder as she feels his cock stretch her impossibly.
Fuck he was huge. Her cunt fluttered to try to accommodate him. Iqbal groans, pressing his forehead into her shoulder. Fuck she was tight. Her walls were milking him as they tried to fit him. He hadn't expected her to be this tight. He has to breathe deeply against her shoulder to loosen the knot of pleasure coiling inside of his core already.
A few moments later she moans weakly against his ear “You think I don't know who you are?” she chuckles as she rolls her hips against him. They both groan. Iqbal’s hands dig into her hips for support. She laughs and moans as he begins fucking into her “I know exactly who you are. And I think you know who I am too” she starts.
His hips snap into her making her choke for a moment but she continues “-But you are too afraid of reality. That's why you won't take off the mask” she hums as she rides his cock. Her breath came in uneven pants. He scoffs and says “I just don't want to be disappointed by the face under your mask thats all”
She rolls her eyes with a moan. This bastard. Yamini already knew who he was, otherwise she never would have let things go this far. She had a suspicion when he invited her for poker. It was confirmed many rounds ago. The time has come to let him know that she knew. She knew who he was.
“You like that, don't you Major sahab? The plausible deniability?" She rasps into his ear. Iqbal's hips stutter momentarily. Yamini felt it. The grin on her face was triumphant. His eyes went wide, she knew who he was. “Shut up princess. Don't start something you won't be able to handle” he pounds up into her harder. The rasp in his voice is delicious and it hits straight in her clit.
“Tell me Iqbal, does it turn you on?” he chokes on a moan at her taking his name. She laughs evilly as she unties his mask before he can stop her. The silk ribbon comes undone with a sharp tug. His cock brushes against her g-spot with every thrust. Her body quivers in pleasure.
The golden mask clatters to the floor. Iqbal's face is revealed, he looks so handsome, so exposed in the low lighting of the Vazir hall. “Mashallah yeh aya Eid ka chand” she laughs with a moan as she presses a kiss to his forehead. A flush graces Iqbal's face as he buries his face into her neck. Leaving hot open mouthed kisses along the column of her throat.
His lips bite and nip along her cleavage. His cock brushes deep inside of her with each thrust. Pleasure pulls at her navel embarrassingly fast again. Her thighs burn as she matches each thrust. The leather armchair beneath them groans and creaks. She pulls his head up by the hair. They are both close. She can feel it the way he is twitching inside of her. And he can feel it the way her cunt flutters desperately.
“Aap ISI ke head hai na? So for that sake, before we fall off the cliff of pleasure Major sahab. Tell me. Who am I?” She rides him hard with a roll of her hips. They pant against each other's lips. He fucks up into her harder. Each thrust settled deep inside of her.
“Tell me Iqbal, who do you want me to be?” she moans. Her head lolls in pleasure, her hands claw into his shoulders. He groans. Pleasure coils inside of him. But her request claws at him. He stays buried into the cork of her neck. His lips sucked deep marks that would remain for at least a week. With shaky fingers he goes to untie her mask.
“Yamini. I want you to be Yamini Singh” he says shakily into her throat, his hips still snapping up into her. Yamini’s breath hitched her cunt clenches again. He took her name for the first time. Iqbal groans as he feels her clenching around him. Her mask falls away. The black lace whispers as it falls against the arm of the leather armchair.
“Mujhe dekho Iqbal” she pants her eyes threatening to roll back. She is hazy with lust. Lost in the pleasure. Iqbal keeps himself against her throat. His shaky hand rests against her cheek “Iqbal please” she whines in pleasure as his cock brushes against her cervix.
The way she begs forces Iqbal to open his eyes. When he does he sees her beautiful flushed face. Her plump lips parted his name on her lips, her eyebrows scrunched. Fuck she looked beautiful. It was her. There was no plausible deniability anymore.
Her eyes were hazy and unfocussed as they stared at Iqbal. There most definitely was no plausible deniability anymore. Indian diplomat Yamini Singh. Pakistani Major Iqbal Khan of the ISI.
Iqbal pulls her in for a kiss. She moans into it. Their lips move against each other feverishly as they feel their highs get closer and closer. The reveal of identities made everything in the room burn with intensity. The air between them burns. His hands on her waist burned. Her hands on his shoulders burned.
Yamini feels pleasure pull at her again. She is close. His cock dragged deliciously along her ribbed walls. Each vein caresses the muscles. Each thrust first hit her g-spot and then her cervix. The pleasure was maddening. She felt her core clenching around him. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the empty hall.
“Cum for me shehzadi….cum for me Yamini” he pants breathlessly. Yamini screams into his shoulder as pleasure takes her. White hot stars burst behind her eyes as her body falls against his limply. “IQBAL!”
“FUCK……. YAMINI” roars Iqbal as he feels his core tighten. His hips stutter violently as he shoots thick hot ropes of cum into her. Her body shakes against his as her walls milk him for all he is worth. Iqbal cant help it, he fucks her through the orgasm with shaky breaths.
—------------------
A few moments later.
Both of them stay like that. Him inside of her, now softening. His cologne and her perfume clouding them. The thick atmosphere dissipates into the large Vazir hall. They can hear the orchestra from the durbar hall below. Where the diplomatic masquerade ball continues.
Iqbal’s fingers curl beneath her chin. He kisses her softly as he holds her in his arms. She moans softly into him as her hands tangle in his hair. No India. No Pakistan. No Diplomacy. No animosity. Just them a few moments of peace before they would have to part again.
Maybe diplomacy between India and Pakistan wasn't so bad after all. Not when the lessons in diplomacy looked like this.
---------------------
I HOPE YALL HAD AS MUCH FUN AS I DIDDDDDDD
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GUYS IM SOO SORRY FOR BEING SO INACTIVE WITH MY POSTS.
i still do comment duhh gotta keep the fandom alive but i just don't get time to write fics and I'll be travelling next week, And i will start writing fics again from 18th July but dw in this week I will maybe post something? (Maybe the Baba Bhandari Oneshot or the Tarun x Dev X Reader wala chapter 3)
AND YES AFTER I RETURN ON 18TH I BETTER SEE SHAURYAMAN GAUR FIC REQS I will watch the movie on the 18th
Uhm so I use this app called ‘the clubhouse' and the Group I have joined in it is called ‘India and The World' and last week the invited speaker was SANJAYA BARU YES THE REAL SANJAYA BARU 😭🙏🙏🙏🙏
I FUCKING TALKED TO THE REAL SANJAYA BARU I ASKED HIM A QUESTION 💀💀💀💀💀💀😅
Dawg I swear I write fanfics using his name 😭🙏🙏(For AK tho duhh) SO LIKE ITS SO WEIRD LOLL
T.W: GORE? IG IDK MAN, AND ALSO YEA NOTHING MUCH,it's a tiny chapter :)
Part- ii
The silence that followed her demand was suffocating, broken only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Your heart was drumming in an uneven beat against your ribs, and for a moment, you felt as though the very walls of the mansion were closing in on you.
You looked at Shanti the woman who had served your family for years, who had seen you grow from a child into a woman and all you could see was a parasite, A scavenger waiting to feast on your family's wealth.
A cold, sharp clarity began to settle over your panic. You realized that if you gave her the money, you were buying a lifetime of fear. Every time she looked at you, you would wonder if she was thinking of her next demand. Every time she walked past your room, you would wonder if she had a new recording. You couldn't live like that. You couldn't let her become the shadow that haunted your every move.
You forced your hands to stop trembling, lacing your fingers together and resting them on the banister to hide the shake. You forced a small, shaky smile onto your lips.
"Ek crore?" you repeated, your voice coming out smoother than you actually felt.
"Shanti, aap toh bahut badi maang kar rahi ho. Itna saara paisa toh ek din mein nikalna mushkil hai."
Shanti’s eyes narrowed, her grip on the phone tightening.
"Mushkil hai, par namumkin nahi, beti. Aapke papa ke paas bahut sona hai, bahut heere hain. Ek crore toh unke liye kuch bhi nahi hai. Bas mujhe woh paisa chahiye, aur yeh video hamesya ke liye mitti mein mil jayegi."
You took a slow, deliberate breath, letting your gaze drop to the floor as if you were considering the weight of her demand. In reality, you were calculating your next move.
"Theek hai..." you whispered, looking back up at her with eyes that you hoped looked submissive rather than murderous.
"Main koshish karungi. Main mummy aur papa se baat karungi, unhe samjhaungi ki kuch zaroori kaam hai. Main tumhe paise de dungi, Shanti. Bas tum vaada karo ki yeh video kisi aur ko nahi dikhaogi."
A triumphant, ugly grin spread across her face, her greed momentarily eclipsing her caution.
"Vaada! Bilkul vaada! Bas mujhe woh paisa mil jaye, phir aap chinta mat kijiye. Yeh video toh aise gayab ho jayega jaise kabhi tha hi nahi." She patted your hand, a condescending gesture that made your skin crawl. "
Abhi ke liye aap taiyaar ho jaiye. Main kal subah tak intezaar karungi. Yaad rakhna, beti... waqt bahut kam hai."
She turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps echoing with a sense of victory that made your blood boil. As she disappeared around the corner, the mask of the frightened girl fell away.
Your expression hardened, your jaw setting in a line of pure, cold determination. You weren't a victim, and you weren't a beggar. You were a daughter of one of the most powerful families in Mumbai, and you would not be extorted in your own home.
You stared at the empty hallway, your mind racing. You needed a plan. Something clean. Something that wouldn't leave a trace.
You thought of the kitchen, of the ice trays in the deep freezer, and a dark, brilliant idea began to take shape.
_______________________________________________
You spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, moving through the house like you were watching yourself from a distance. Every time Shanti walked past you, your stomach did a nauseating flip. You kept checking the time, your eyes darting to the corners of the room, half expecting her to pull out that phone again.
Finally, you grabbed your phone and messaged Tarun.
"Tarun, aaj shayad nahi aa paungi. Kuch zaroori kaam aa gaya hai ghar pe, thoda akele hi rehna padega," you wrote.
You felt a pang of guilt for lying to him, but you couldn't risk him coming over and seeing the madness in your eyes. You couldn't let him see you like this.
Once the sun went down and the house settled into a heavy, uneasy quiet, you knew the time was coming. Shanti had finished her evening shift and had retreated to her small room near the servant quarters. You waited until you heard her door click shut before you made your move.
You walked into the kitchen, the marble floor feeling freezing under your feet.
You opened the heavy freezer, and the sudden blast of cold air made your lungs ache. Your hands were trembling, but you gripped the edge of the tray to steady them. You pulled out a large, solid block of ice, the kind you used for large drinks, and laid it on a thick wooden cutting board.
You grabbed a sharp paring knife, your knuckles white. You started carving, the sound of the blade scraping against the ice loud and jarring in the silent kitchen. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
You worked with a desperate, focused energy, chipping away at the edges, shaping the ice into a long, thick, lethal looking spike. It wasn't perfect, but it was heavy and the tip was sharp enough to pierce skin.
As you worked, your mind kept racing back to her face that smug, greedy grin when she demanded a crore. You felt a surge of immense hatred. You justified to yourself were killing a threat, you were reclaiming your life.
When the shape was finally right, you wrapped the base of the ice spike in a clean kitchen towel so your hand wouldn't go numb too quickly.
You stood there for a moment, staring at the makeshift weapon in the dim light. It looked so fragile, so temporary, yet it felt incredibly heavy in your hand.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart, and began to walk toward the back of the house. The hallway felt miles long, the shadows stretching out to meet you. Every step you took toward Shanti's room felt like a step toward a point of no return.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling out onto the dark floor. You didn't hesitate. You stepped inside, the heavy scent of incense and old fabric hitting you immediately, and pulled the door shut behind you. You reached for the lock, using the thick kitchen napkin to grip the metal handle so you wouldn't leave a single smudge of your skin. Click. The sound was final.
Shanti was sitting on the edge of her narrow cot, scrolling through her phone with a grin on her face. When she heard the lock, she looked up, her expression shifting from satisfaction to confusion.
"Kya hua, beti? Sab theek toh hai na?" she asked, her voice casual.
But as your eyes met hers, her smile began to falter.
You didn't say a word. You just stood there, the dim light from the single bulb overhead casting deep, hollow shadows under your eyes. Your face was a mask of cold, dead calm no fear, no hesitation, just a terrifying emptiness that made the air in the small room feel heavy.
Shanti’s eyes widened. She sat up straighter, her hand instinctively clutching her phone.
"Y-Y/N? Tum aise kyun dekh rahi ho? Sab theek hai na?" Her voice went up an octave, a tremor of genuine unease creeping in.
She tried to laugh, but it came out as a nervous, dry sound.
“Kuch chahiye kya?"
You didn't answer. You stepped forward, the towel wrapped ice spike held low at your side. The sudden movement made her gasp.
"Tum... tum kya kar rahi ho?" she stammered, her eyes darting to the strange, lumpy shape in your hand.
She started to scramble backward, her legs digging into the thin mattress, but you were faster.
You lunged.
The first strike was a brutal, downward thrust. The ice spike sank into her shoulder with a sickening, wet thud. Shanti let out a strangled, high pitched scream, her hands flying up to grab your wrists, but you didn't let go.
You were possessed by a violent desire. You drove the ice into her again and again, the cold blade tearing through her skin and muscle with every lunge.
“R-Ruko! Y/N, ruko! M-Maaf kar do!*" she shrieked, her voice breaking into a sob as she realized you weren't there to negotiate.
She was clawing at your arms, her nails digging into your skin, but you were relentless. You stabbed her in the chest, in the stomach, anywhere you could reach.
The room filled with the sound of her frantic, wet gasps and the rhythmic, gruesome sound of the ice piercing her flesh. You didn't stop until you felt the ice itself begin to fail. On the final, most powerful thrust, the ice spike hit her sternum and shattered, the shards of frozen water embedding themselves into her open wounds.
The screaming stopped. Shanti slumped back onto the bed, her eyes wide and glazed, staring at the ceiling. The room was silent now, save for your own ragged, heavy breathing. The small space was no longer filled with the scent of incense, it was thick and overwhelming with the stench of fresh blood.
She was now just a pile of blood and broken limbs on the bed. The red liquid was everywhere soaking into the thin mattress, dripping off the edge of the cot, and staining your hands despite the napkin. You stood over her, your chest heaving, looking down at the mess you had made. The ice was gone, melted into the red pool of her life, leaving no trace of the weapon that had ended her.
________________________________________________
After the adrenaline faded, the reality of the carnage set in. You stood there for a long time, staring at the red soaked bed sheets, your hands shaking so violently you had to grip the bedpost to stay upright. You had to act. You had to be the grieving, shocked girl.
You wiped your hands, scrubbing them until they were as clean as possible, and then you picked up the phone. When you called the police, your voice was a masterpiece of controlled hysteria. You made sure to sound breathless, as if you had just run through the house in a panic.
"Please... jaldi aaiye! Shanti... woh... woh marr gayi!" you sobbed into the receiver, your voice cracking perfectly.
"Main bas ghar aayi aur... and she's just lying there! Please, help me!"
Within twenty minutes, the quiet of the mansion was shattered by the wailing of sirens.
The front door was flung open, and the heavy footsteps of police officers echoed through the hallway. You sat on the sofa in the living room, a shawl wrapped tightly around your shoulders, your eyes red and puffy from "crying."
Hawaldar Tawde and Inspector Kohli arrived first.
They were older men, their faces lined with years of seeing the worst of the city. They walked into the room, their boots thudding on the marble.
"Madam, aap theek toh hain?" Tawde asked, his voice uncharacterically soft as he saw your trembling form.
He looked genuinely concerned, his brow furrowed.
"Dariye mat, hum sab sambhaal lenge."
Inspector Kohli stepped closer, his eyes scanning your face.
"Kya hua exactly? Shanti ko kaise dekha aapne?" he asked, his voice steady but gentle.
You wiped a tear away, playing the part to perfection.
"Main bas upar ja rahi thi... and and and then... she was just there! The the the door was open, and she was... she was just lying there in a pool of blood! It was so sudden!"
Kohli nodded, sighing heavily.
"Chinta mat kijiye, Madam. Hum sab dekh lenge. Tawde, jao andar dekho kya haal hai."
As Tawde and a few constables disappeared into the back rooms to secure the scene, the atmosphere in the room shifted. It was heavy, tense.
The door opened again, and a man walked in with a different kind of presence. He wasn't loud or boisterous like the others, he moved with a quiet, sharp intensity.
This was Dev Verma, the lead investigator. He wasnt like the others, wearing a crisp linen shirt, his eyes sharp and observant, like he was reading the very air in the room. He didn't look at the body first, he looked at you*
"Madam," he said, his voice deep and calm, yet carrying an authority that made the room feel smaller. He gave a polite, professional nod.
"Im Dev Verma. Inspector Kohli ne bataya ki aap bahut shocked hain. Sab theek ho jayega, bas humein thoda detail chahiye."
He walked closer, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a weight to his gaze, a sense that he wasn't just looking at your face, but looking through it.
"Aapne kaha ki aapne use dekha... par kya aapne kuch ajeeb mehsoos kiya? Koi awaaz? Ya koi aur ki maujoodgi?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes searching for the slightest flicker of a lie.
You took a deep breath, forcing your eyes to stay fixed on the floor, playing the part of the confused, grieving yet shocked girl. You knew exactly what you had done.
You had used your laptop to remotely loop the CCTV feed server software, creating a ten minute long glitch in the system logs that would mask your movements perfectly. To the world, you were just a girl who had come home to a tragedy.
"Sir, main toh bahar thi," you said, your voice trembling with a practiced, fragile vulnerability.
"Main toh bas abhi aayi hoon. Mujhe toh pata bhi nahi tha ki ghar mein aisa kuch hua hai. Everything was so sudden!"
Dev Verma’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked from you to the body, then back to you. He was clearly thinking about the ten minute gap in the security logs, but he had no proof yet.
"Aap bahar thi? I see..."
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife when the front door suddenly burst open.
The heavy thud of expensive leather shoes echoed in the hallway, and a man rushed into the room with an air of frantic urgency. It was Tarun. He looked impeccable in his bespoke suit, his face etched with worry as he raced towards you.
"Babe! Are you okay? Me toh bas tumhe dekhne ke liye aya tha kyuki tumne humare plans itne suddenly cancel kar diye..." Tarun exclaimed, his voice loud and commanding.
Without a second thought, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight, protective embrace, pulling you into his chest. He leaned down and pressed a lingering, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his hand stroking your hair as if to soothe your very soul.
Dev Verma stood frozen, his eyes tracking every movement of the man who was clearly too familiar. He watched as the reputable lawyer, the man known for his sharp intellect and unshakeable composure, practically melted into a protective lover.
To Dev, it looked performative, almost too perfect, but he couldn't deny the reaction it gave him. He felt a strange, unbidden prickle of irritation in his chest a flash of jealousy that he couldn't quite justify. He was a investigator, not a romantic, yet seeing this powerful man so vulnerable for you made his jaw tighten.
"Tarun?" you gasped, leaning into him, playing the part of the damsel in distress to perfection.
"Tum kab aaye?"
"Abhi abhi," Tarun replied, his eyes sweeping the room before settling on the police officers with a look of authority.
"Don't worry, darling. Sab theek ho jayega. Main hoon na." He looked at the inspectors, his expression shifting into the serious look of a top lawyer.
"Officers, please... let her rest. We will handle the legal formalities later."
Dev Verma watched the exchange, his eyes dark and unreadable. He saw the way Tarun's hand rested possessively on your waist, and he felt a sudden, irrational urge to interrupt the display. He knew Tarun was a powerhouse in the courtroom, a man who could make evidence disappear with a single argument, and that made him even more dangerous.
Dev stepped forward, breaking the intimate bubble Tarun had created around you. He didn't look at Tarun, his eyes were fixed on you, intense and unyielding.
"Saluja ji, with all due respect," Dev said, his voice cutting through the emotional tension like a blade,
"she needs to come with us to the station. Right now."
Tarun stiffened, his arm tightening around your waist in a protective, almost territorial grip. His eyes flashed with a lawyer's indignation.
"Excuse me? She is in shock. She is the victim here, not thr criminal. Aapko dikh nahi raha woh kitni pareshan hai?"
"Vo victim hogi, but prime suspect bhi hai," Dev countered calmly, his gaze never wavering.
"She is the only witness to the crime. We need her formal statement before the memory of this 'shock' fades or changes. It's standard procedure."
"Standard procedure? Is this a joke?" Tarun snapped, his voice rising.
"Aapko kya lagta hai aap use aise hi utha kar le ja sakte hain?"
The tension was palpable, the two men standing toe to toe one fueled by legal authority and protective passion, the other by a sharp, intuitive suspicion.
You could feel the heat radiating from Tarun’s body, his muscles tense as he prepared for a verbal war. You knew Dev was playing a high stakes game, he was testing the strength of your shield.
"Tarun, let him," you whispered, leaning your head against Tarun's shoulder to play the part of the exhausted, submissive girl.
"It's okay... if it's what he wants, let's just do it."
Tarun looked down at you, his expression crumbling into a mix of frustration and helplessness. He hated this. He hated the way Dev looked at you. After a tense, silent standoff, Tarun let out a sharp, defeated breath.
"Theek hai. Agar zaroori hai toh..."
As you began to stand, Tarun leaned in close, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. The scent of his expensive cologne enveloped you, a stark contrast to the smell of the crime scene.
"Ghabrana mat, jaan," he whispered, his voice low and vibrating with a promise.
"Main sab sambhaal lunga. Main bail papers lekar turant pahunch jaunga. Bas thodi der ke liye unke saath rehna. I'll be there before you even miss me."
He pulled back, giving you a small, encouraging nod that looked perfectly natural to the onlookers, but to you, it was a signal of war.
Dev watched the whisper with a tightened jaw, his eyes narrowing. He didn't miss the way Tarun's hand lingered on your arm, or the way you seemed to lean into his strength. He felt a surge of irritation, a feeling that he was being played by a masterclass in deception.
"Chaliye, Madam," Dev said, stepping aside to clear a path for you. His voice was professional, but there was a new, sharp edge to it.
Pairing: The entire Baloch household but mainly Rehman and Daughter OC (Laiba)
T.W: FLUFFFFFF YAYYYYY, also Naieem is 20 and Uzair is married.
Rehman sat propped up against the headboard of his bed, the soft light of the lamp illuminating the neat, handwritten list in his hands. A small, rare smile tugged at his lips as he read through his daughter's wishes. He had always wanted to spoil her, and seeing her requests made his heart swell with a quiet, protective pride.
He scanned the list quickly. New books? Check. He would find the finest leather bound editions. Makeup? Check. He would buy her the most expensive sets. Clothes? Check. He would ensure she had the most beautiful silks and laces. His finger moved down to the next item, and his eyes widened.
Car?
Rehman stared at the word, his brow furrowing in confusion. He blinked, reading it again to make sure he hadn't misread the neat handwriting. He sat up straighter, a look of pure bafflement crossing his rugged face.
He knew his daughter better than anyone, and he knew for a fact that she didn't know the first thing about driving. She couldn't even steer a bicycle without wobbling.
He tossed the list onto the duvet and stood up, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway as he walked straight toward her bedroom. He didn't knock, he simply pushed the door open, his expression a mix of confusion and mild concern.
"Laiba," he called out, his voice deep and commanding yet laced with fatherly curiosity. He walked over to her desk where she was busy organizing her things.
"Tumhe gaadi ki kya zaroorat he? Tumhe toh chalana bhi nahi ata."
Laiba looked up from her desk, her eyes bright and innocent. She didn't look intimidated by his sudden entrance at all. Instead, she gave him a bright, cheeky grin that reminded him so much of herself.
"Aree Abbu!" she chirped, leaning back in her chair.
"Abbu, maine Naieem aur Chachu ko bola hai. Woh dono sikhane wale he... Birthday ke pehle!"
Rehman felt a sudden, sharp pang of something in his chest. It wasn't anger, exactly, but a strange sense of being left out. He had always been the one she turned to for the big things, the one who provided the strength and the means for her every whim. The idea that she had gone to Naieem and Uzair to arrange something as significant as driving lessons stung his pride just a little bit.
He wanted to be the one to teach her. He wanted to be the one to sit in the passenger seat, watching her learn, guiding her hands on the wheel. But he didn't want to dampen her excitement or make her feel like she had done something wrong.
He took a slow breath, forcing his features to remain calm. He gave her a small, stiff nod, trying to hide the slight disappointment swirling in his gut.
"Achha," he muttered, his voice a bit flatter than usual.
"Theek hai."
Without saying another word, he turned on his heel and walked back toward his room, the image of her bright, smiling face burned into his mind. He felt a little bit like a stranger in his own house, even though he was the one who provided everything she could ever dream of.
_______________________________________________
The next morning, the sun had barely begun to peek through the heavy curtains of the hallway when Laiba was already a whirlwind of energy. She didn't care about the hour or the fact that most of the household was still draped in the quiet peace of sleep. She had a mission, and that mission was currently snoring loudly behind a closed wooden door.
She burst into Naieem’s room like a storm, her footsteps heavy and purposeful on the rug. Naieem, who was a deep sleeper and usually required at least three alarms to face the day, was currently sprawled across his bed, completely oblivious to the impending chaos.
Without a moment's hesitation, Laiba pounced. She practically threw herself onto the edge of his mattress, her hands reaching out to grab his shoulders. She began to shake him, her voice cutting through the morning stillness like a siren.
"NAIEEM! UTHHHHHHH!" she screamed, her voice high pitched and demanding.
She didn't stop there, leaning closer to his ear so he couldn't possibly ignore her.
Naieem let out a startled, strangled yelp, his eyes snapping open in pure terror. He scrambled backward, nearly tumbling off the other side of the bed as he tried to process why his sister was currently vibrating with excitement on top of him. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and he looked utterly disoriented.
"Kya hai?! Kya hua?!" he groaned, rubbing his eyes and trying to find his voice.
He squinted at her, seeing the fierce, determined look in her eyes.
"Laibaaaa? Subah ke panch baje hain!"
"Panch baje ho ya das, mujhe farq nahi parta!" she declared, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot impatiently.
"Tumne waada kiya tha! Tumne kaha tha ke birthday se pehle tum mujhe gaadi sikhoge. Toh chalo, utho aur mujhe sikhana shuru karo!"
Naieem let out a long, dramatic sigh, sinking back into his pillows as he realized there was no escaping her. He looked at her bright, unyielding face and knew he was defeated before the day had even truly begun.
After a long, dramatic negotiation involving several threats of Laiba poking him in the ribs, Naieem finally dragged himself out of bed. He didn't even bother to wash his face properly, he just threw on a sweatshirt and led his bouncing, energetic sister out to the driveway.
The moment Laiba sat in the driver's seat, the atmosphere shifted from "learning" to "survival."
She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and intense concentration. The moment Naieem told her to gently press the gas, she didn't just press it she stomped on it like she was trying to crush an enemy.
The car lurched forward with a violent jerk, nearly sending Laiba flying into the dashboard.
"Oye! Oye! Dheere!" Naieem yelled, grabbing the handle above the door as the car jolted again.
He felt his heart leap into his throat as she veered sharply to the left, the tires screeching against the pavement as she narrowly missed the garden hedge.
"Main toh dheere hi kar rahi hoon!" She protested, her voice trembling as she frantically wrestled with the steering wheel.
She was fighting the car as if it were a wild animal, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. She would slam on the brakes with enough force to make their heads snap forward, only to immediately lurch forward again in a panic.
Naieem sat in the passenger seat, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, his eyes darting between the road and his sister's face.
He felt a headache blooming behind his eyes. He had thought this would be a fun bonding experience, a way to show off his skills as a brother, but instead, he felt like he was trapped in a high speed deathtrap.
"Libby-, please, bas... bas pedals ko dekho! Stomp mat karo" he pleaded, his voice cracking.
He watched in horror as she accidentally hit the windshield wipers instead of the blinker, the blades slapping rhythmically against the glass as she stared at them in confusion.
"Yeh kya ho raha hai?!" she cried out, her face flushed with frustration.
She was absolutely, undeniably shittt at this. She had no sense of timing, no control over the pedals, and her steering was more of a suggestion than a command.
Naieem leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes for a brief second, letting out a long, silent groan. ‘Behanchod ye kaha faas gaya?' he thought desperately.
He loved his sister, but at this moment, he was fairly certain they wouldn't survive until lunch if she kept driving like a maniac.
________________________________________________
Naieem had reached his absolute breaking point. He had tried to guide her hands, tried to calm her breathing, and even tried to physically steady the steering wheel, but Laiba was a force of nature that refused to be tamed.
She was a disaster behind the wheel, a whirlwind of accidental jerks and panicked screams that left Naieem feeling like his soul had left his body. Finally, realizing that his survival depended on his immediate exit from the passanger's side, he practically scrambled out of the car the moment she came to a shaky, lopsided halt.
He stormed toward the dining room, his hair disheveled and his eyes wide with trauma. He found Uzair, sitting calmly at the table, the steam from his tea rising in a peaceful swirl.
"Chachu!" Naieem gasped, leaning heavily on the table as if he might collapse.
"Aap sikhado nah Laiba ko- Mujhe thoda kaam tha..."
Uzair slowly lowered his teacup, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his nephew's frazzled state. He had been sitting by the window, watching the entire spectacle of Laiba nearly taking out the garden hedge and Naieem nearly losing his lunch. He knew exactly what 'work' Naieem was referring to it was an escape.
"Nahi, nahi, bilkul nahi!" Uzair protested immediately, waving a hand dismissively.
He took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, trying to regain his composure.
Naieem saw the stubborn set of Uzair's jaw and knew he needed a bigger weapon. He knew his uncle's one weakness, His wife.
Being Rehman and Ulfat's first child, and the first of the three to meet Uzair's wife, Naieem held a sacred, untouchable status in his darling Chachi's heart. He was the golden boy, the one who could get away with anything.
Naieem took a deep breath, eyes glinting with desperation, and let out a loud, dramatic, and incredibly high pitched scream.
"CHACHIIIIII !"
The sound echoed through the entire house, cutting through the morning air like a knife.
Uzair’s eyes widened in pure panic. He knew that if his wife heard that, she would come running, and she would most certainly hold him responsible for whatever 'emergency' Naieem was inventing.
She would demand to know why he made Naieem scream, and he would have to explain that he was simply trying to avoid teaching a driving lesson.
"Oye! Oye! Bas! Bas kar!" Uzair hissed, lunging across the table to practically clap a hand over Naieem's mouth to stifle the second yell.
He looked around frantically, making sure no one heard.
"Chup kar! Bilkul shaant!"
He let out a defeated, long suffering sigh, rubbing his temples as he realized he had been played. He looked at Naieem’s smug, triumphant face and knew he had lost the battle.
Uzair muttered, defeated, as he stood up and wiped his hands on his trousers.
He marched out to the driveway with a confidence that could only be described as misplaced. He assumed that since he was older and more composed than Naieem, he could handle the Situation.
He smiled reassuringly at Laiba, who was still sitting in the driver's seat, looking like a frightened bird ready to take flight.
"Okay Chalo," Uzair said, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling his seatbelt with a double click for good measure.
"Chalo slow start lete hain. Main tumhein sikhata hoon gari start karna, phir uske baad hum..."
"CHALOOOO!" Laiba shrieked, slamming her foot onto the gas pedal with the enthusiasm of a hundred suns.
The car launched. Uzair’s head snapped back against the headrest, his eyes bulging. The car roared forward, narrowly avoiding a flowerpot, and then swerved violently to the right. Uzair let out a strangled, high pitched noise a sound he didn't know he was capable of making as he grabbed the dashboard and prayed for his life.
"LAIBA! BREAK! BREAK!" he screamed, his voice cracking under the pressure.
Laiba, in a state of pure panic, didn't hit the brake. Instead, she managed to turn on the windshield wipers, which began to smack back and forth with a speed that matched the situation.
The car continued to hurtle toward the edge of the driveway, and Uzair found himself clawing at the door handle, his face turning a pale shade of green.
Then came the halt. Laiba finally found the brake, but she didn't just press it; she stomped it. The car lurched to a dead stop with a sound like a dying whale, throwing both of them forward. For a moment, there was absolute silence, except for the rhythmic thwack thwack thwack of the windshield wipers.
Uzair sat frozen, his chest heaving, his hands shaking. He slowly turned his head to look at Y/n, who was beaming at him, her eyes wide with a mix of pride and relief.
"Aap dekh rhe hain?" she said brightly.
"Maine stop kar liya!"
Uzair stared at her. He felt a strange, vague sensation in his chest it was the sudden, overwhelming understanding of his nephew's torment.
"Ya Allah..." Uzair whispered, his forehead resting against the window. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He could feel the ghost of Naieem’s laugh echoing in the air, a silent mocking of his misplaced confidence.
Uzair was sweating. Not from the heat of the sun, but from the sheer, unadulterulated stress of trying to manage the girl in the driver's seat. He was currently leaning toward her, his voice a hushed whisper as he tried to maintain some semblance of authority.
"Laiba, suno!" he urged, his hands gesturing wildly toward the dashboard.
"*ehle sirf engine start karo. Sirf engine! Gaadi ko chalana shuru mat karna jab tak main na kahun. Samjhi? Sirf start karo!"
Laiba nodded vigorously, her eyes fixed on the ignition.
"Theek hai, Chachu! Sirf start!"
She reached for the key, but her movements were so jerky and uncoordinated that she accidentally hit the horn instead. A deafardening BEEP echoed through the quiet morning, making Uzair jump so violently he nearly hit his head on the roof.
"Honk kyun kiya?!" he hissed, his eyes darting around to see if his bhabhi and bhai were staring.
"Maine kaha tha start karo, horn nahi!"
"Woh toh galti se ho gaya!" she defended, her lip pouting slightly.
She gripped the key again, her knuckles white. Just as she began to turn it, a heavy, familiar shadow fell over the car.
Rehman had emerged from the house, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. He had intended to walk out to the driveway to see if his daughter had made any actual progress or if the boys were just wasting time.
He expected to see a calm lesson, instead, he saw his brother looking like he had just survived a car crash, clutching the dashboard for dear life, while his daughter looked ready to launch the vehicle into orbit.
Rehman stood there, his presence commanding and silent, watching the chaos unfold. He didn't say a word at first, but his eyebrows rose slightly as he witnessed Uzair's frantic hand gestures and Laiba's wide eyed, manic determination.
"Kya ho raha hai yahan?" Rehman’s deep, gravelly voice cut through the tension, causing both Uzair and Laiba to freeze.
Uzair looked up, his face pale and his hair slightly disheveled. He looked at Rehman with a gaze that practically screamed for help. He wanted to tell him to run, to get back inside and lock the doors, but he knew that would be a betrayal of the 'teaching' mission.
"Kuch nahi, Bhai... bas... woh dheere dheere sikh rahi hain," Uzair managed to say, though his voice lacked any real conviction.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his eyes flickering back to the girl who was currently holding the key like a weapon.
Rehman had seen the way Naieem had practically fled the scene from his balcony, and seeing Uzair in this state, he began to realize that his daughter’s 'driving lessons' were less of a lesson and more of a survival trial.
Laiba, completely unbothered by the sheer tension radiating from the passenger seat, turned her head toward the window. A bright, triumphant grin spread across her face as she saw her father standing there, watching the mayhem. She looked like a child who had just finished a successful art project rather than a girl who had nearly sent them both to the hospital.
"Hi, Abbu!" she chirped, her voice bubbly and full of unearned confidence.
She waved a hand at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Rehman didn't immediately respond to her greeting. His gaze was fixed on Uzair, who was currently slumped against the door, looking like a man who had seen the end of the world and found it to be quite loud and very bumpy. The sight of his brother frazzled state, combined with Laiba's innocent, beaming face, was the final straw for the man's patience.
He stepped up to the passanger's side door, his large frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the car whole.
"Uzair, bahar nikal," Rehman commanded, his voice low and vibrating with authority.
He didn't wait for an answer. He reached in, grabbed Uzair by the shoulder, and practically hauled him out of the vehicle.
As soon as Uzair's feet hit the gravel, Rehman delivered a sharp, resounding smack to the back of his head. The sound of palm meeting skull echoed in the driveway, making Laiba giggle and Uzair wince, rubbing the spot with a look of indignant shock.
"Madarchod, bacchi ko sikhana bhi nahi ata kya?" Rehman grumbled, his frustration boiling over in a way that was hilariously blunt.
He shook his head, looking at the Uzair as if it were a personal insult to his lineage.
“Tu rehne de, main hi sikhata hu."
He didn't wait for Uzair to defend himself. Rehman opened the door and slid into the seat, his large body making the car sit a little lower on its suspension. The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly, the chaotic, frantic energy of the boys was replaced by the heavy, grounded presence of the patriarch.
He looked at Laiba, his expression softening just a fraction, though his eyes remained intense. He wasn't going to be gentle like Naieem or frantic like Uzair. He was going to teach her with the same discipline he applied to everything else in his life.
"Ab, dhyan se suno," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, instructional tone that demanded absolute attention.
"Ab hum asli tarike se shuru karenge."
_______________________________________________
As the car rolled off the pavement and onto the main road, Uzair stood frozen in the driveway, his arms wrapped around himself. He watched the rear of the car fade into the distance, his lips moving in a silent, desperate prayer.
He was convinced that within five minutes there would be a call from the police or a phone call from an insurance agent. He had seen what Laiba could do, he had felt the car lurch and scream under her touch. In his mind, the two of them were less a car and more a rolling, metal deathtrap.
But inside the car, the atmosphere was entirely different.
To Rehman’s utter shock, the moment he had taken over the 'instruction,' Laiba had transformed. The panic and the frantic, jerky movements had vanished. She sat upright, her hands steady on the wheel, her eyes focused and sharp. As soon as Rehman gave her the signal to proceed, she shifted the car into gear and glided forward with a smoothness that would have made a professional driver jealous.
Rehman sat back in his seat, his arms crossed, gotta aura farm duh, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He waited for the inevitable mistake, the sudden swerve or the abrupt halt that had defeated both Naieem and Uzair. But it never came.
Laiba navigated through Lyari with ease, her foot on the gas and brake perfectly modulated. She was cruising.
"Tumne yeh sab kahan se sikha?" Rehman asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of bewilderment and pride.
He couldn't believe his eyes. The girl who had been a menace only twenty minutes ago was now steering the car with the grace of a veteran.
Laiba glanced at him, a playful, knowing smirk dancing on her lips.
"Shayad mujhe bas ek achhe teacher ki zaroorat thi, Abbu," she teased, her voice light and mischievous.
She leaned over and patted his arm, her eyes twinkling. She knew exactly what she was doing, she had been holding back, playing a little game with her brother and uncle just to see them squirm.
As they drove, the tension in Rehman’s shoulders slowly began to melt away. For the first time in years, he wasn't worried about her safety, instead, he found himself enjoying the rare moment of quiet companionship.
The car moved out of Lyari and to the main streets of Karachi, the sun shining down on them, until Laiba’s eyes lit up at the sight of a colorful sign up ahead.
“Ice cream!" she chirped, slowing the car down and pulling into the small parking lot of the creamery.
Rehman let out a surprised huff of laughter. He hadn't been to an ice cream shop since she was a kid, and the idea of it was almost ridiculous given his stern reputation. But looking at her excited expression, he couldn't find it in himself to say no.
"Theek hai," he grumbled, though there was a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "*Lekin sirf ek scoop."
_______________________________________________
The ice cream was sweet, cold, and served as the perfect fuel for Laiba's sudden burst of shopping energy. After they had finished their treats, she hadn't even given Rehman a chance to catch his breath before she was grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the nearest mall.
She was on a mission, her eyes scanning every storefront with the hunger of a predator, and Rehman, caught up in the bubble of her excitement, found himself following her lead like a man in a trance.
By the time they reached the parking lot, Rehman looked less like a formidable patriarch and more like a pack mule. His muscular arms were strained, laden with a mountain of colorful shopping bags new books, designer clothes, expensive makeup, and several other things he hadn't even realized she wanted until she pointed at them.
He was completely swept up in the joy of spoiling his daughter, his stern facade melting away under the sheer force of her happiness.
Then, the vibration in his pocket shattered the domestic bliss.
He pulled out his phone, seeing Ulfat's name on the screen. A small, affectionate smile touched his lips as he answered, his voice dropping into a deep, velvety tone of pure devotion.
"Bolo, meri jaan..." he murmured, leaning against a pillar, his eyes softening.
The response was not a soft murmur. It was a sonic boom.
"REHMAN! TUM. KAHA. HO?!" Ulfat’s voice exploded from the speaker, so loud and fierce that Rehman actually jumped, nearly dropping a bag of expensive silks. "
Abhi ke abhi ghar aao! Mujhe bina bataye kaise chale gaye dono? KITNI DER HO GAYI HE? DOO GHANTE BEET CHUKE HE!"
The sheer volume and the sharp, rhythmic cadence of her anger sent a visible shiver down Rehman's spine.
The man who commanded respect from entirety of Balochistan and Lyari, the man who could stare down any enemy without blinking, suddenly looked like a startled deer. His eyes widened, and he instinctively pulled the phone a few inches away from his ear, his posture stiffening.
It was a well known truth in the household: while Rehman was the Sher e Baloch, his wife was the Sherni e Baloch. And even a lion knew better than to challenge a lioness when she was in a mood. He was genuinely, deeply, and utterly shit scared.
"A-Aree, Ulfat... jaan..." he stammered, his voice losing all its previous smoothness and jumping an octave. He frantically began gathering the bags, his movements hurried and clumsy.
"Bas... bas aa rahe hain! Bas paanch minute!"
Laiba, seeing her father’s sudden transformation from a doting provider to a panicked husband, let out a loud, mischievous peal of laughter.
She watched him scramble, knowing full well that her mother was the only person on earth who could turn the mighty Rehman into a trembling mess with just a single shout.
oye gooda ki bacchi, what was the process of coming up with this username? :3 jaanne ki badi utsukta ho rahi hai
Gooda is just a weird spelling of Gouda, a cheese I used to be OBSSESED with 💀💀 and yea my entire online personality is with the name gooda and I'm just boo 😃😃😃
SP Chaudhary Aslam x Indian Journalist Rashmika Raina
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Disclaimer: This oneshot is inspired by the 2025 movie Dhurandhar by Aditya Dhar. This is in no way meant to idolize the real people the movie is about; they are bastards, and this is just a fanfic for the appreciation of the movie and the lovely actors who brought the characters to life. SO TAKE A FUCKING CHILL PILL and enjoy <3
Author's note: Hello, my Jaan-e-maans and my Jaan-e-jigars! Welcome to my first work that isn't DSKVS. I hope you enjoy this, and also always comment down below to make your feelings heard! (YOU KNOW I LOVE THEM AND RESPOND TO EVERY SINGLE ONE!)
(before anyone asks: NO, I AM NOT LEAVING/ABANDONING DSKVS. THIS IS JUST A BREAK. WE WILL BE BACK TO THE REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING SOON PLZ DONT SHIT BRICKS!)
----------------------------
Special Note:
SP Aslam was genuinely not in my plans to write for. But my darling wife and the love of my life @patrakilekha once told me how she is desperate for someone to write about her husband (SP Aslam).
She is the sweetest, most kindest, most supportive reader on this platform. Any author she loves is truly lucky to have a fan like her. Id like to say I'm the luckiest. Other than that, she is a great person and an even greater friend(IMEANWIFEPLZDONTKILLMEBABY) who deserves the world.
She has been traumatized by me regarding DSKVS for weeks. She has known about the chapter 15 plot point for so long and has been suffering in silence. Her love in particular is the biggest thing that keeps me going with my work.
The best part about being a writer is that I, at the very least, have the power to make her fantasies slightly real. I gave her this concept, and she has been obsessed ever since. Her reaction and her joy just solidified that this needed to exist.
So for the trauma she has endured and the love she showers. Let me present to you a tribute to her-
THE ASLAM MASLA for my darling Patrakilekha <3
------------------------------
The Aslam Masla
Monday @ 10 am
National News Media Group Offices, Mumbai, India
Rashmika Raina was furious. Actually, that would be an understatement. She was incensed. Yes, that's a better word to describe it, she thinks as she angrily shuffles the stacks of papers in her hands as she walks out of the boardroom. Her kurta sleeve gets stuck on the hook of the door handle, and it makes Rashmika stop. She shuts her eyes painfully and looks at the ceiling. A long, slow breath comes out of her mouth. This is her thirteenth reason why.
She just wanted a field assignment; that was all she wanted. She had requested assignments many times. A smuggling case in the ports of Gujarat, military movement on the line of occupation in J&K, government hospital medical malpractice, and corrupt politicians. Each of these cases and stories is genuinely interesting to her; each of these would be brilliantly reported by her. But each time Rashmika was told two things.
Either she was told, “Nahi ye kaam tumhare caliber ka nahi hai, we need a more experienced journalist,” or she was told, “No, this story is too risky for a woman journalist, you better stick to the fashion journals and celebrity articles.” Each rejection annoyed Rashmika. Each one made her boil because they were just excuses. Petty excuses that too.
This time, she stormed into the boardroom with one goal and a printed resignation on the other hand. She was going to get a field case, or so help her god. She even had options to pitch to them. There were recent reports of election fraud in Karnataka, protests in West Bengal, and party politics in the Lok Sabha. Any one of these assignments would make her happy.
But when she had walked into the boardroom, she was tasked with more than she was bargaining for.
—---------
“May I come in, sir?” she asked, knocking on the door frame, her fingers tucking a stand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes scanned the boardroom.
The long table in the center of the boardroom was half-filled. At the head of the table sat a bald, mustached gentleman, Mr. Naman Jaiswal, the chief editor of the National News political and current affairs paper. He was the man who hired her and was her mentor. Beside him sat the co-editor in chief, a small, round, bespectacled man, Mr. Satya Gupta. These were the people at this table who mattered. The rest were arbitrary: journalists, writers, editors.
“Yes, please come in, Ms.Raina, take a seat,” nods Jaiswal. Rashmika nods and walks into the room. Her flats click lightly on the tiled floor as she takes a seat at the table. Once she sits down, Gupta turns to her, “Haan ji, Ms.Raina, did you enjoy your previous field assignment?” The tone of his voice is teasing. Rashmkia gives him a tight smile. “Yes, sir, I truly enjoyed asking celebrities who they were fucking and who they wanted to fuck. It was very enlightening, true journalism”
Gupta stares at her, flabbergasted. The rest of the people find very interesting things to look at to try not to laugh out loud. Some objects of choice were pens, the water cooler, the chair, the ceiling, and out the window.
“Sir, if I may?” Asks Rashmika, looking at Jaiswal. Jaiswal nods. “You and I both know that my talent is being wasted with these stupid masala pieces about celebrity gossip. You know I’m capable of handling hard topics. Much more capable than some of the reporters you currently have out there”
“What do you mean, Rashmika?” Asks Jaiswal, steepling his fingers in focus. “Sir apne pichle hafte Gaurav ko bheja tha for a report on Pakistani military training at the LOC. But did you read his report? Did you watch his televised interview?” Asks Rashmika, now pulling out a paper from her stack of files.
She grabs a red pen and quickly circles and underlines many words on the paper. Entire paragraphs circled in red, entire lines crossed out. Rashmika slides the paper to her boss across the table. Jaiswal quirks an eyebrow at the paper as he picks it up. The sheer amount of red is shocking.
She stands up now. Her palms were against the hardwood table. “Sir Gaurav wrote eight paragraphs on the actual report-worthy material and two pages on the beauty, innocence, and hospitality of village women.” Rashmika pauses for a moment, she looks around the table, making sure her point is hitting home, then she continues, “And the eight paragraphs he wrote are full of errors. Not just grammatical errors but errors in interpretation and facts!” She exclaims, the last part of her bangles chiming and clinking against her watch.
Jaiswal hands the paper to Gupta with a flat expression. Gupta’s eyes scan the paper rapidly. Rashmika sighs as she sits down. “Sir…apko bhi pata hai, and mujhe bhi pata hai. Kisi andhe duffer ko bhi dikhjaega. Gaurav ne puri story ka gud gobar kardiya hai. You all know that if you had sent me…this report would have been phenomenal”
“Sir, give my stupid celebrity gossip pieces to Gaurav, I’m sure he would manage to not fuck them up.” She looks at Jaiswal, “ Either give me stories worth my talent or I would like to tender my resignation,” she says, placing an envelope on the table.
Everyone in the room looks at that envelope. Jaiswal takes a heavy sigh. “ Rashmika, you know the question is never about your caliber or talent. The question is always about your safety, especially your safety as a woman on the field”
Rashmika opens her mouth to respond. No words come out, so she shuts it again. Then “Sir please bura mat man’na lekin ye koi reasoning nahi hui, ye misogyny hui.”
Jaiswal is well aware of what Rashmika is like. She gets fiery and cruel when faced with logic she doesn’t agree with. Jaiswal takes a deep breath and begins speaking slowly, “Rashmika, if I were a misogynist, you wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s a very low bar, sir,” she deadpans. “ It’s like saying, ‘Look, I have female reporters and journalists, I’m not a misogynist! But I won’t give them assignments worth their talent because I’m worried they can’t hold their own in the big, bad, scary world.’ Do you see what you sound like, sir?”
“ Rashmika-” Starts Jaiswal wearily, but she cuts him off with a click of her tongue. “Sir, I’m not here to argue. I want a field assignment!”
“Fine! You want a field assignment? I’ll give you one,” huffs a now-annoyed Jaiswal as he shuffles papers in front of him. Rashmika bites back a smile to keep her professional persona intact.“Thank you, sir”
“Umm…We have recently had an agreement with Karachi police.” Hums Jaiswal pulling out a file. “They want us to do a piece on how they handle gang wars and genuine policing in volatile areas. Like the city of Lyari. Apparently they are displeased with their image on the global stage. Do you want it?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll take it!” Exclaims Rashmika. This was the break she was looking for. This was the story she wanted. Not trashy celebrities, true journalism. “Good, don’t let me down, Rashmika.” Smiles Jaiswal begrudgingly, looking at her excitement, before he turns serious again. Pointing a pen at her, “And don’t fucking say I’m a misogynist. That was a low blow”
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” says Rashmika, genuinely apologetic. Her head dips down slightly as she bites her tongue in reprimand. “Good, you leave tomorrow morning. And ek aur baat. You will have constant police protection,” mentions Jaiswal offhandedly.
“What? Sir, that’s unnecessary!” Exclaims Rashmika, now standing up again. She needed the assignment not a bloody babysitter. Now Gupta finally speaks up, “No, Rashmika. No bargaining on this matter. It’s a requirement for all Indian journalists and reporters to have constant police protection.” He says matter of factly to her. “Sir?! But-” She tries to argue.
“No buts Rashmika, either you take this or I give it to Gaurav” warns Jaiswal. A clear take it or leave it and after this outburst of yours, you better believe that you won’t get another opportunity like this. Her foot taps against the floor rapidly. She is weighing out her options, she sighs when she realises she has no choice “Sir…..fine”
“Lovely, get ready to leave tomorrow. It’s a 4 ish day long assignment. And here take this file” Jaiswal hands Rashmika a thick dossier “This is your police protection, An SP Chaudhary Aslam. He is the head of the Lyari task force that you will observe and your 24/7 police protection.”
Rashmika takes the dossier, barely looks at it and then whines to her mentor “Sir, is this police babysitter punishment for calling you a misogynist? I’m genuinely sorry sir” she says tilting her head and joining her hands together.
Jaiswal puts his hands on his chin, a pleased smile now on his face as he looks at Rashmika. “Rashmika I’m so glad you think this is punishment. Even if I didn’t intend it to be. If I wanted it to be a punishment I would have picked someone ugly” he hums making the rest of the table chuckle. Rashmika blinks at Jaiswal then opens the dossier in her hands. On the front page is an image of SP Chaudhary Aslam.
He is a good looking man no doubt about it. Handsome sharp features, strong eyes. His face is aged by time and a tough life. Deep set wrinkles on his forehead that make him simultaneously rugged and dangerously charming. His hair brushed back and threaded with strands of salt amongst the pepper. His thick beard and mustache is more salt than pepper. He was indeed a good looking man, yet he looked eternally displeased or unhappy at the very least .
Rashmika clears her throat “SP Aslam?.......Much obliged that you chose this halfway decent looking man sir. But he looks like someone pissed in his morning Chai.” she says, narrowing her eyes at the image of SP Aslam. She turns the dossier around to show the table. Her finger drummed on his image, pointing to his extreme resting-bitchface pose. “You can not make this man my police protection” she reasons once more.
Jaiswal hides a grin with the guise of wiping his face. “Rashmika, ja ghar ja aur packing kar, your flight is at 10 am tomorrow” Rashmika makes a face muttering under her breath as she gathers her papers. “Bakchodi…absolute and utter bakchodi….I dont need a fucking babysitter” she huffs under her breath. “Huh? Kya bola?” asks Jaiswal narrowing his eyes at her
“Nahi sir, kuch nahi sir” Rashmika says quickly as she walks to the door of the boardroom. “Haan it better be nothing Rashmika, I CAN ALWAYS GIVE THIS ASSIGNMENT TO GAURAV!” Yells Jaiswal behind her as she leaves out the door.
—---------
“A fucking baby sitter?!?!?!?” she angrily huffs as she shuffles the stacks of papers in her hands as she walks out of the boardroom. Her kurta sleeve gets stuck on the hook of the door handle, and it makes Rashmika stop.
She shuts her eyes painfully and looks at the ceiling. A long, slow breath comes out of her mouth. This is her thirteenth reason why. “Fuck. My. Life”
—----------------
Monday @ 10 am simultaneously as previous section
Karachi Police Headquarters, Karachi, Pakistan
SP Chaudhary Aslam was about to kill someone because he is not a fucking babysitter. His hands reached into the pocket of his pathani kurta, his strong forearms flexing as his fingers curled around his cigarette box. This has been a fucking terrible month. He scoffs to himself as he pulls out a cigarette and holds it between his fingers. His lighter’s flame kisses the end of his cigarette. He takes a hard puff.
This was supposed to be a good month. He was supposed to kill his arch nemesis Rehaman Dakait and then take the rest of the month off. Finally get to use his vacation days, maybe go to a retreat in the mountains of Pakistan. But no.
Rehman’s insane lawyer, Rehanna Randhawa, doused his taskforce office in petrol and had the gangsters tie his men from the roof while she recorded a blackmail message for him to hurry up and leave Rehman all with a smile. The woman was brilliant, no doubt. But she was also a massive bitch.
Rehanna had ruined his month by setting it on fire and then the Commissioner of Karachi police put diesel on it.
—----------
“Janab!” Saluted Aslam, clicking his heels lightly as he straightened his 6’4 posture. The commissioner Altaf Haasan looks up from his papers, the man looks through his glasses with a grin. “Arreh wah Chaudhary, aja mera sher”
“Janab” nods Aslam as he walks forward, his pathani salwar whooshing around his legs as he walks. “Kaisa hai tu?” hums Haasan as he shuts a file. “Janab, woh chuitye Rehman ki zamanat pe thoda dukh hua. Lekin theek hai kya karsate hain, kabhi aur pakadlunga usko” Shrugs Aslam making Haasan chuckle.
“Arre Rehman ke alawah kuch sunao, sabko pata hai Rehman tere mashooq jaisa hai. Zindagi ke bare me kuch batao” Says Hassan leaning back in his chair. Aslam’s face goes flat “Janab Rehman mera mashooq nahi hai.” Hassan laughs. If Aslam could curse at his boss he would but he can’t so he continues “Rehman ke alawa. Kal subaha se meri chutti hai. Teen hafte ki chutti hai meri. Das saal me maine pehli bar chutti li hai” Hassan nods seriously before looking at Aslam again “Tere bade arman hai? Teen hafte ki chutti? Wah bhai wah.”
“Janab aapne kuch kaam se bulaya hai?” Asks Aslam with terrifying patience. “Aree haan” says Hassan, straightening in his chair. “Yaad hai tujhe? Karachi police aur woh Indian news channel se humne ek report karwane ki baat ki thi?”
“Ji janab yaad hai” Nods Aslam. “Haan toh woh final ho gaya hai. A woman reporter from their channel has been assigned to this report. Her flight is landing tomorrow” Continues Hassan.
Aslam takes a deep breath. “Janab mai iss information ka kya karun?” Why should he care about this? In fact he didn't give a damn about this meeting either, he was thinking about his road trip to the mountains tomorrow. The lonesome highway. The 80’s music. His cigarettes. His whiskey by the fireplace. And most importantly peace.
Hassan sighs “You are her security detail. You and your Lyari Task Force are her subject of study. Ek hafte ke liye ayi hai aur ab tumhari zimmedari hai” Aslam blinks “Janab kal se meri chutti hai. Ye mohtarma meri zimmedari nahi hai”
“Chaudhary, Lyari task force tumhari hai, Lyari tumhara sheher hai. Agar unko kuch hogaya toh phir tumhare sar pe ayega” Says Hassan calmly. The first thing Aslam feels is deep annoyance. Because damn it the commissioner was right. If this journalist got hurt in his territory it would be on his head.
“Unka naam hai Rashmika Raina, unki flight kal 4 baje Karachi International Airport pe land hogi. Yeh loh unki file, kal pauch jana time se” says the commissioner handing him the file and gesturing for him to leave.
Aslam sighs as he takes it. He straightens and clicks his heels and salutes commissioner Hassan again “Janab!” Then he walks out of the office.
—-----------
Aslam took a drag off of his cigarette as he walked through the headquarters. Every constable, sub-inspector, inspector, assistant SP, deputy SP saluted him as he walked through the halls. Aslam returned each salute with half awareness. His awareness was trained on the file in his hand.
“Janab!” Salutes the constable who drove his white police jeep. Aslam returns it taking a drag as he sits in the passenger seat of the jeep. He plants a foot on the foot bar of the door, he lets the other hang downwards. He leans his head back against the headrest of the seat. Aslam brought up the hand that held his cigarette and used it to stroke his beard in thought as he looked up at the ceiling of the jeep.
Rashmika. Rashmika Raina. He took another drag off of his cigarette. He let it hang in between his lips as he opened the dossier. Her image was the first page. He picked it up with his right hand as his left hand tapped the ash off of his cigarette and helped him take another drag. And the first thing Aslam noticed was her elegant beauty.
Big bright inquisitive dark brown eyes, like they over analyzed everything they saw. Perfectly arched eyebrows that looked like they remained terminally raised, like she questioned everything she was presented with. A small red bindi between her brows, it looked odd to Aslam at first. But then it made a frightening amount of sense. A sculpted face with sharp features, high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, a long nose. Long straight black hair that curved around her face.
Aslam had to admit, she was a good looking woman no matter how much of a headache she was about to cause him.
—---------
Tuesday @ 4 pm
Karachi International Airport, Karachi, Pakistan
Rashmika drags her suitcase off of the baggage claim belt. She can't help but look around the airport in curiosity. This is her first lime in Pakistan so she was bound to be curious about any minor difference from India.
She walks through the terminal and finds that it's practically the same as Indian airports. Army and security personnel walking through keeping eyes on things. Families collecting bags and reuniting. TVs on the walls playing news and announcements. The same infuriatingly long immigration lines. The same everything. How disappointing she muses.
Finally she walks out the air conditioned terminal to the drop off pick up resa. As soon as she walks out a hot rush of air hits her face. She can smell the jet fuel, heat, and pollution in the air, strikingly similar to the Indira Gandhi International airport back home. She drapes her white dupatta over her head, she places her sunglasses on her face before she smooths down her grey suit.
Rashmika looks around the terminal. Ignoring the reuniting families. Ignoring the taxi drivers “Asalamwalaikum madam kahan jayengi aap?” Ignoring the tea stalls that beckon her towards them “Mohtarma chai pijiye!” She is looking for one thing and one thing only. Where is her police escort?
One pan around the terminal later. Her eyes set on her police protection for this journalistic mission. Rashmika finds her police protection sitting on his jeep in a white pathank kurta, one leg stabilized on the metal battering ram on the front of the jeep and the other hanging loosely. A snarl of boredom on his face, and a cigarette hanging out of his lip. SP Chaudhary Aslam.
The very same man from the photo in her dossier, except in real life his rugged charm is more apparent. She grabs her suitcase and begins rolling it along with her as she walks towards him. He is larger than she had imagined.
A big burly man who had to be more than 6 feet tall, the kurta he wore was loose and flowing around his body but snug around his arms accentuating the largeness of the muscle. The strength is clear in his large frame. The sleeves of the kurta were rolled up in this Karachi heat exposing his strong forearms. A body that matched the face in every aspect.
But the SP Aslam held an expression on his face that made it very clear, he would be anywhere else rather than here.
Aslam had done the same once over of her that she had of him. Her face also matched her body. She was tall, maybe 5 '6 or 5' 7, and she dressed elegantly in a grey salwar suit with a white dupatta. Her body moved in elegant and controlled strides. Her eyes were ever aware as they kept moving around the terminal.
She wasn't lost in her own world; she was aware of herself. She has a strange ethereal grace about her. Something he hasn't seen before. She only carried 2 bags. A backpack and a medium sized suitcase, no frivolity, no un necessary items. He liked that.
He steps off of his jeep to greet her as she rolls closer with her suitcase. He ashes his cigarette, his leather loafers crush it against the pavement. She steps closer, the wind drifts from behind her and he can smell her perfume. It's a fresh light scent, floral and citrusy. The scent warps around him and clings to him in ways that he isn't sure he likes.
“Assalam Walikum SP Sahab” Rashmika greets with a polite nod and a salam. Her voice is like honey. Smooth, rich, and something that coats you, something you don't forget. “Walaikum asalam Raina Madam, chaliye” He nods towards the jeep. As he takes the suitcase from her “Aree SP sahab iski koi zaroorat nahi hai” she clicks her tongue as she tries to take it from him.
“Mohtarma ye humara kaam hai, andar bathiye” he says shortly to her as he turns away to put her bag in the boot of the car. Okay so he really didn't want to be here, thinks Rashmika as she sits down in the back seat of the jeep.
He sits in the front moments later and tells the driver “Guest house leke chal, jaldi” the constable driving the car responds “Ji janab,” Their eyes meet once through the rearview mirror. Aslam looks very annoyed, his eyebrows set heavier on his face as he flicks his eyes away from her fast.
Okay so he really really didn't want to be here, thinks Rashmika as she frowns and looks out the window to the city of Karachi. She pulls out a small notepad and pen and begins writing her observations.
—------------------------
Same day @ 5 pm
Police Guest House, Karachi, Pakistan
A while later and after a painfully silent car ride, they reach the guest house. Rashmika steps out of the jeep with her backpack with her notebook in hand as she scribbles points to ask and write about later. Aslam unloads her suitcase from the back. He hands it to the guest house attendant.
He walks by her as he lights another cigarette and he begins speaking to her as he walks away. A clear cue that says follow me. “Raina ji ye hai woh police guest house jahan aap rahengi aapke report ke liye” he gestures un-impressedly at the modest and decent guest house.
They walk into the foyer of the home and there are two staircases leading upwards. And on both sides of them are hallways to the rest of the house. “Wahan right side pe apka kamra hai, aur uske theek opposite mera kamra hai” he says pointing to the two rooms on top of the staircase.
Rashmika pauses and stops walking “Ek second SP sahab, aap bhi yahan rahenge?” She asks. Aslam stops walking too and turns to look at her taking a drag off of his cigarette “kyun aapko koi problem hai kya? Mujhe order diya gaya hai. I have to stay with you 24/7 aapki suraksha ke liye” he says flatly.
Rashmika sighs, this is precisely what she didn't want “Mujhe koi boj nahi ban’na hai. Aapko yahan rehene ki koi zaroorat nahi hai. Mai khud se rehlungi” Aslam laughs darkly, stepping closer “ Dekhiye boj toh aap hain.” he grins at her exhaling smoke. It wraps around her as he continues speaking “Meherbani aapki ki aap mujhe bata rahi hain ki mai jaa sakta hun, kyunki mai khud apka rakhwalnahi ban na chahata hun. Lekin mujhe order diya gaya hai toh mujhe rhena hi padega.”
Then Aslam laughs remembering that she said she would be okay being in Karachi alone. The thought was very funny to him “Aur aapko kya lagta hai ki aap Karachi ya lyari jaise sheher me mehfooz rahengi? Galat fehmi mat paliye, ye aapko marwaengi.” Rashmika blinks at his borderline rude straightforwardness.
“Toh aap apna kaam kariye aur mujhe apna karne dijiye. Ye faltu ki acting nahi kariye.” He says taking another drag and walking away. What a rude bastard thinks Rashmika taking a deep slow breath. She was about to get a migraine.
—----------------------
Wed @ 11 am
Rashmika groans as she sits up in bed. Her hair is wild, her eyes are squinting in the morning light. Last night had been fucking terrible. So terrible she had to ask the house staff for a headache pill.
—-------------
After she had settled into her room yesterday evening she had gone downstairs for dinner. Where she and Aslam had sat across from each other having a tense and quiet meal. She had tried. Really tried. Rashmika really did try to be civil and polite.
“SP sahab aap kab se Lyari me posted hain?” she asked cordially as she tore a piece of her roti. Aslam looked at her over the edge of his plate. “Satra saal, lekin beech me mai saat saal ke liye suspend hogaya tha” he says gruffly going back to his meal. Not willing to divulge any more information or giving her room to ask another question.
But Rashmika was a reporter, she knew how to keep the questions going. “Agar aap mind na karein, can I ask you another question?” Aslam did not respond, he took a deep breath and continued with his meal. Rashmika frowned but asked anyway “Aap suspend kyun hoye the?” she asks taking a sip of water
Aslam exhaled through his nose before he looked at her with immense annoyance “Kuch siyasati logon ko maine galat tarha se chhed diya tha” he deadpanned, going back to his meal once again. “Iska kya matlab?” she asked inquisitively. This time Aslam simply said “Hindustan me logon ko chup rehna ata hai kya?”
“How fucking rude” Rashmika muttered under her breath so Aslam could not hear. She shook her head and went back to the meal. The rest of the meal went on with painful silence.
—---------------
Now it was the next morning. Today was the first official day of her assignment of understanding how the Karachi police handled genuine policing and gang handling simultaneously. Rashmika reads over her notes and questions for the day as she sips her morning chai.
Today she wanted to just understand how Aslam works. Because clearly just asking him questions won’t get her anywhere, yesterday was proof of that. She needed to be careful with how she handles him. He was like a venus flytrap in a way. The more she prys the more he will close.
She packs her field bag for the day, her camera, her notebook, her pen, water, and batteries. Just the essentials. She slings her bag over her shoulder as she fluffs out her sky blue kurta. Then she makes her way out of the guest house where Aslam is waiting by his jeep.
Another cigarette in his fingers, smoke curling around his face. He runs a hand over his beard in frustration as he looks at his watch. “Woh mohtarma kahan hai? Pura din waste karegi kya?” The constable standing by laughed cordially for a moment before he cleared his throat violently. Coughing into his fist as he gestures to Aslam with his eyes. Aslam raises an eyebrow “Kya be bhadwe? Mendak niglalgaya tha, ya haram ka paisa pachaya nahi jaata?”
The constable whispered towards him “Nahi sahab, woh…. madam agayi hain” Aslam looked at Rashmika quickly. She is wearing sunglasses and an annoyed look on her face. Today she was also wearing a sky blue salwar kurat, she looked good in it. Aslam should not be noticing these things but he was.Then he looked away and back to the constable “Dhamka raha hai kya mujhe? Agar mere muh ke samne bhi hoti to bhi wahi kehta.” Then he turns to Rashmika “Hanji mohtarma, aaj pura din barbad karna hai kya?” he takes another drag
God it was 11 am and she was told to be downstairs by 11 am. She was on time, what was up this man's ass? Thinks Rashmika. “Nahi Aslam sahab, lekin aapse ek cheez puchni thi” she hums as she gets closer to him. “Boliye” he says gruffly trying not to notice how she looked brighter when she smiled. She bites back a grin, she shouldn't be pissing him off but she was already speaking before she could shut up “Aapki khushiyon ka janaza nikalta hai kya har subha?” She tilts her head.
Aslam blinks exhaling smoke “Kya?” he crosses his arms over his chest. She looks at him over her sunglasses, openly looking up and down his body. Resting her eyes on his biceps, for a moment too long. She was noticing how his white kurta tightens on the muscles, she could see the muscles of his biceps. Aslam felt her eyes dragging over him.
She clears her throat “Nahi aap itna safed pehente hai na. Aisa lagta hai ki aap har subha apni khusiyon ko kisi kabar me bandh karke dafna ke ate hain” she says lightly as she opens the rear door of the jeep and disappears into the car.
The constable takes a deep breath and slaps a hand on his face trying his level best to not burst out laughing at the truth he just heard. Aslam pinches the bridge of his nose. God this woman was a headache. “Gaadi chala gandu” huffs Asalam. “Ji janab, sorry janab” mutters the constable as he rushes to the driver's seat.
—------------------
The entire day had been interesting and infuriating at the same time.
They had gone to the Lyari Task Force office first. Aslam had walked ahead as he gave her the not so enthusiastic, most definitely lacking flair, grand tour of the building. He showed her the main lobby, the reporting area, the weapons room, the jail cells, the file room, the bull pen, and he had even introduced her to a few of his officers.
“Yeh hai Altaf khan, inka kaam hai information verification” says Aslam, slapping his hand on the man’s shoulder “Samjha reporter madam ko apna kaam”. Altaf nods his head, “Hume khabrion se kafi information milti hai har din. Kabhi kabhi woh information kaafi conflicting hojati hain. Toh mera kaam hai sari information collect karna aur verify or crosscheck karna” He ends by showing her his desk and his ledgers of information.
Rashmika nods as she observes everything taking notes on her notepad. “Achha, toh phir jab aapko kuch confirmed information milti hai toh phir aap kya karte hain? What is the process?" she asks. Altaf nods at her “Madam ye information pe depend karta hai. Some information is just to observe and some is actionable. Whatever information requires action hum unko respective departments me bhijwa dete hain”
Rashmika nods as she takes more notes. Aslam observes how she bites her lip in concentration as she writes. How her hand scrawls on the page when she has rapid thoughts. She asks intelligent questions, muses Aslam.
“Hanji ab aap dono sath me khade hojaiye. Mai ek photograph lena chahati hun” she gestures as she reaches into her bag for her camera. “Nahi. Bilkul nahi.” says Aslam flatly “Koi chutiyaap nahi hoga, koi photos nahi li jaengi. Yeh ek task force hai koi garden nahi” Rashmika sighs as she adjusts the settings on her camera “Aslam sahab, contract me likha hua hai that I am allowed to take photos. And mai akal se paidal nahi hun. Of course task force office hai, obviously samhalke aur sensitively photo khechungi mai”
Aslam rolls his eyes. She backs away a few steps and crouches slightly. “SP sahab zara smile toh kijiye. Mai duniya ko Pakistan as a manhoos jagah nahi dikhana chahati” she grins at him. Aslam grins begrudgingly as he poses for the picture next to a grinning Altaf who is liking this fiery woman.
The rest of the day consisted of Aslam doing paperwork in his office. When she tried to ask him more about his job or about the city, Aslam either ignored her or gave her gruff answers. She rolled her eyes and huffed at him as she planted herself on the sofa in his office.
She scribbled furiously on her note pad. Aslam watched her over his papers noticing how her eyebrows furrowed crinkling her bindi. How she chewed on her pen when she was formulating an idea. He went back to his papers. “Aslam sahab, aaj kuch mildly interesting karne ka plan hai kya? Koi arrest? Koi raid? Koi operation?”
“Mohtarma yeh asal zindagi hai, koi action movie nahi.” he responded without looking at her. She sighed and went back to writing her notes.
—----------------------
Thursday @ 10 am
Day two wasn't any better. But at least it had slightly more action. Which had begun that morning.
Rashmika had decided on a white linen suit today. She rushed down to the dining room with a half packed bag and an array of items in her hands. She set her bag on the table as packed, funneling chai and namkeen into her face as breakfast. “Nahi nahi Farha bi! Nashte ka time nahi hai. Woh khadus ata hoga aur phir mujhe bolega ‘mohtarma aaj phir pura din barbad karna hai?’ yaar kaun subah subha unke chai me moot deta hai?” she sighs, making the kitchen maid laugh at her mimicry of Aslam.
Aslam watched her from the doorway with an eyebrow raised in fascination. How bitchy of her, he liked that very much. He would very much like to shut her up with his own lips. Her argumentative mouth would finally go quiet. But his biggest problem was that she looked good in white too. The kurta fit nicely on her body, loose enough to be modest, tight enough to make him wonder what her body looked like under those clothes.
The sun shone through at just the right moment, illuminating her figure through the thin linen. Aslam felt himself involuntarily salivating as he saw the silhouette of her body. Her hourglass curves, her toned body. Her hair was thrown up in a messy bun, some strands coming loose and falling against her face. Some trends loose against the back of her neck. He wondered what it would be like to tangle his hands in her hair.
Eventually she noticed him staring. She swallowed hard, the namkeen scratching her throat as it went down painfully. She looked at him and today…he wasn't wearing white. He was wearing a forest green. He looked very very good in it. The kurta once again fit snugly on his deliciously large arms. Who was his tailor? That perfectly tamed salt and pepper beard, that pathani suit, that dark charm, and the fact that he was an absolute bastard. Uff how sexy.
“Sabha khair Raina ji, aaj phir pura din barbad karna hai kya?” he asked as he lit another cigarette. “Good morning Aslam sahab, before I answer that phele mere ek sawal ka jawab dijiye” Aslam huffs “Ya allah aapke sawal kabhi khatam hote hain?”
“Nahi, peshe se reporter hu na? Mere sawal agar khatam ho gaye toh phir meri rozi roti nahi hogi.” she grins at him leaning against a chair “Puchho phir, kyunki dikh raha hai ki aap ko backchodi kare bina shanti nahi milegi” he sighs. “Kaun har subha aapki chai me moot deta hai?” she hums seriously.
“Ji sach bataun toh phir abhi toh aap.” He said calmly, sipping the tea that Farha brought out. “Aree? Mai kaise? Mai toh abhi abhi India se ayi hun?!” she gasps scandalously sipping her own chai. He hums “Aapke ane se pehle mai chutti pe janewala tha. Dus saal me pehli bar chutti li…Aur phir aap tapak padi” he says biting a biscuit.
Rashmika snorts and laughs into her tea. “Issiliye aapka mood kharab hai shuru se?” “Ji haan, ab apna muh band kariye. Isse pehele ki mai kuch anab shanab kehdun aapko” he deadpans. “Achha sorry, sorry ki mai aapke chhutti pe tapak gayi” she apologizes after she clears her throat and stops laughing.
—----------
The rest of the day was just Rashmika following Aslam like his shadow as he patrolled the city. She didn't ask him many questions; she now knew why he was in a bad mood. Aslam noticed how she wasn't making his day miserable. He also noticed she looked pretty when she wasn't running her mouth.
She silently observed him as he worked, as he made arrests, as he followed up on leads. Even in her silence he didn't stop being a bastard. He made sure to test this sudden change in her behavior. “Hmm Raina ji aaj badi shaanti hai? Atma tript hogayi thodi maar peet dekh ke, ya aap shant hain kyunki aapke dimag me mere khayal chal rahe hain? Kya hindustan me aise hatte katte SP nahi hai aapke taadne ke liye?” he hummed with a smirk as he handcuffed a criminal and threw him against the jeep.
She rolled her eyes as she pocketed her notebook “Kaash hote Aslam sahab” she sighed wistfully “Din raat apke khayalon me doobi reheti hun kyunki hindustaan me kahan aise sexy SP dikhte hain?” then she lowered her voice into a dramatic husk “Mujhe buddhe, khusat, zaroorat se zyada rude mard bohot zayada sexy lagte hain” He lifted an eyebrow at her theatrics, “Accha?”
The expression on her face flattened so fast it was comical “Nahi, pagla gaye hain kya aap?” Aslam barked out a laugh as he threw the poor bastard he just handcuffed into the boot of the jeep. Rashmika felt her stomach flutter at his laugh.
—----------------------
Friday @ 5 am
Rashmika was woken up with loud banging on her door “Raina ji! Raina ji!” Aslam's loud booming voice reverberated through the wooden door. Her eyes went to the clock and then she cursed violently beneath her breath as she got out of bed. Adjusting her silk night slip as she made her way to the door “AA RAHI HUN!”
She flung open the door and Aslam promptly stopped breathing. The slip hugged her body too damn well, painfully well. She was bare beneath the slip, the thought slowly made him spiral. A blind man could have seen her nipples pebble behind the cool fabric. She sleepily rubbed her eyes, the remnants of the kajal made her eyes smoky, her hair a mess. Why did she look better like this? The sight made violent visions flood his mind.
In his visions, his rough large hands palmed her breasts through the fabric. Then her mind-bogglingly attractive and simultaneously bitchy mouth would whine helplessly under his touch. He could practically feel the warm weight of her ample breasts in his palms, he could practically hear her whines.
She would sound so sweet. But he could imagine her screaming as he shoved his large fingers into her, his other hand would have to muffle her screaming. Her eyes rolled back as she clawed his shoulders, gasping for breath. He wanted to grab her and make his fantasy come true right now.
For a moment even Rashmika was quiet. He was in his sleepwear. White pathani salwar bottoms and a white banyan (vest). And OHMYGODHISARMS. She swallowed hard. The banyan was tight on his body; she could see his defined chest through the fabric. She wanted him to pull her against his body, she wanted to be pressed up against his hard pecs, she wanted to run her hands all over his torso, scratching lightly with her nails so his eyes would flutter shut.
Maybe he would shakily take her name, she would lose her god damn mind. And then her eyes went to his arms. The ones she had been fantasizing about, will she ever admit this? No she will not but that's between her and god. His arms were huge. That was an understatement but the best way she could describe them without feeling them. She could imagine him crushing her face in between the crook of his elbow as he fucked into her. His deep groans in her ear, his filthy words bringing her closer and closer to the edge. What an amazing fantasy.
She shook out of it with immense difficulty “-Kya hua Aslam sahab? Kuch kaam hai ya sirf apni gaandmasti me meri neend kharab karke mazze lene hai?” she frowned at him as she crossed her hands over her chest. Aslam almost genuinely frowned when she covered her chest. How rude of her to be rude and then take away his view. But he controlled it. “Hogaya apka?” he blinked at her. “Boliye” she huffed.
“Aaj aap mere sath LTF nahi aa sakti hain. Aaj aap guest house me hi rahengi” He tells her. “Kyun nahi?” she questioned immediately. Aslam sighed, dragging a hand down his face “Har baat aapko thodi bataunga? Ye ek sensitive police matter hai.” Rashmika rolled her eyes at this “Achha theek hai. Lekin ye baat ako subha ke paach baje batani thi?”
“Haan. kyunki mai abhi nikal raha hun” he said flatly. Now her lips twitch with a grin “Aise jaoge aap? Banyan me?” Aslam ignored her on purpose this time. He took a breath and spoke again “Shaam ko commissioner sahab ne ek event rakha hai karachi police ke liye. Aapko bhi invite kiya hai, khuda jane kisiliye”
“Excuse me? Subha ke paach baje meri insult karn aye hain aap?” she asks with an indignant gasp. Aslam ignores this once again “Shaam ke chhe baje pauch jaiyega, mera sub-inspector ayega aur aapki rakhwali karega aur aapko party tak pauchayega. Bas aapko ittilah karne aya tha” He says and he walks away without another word.
Rashmika stands there dazed for a moment. She shuts her door quietly and then blinks into the darkness of her room. Slowly she places one foot in front of the other and sinks back into her bed.
She tries to think about anything other than how good he looked just then. His arms, his hands, his rugged charm, the way he looks down on her, the way he tries so hard to hate her, and most importantly how she isn't supposed to want him.
Her thighs rub against each other under the covers; the friction makes her gasp. Her heart begins to thrum as her hand reaches below the covers of their own accord. Her fingers shakily lift up the edge of her night slip. Her fingers now trailing along her thigh as she can feel her heart beat in her ear now. All she can think about is him. All she can imagine is him. Her fingers brush over her soaked panties. Her eyes flutter shut, she can imagine him so vividly. “Rashmika-” he would groan into her ear.
It feels so fucking real she scares herself. Her hand jerked out from under the sheets with a gasp. What was she doing? What the fuck was she thinking? She was a fucking journalist. She was a fucking reporter! She was on an assignment for god's sake! She cant be doing this. Rashmika grabs the pillow close to her and presses it to her face “FUCK ME” she yells into it with a groan. She keeps her eyes shut.
Maybe this assignment should have gone to Gaurav. Because Jaiswal was right. This field mission is dangerous. And not because her life was in danger. Her sanity was in danger. Because he was just down the hall. It would be so easy. And the scary thing was that she knew exactly how she would do it too.
She could walk over to him in his room. He would be shocked for a moment. She would use that shock to her advantage. Before he could utter a word, she would push off the straps off her slip. The material would fall to the floor, he would see her in all her naked glory. She would see the darkness in his eyes.
She would watch him contemplate. Was it a risk? Yes. But she had seen the way his eyes dragged over her. Rashmika knew he wouldn't turn her away, so then she would whisper to him “Chaudhary…please. Sochiye mat” and then he would pounce on her. His hands on her body and her hands on his. Their lips would join, they would consume each other's souls.
A shaky breath leaves her. Fuck. She feels heat and arousal pool in her core. At the same time her eyes grow heavy with sleep and she is thankful for it. Because if it wasn't for her exhaustion. She might have gotten out of bed, she might have gambled everything.
A strange sleep takes over her. Not dreamless. Not dream full. Not restless. Not restorative. She was just consumed with thoughts of how fucked she is.
—--------------------
SP Chaudhary Aslam’s Day without her
Chaudhary Aslam had to take a long cold shower when he left her room. He saw the way her eyes dragged on him, like she was undressing him. And his fantasies weren't helping much either.
He had walked back to his room in the guest house and began by shedding his banyan. His hand lightly roved over his bare torso, a feeble attempt to fight the morning chill. He turned on the shower the coldest it could go. His hands deftly undoing his salwar as her sleepy eyes haunted him. The curves and contours of her body under that silk slip.
The cold spray hit his face and he gasped in reflex. His hand wiped his face and a painful realization hit him. His hand was the perfect size. The perfect size to hold her breast. The perfect size to hold her waist. The perfect size to throw her around. Fuck.
The cold water was doing absolutely nothing for his aching cock. His hand wrapped around it as he leaned against the cold bathroom tiles. A deep groan left his throat. Then he let his visions cloud him properly.
—----
When he emerged from his long cold shower he just about managed to get dressed. His mind physically fighting each thought of her, then his phone rang. “Janab! Mai neeche aapka intezar kar raha hun”
“Aa raha hun” He said curtly before he cut the call. This was about to be a long day.
—----
By 12 pm Aslam had the grave realization that meant he really was screwed. Rashmika Raina had clouded his mind.
He missed her. He missed her sarcasm, her wit, her remarks, her company, her. He missed her. Fuck. This wasn't plain lust anymore. And that scared the great SP Chaudhary Aslam. Who was famously never scared of anything.
—------------------
Rashmika Raina’s Day without him
Was it a dream? That's the first thought she has. Was that memory of Aslam showing up in her doorway a dream? Her thighs rub together as she shifts in her bed, she feels a slickness between her legs and a residual pull of pleasure in her navel.
The second thought she has is a realization. She had had a wet dream. A wet dream about SP Chaudhary Aslam. She pressed a hand on her mouth. Shit, this was not good. Rashmika shakily stepped out of her bed. This was very not good.
—----
By 12 pm Rashmika seemed to simultaneously have the same realization as Aslam. A grave realization crossed her mind. The grave realization that meant she really was screwed. SP Chaudhary Aslam had clouded his mind.
She missed him. She missed his sarcasm, his darkness, his ruthlessness, his company, him. She missed him. Fuck. This wasn't plain lust anymore, and it hadn't been for a while.
—---------
Same day @ 6 pm
The ballroom, Karachi Police Headquarters, Karachi, Pakistan
Rashmika took a deep breath before she pushed open the door of the ballroom. Should she have worn this white silk saree? Well whatever the case it was too late to change now. She adjusted the pallu over her shoulder before she walked in.
She walked in confidently looking around the ballroom. Marble floors, marble pillars, glass chandeliers, gold candelabras on the walls, gold accents around the room. It was lovely. She felt stares and whispers aimed towards her float through the room. She paid no heed to them.
A waiter walked by “Madam champagne?” he asked. “Ji shukriya” she nodded as she took a crystal flute from his tray. She took a sip and let the bubbles settle in her blood stream for a moment. My my myyy did the Karachi police have a lot of funds, especially if they served champagne in crystal flutes in golden ballrooms. She took another sip and then she began looking around for Aslam.
Aslam had already seen her. But before he did, he felt her first. A subtle shift in the room. The way people looked up front their conversations towards the door. Then he looked up with his eyes following their gazes.
And then Aslam forgot how to breathe. The whisky glass in his hand tightened slightly between his fingers as his gaze locked onto her figure moving through the hall. Saree. She was wearing a white silk saree.
The drape of the saree hugged her figure with dangerous precision, the pleats resting perfectly along her waist while the pallu lay elegantly along her shoulder. Her blouse was white as well, the neckline dipping into a deep V that balanced elegance with just enough boldness to pull wandering glances from half the men in the room. Any man with functioning eyes would struggle not to look twice. Aslam hated how he hated that.
Her eyes finally landed on Aslam and she promptly needed another sip of champagne to help her. He was standing with a few colleagues across the room from her. He stood out among them. Not just by his standing, not just by his rank, but by the air he held.
He was wearing a black sherwani embroidered in black thread. One that was sinfully well tailored against his broad frame. The crisp tailoring made his broad shoulders stand out. Pinned to his breastpocket were his medals and accolades. The metallic medals and pins on the black sherwani made him look so naturally powerful. His rank on full display and his aura untenable. The pathani salwar beneath the sherwani gave him a regal edge further aiding his look.
The both of them made eye contact from a distance. She tilted her head slightly and he raised an eyebrow. Silently Aslam raised his whiskey glass slightly in the air towards her. A silent toast. He was trying to be amicable, so he made the first move.
Rashmika’s lips curved, mischief twinkled in her eyes. She didn't return the toast. Instead she sipped her champagne and went on her merry way.
Aslam couldn't believe this brat.
—---------
Same day @ 9:45 pm
The ballroom, Karachi Police Headquarters, Karachi, Pakistan
The event had been dragging on for what felt like years. Rashmika tried her best to mingle with the guests she really did. She made polite conversation about her time in Pakistan so far. She answered questions about India. She answered questions about how her report was coming along. But as soon as she was done her eyes went back to Aslam.
And each time she would always find him already staring at her with those dark eyes of his. The way he sipped his whiskey, he looked like he was trying to stop his mind from undressing her. She had ignored his toast towards her and now he hadn't ignored her once.
“Madam aapke commissioner sahab ke sath live interview ka waqt agaya hai” Rashmika was informed by one of the liaisons of the Karachi police. She nodded as she abandoned her second empty champagne glass.
She walked over to the commissioner of Karachi police Altaf Hassan, behind who aslam stood staring at her. “Ji namaste Haasan sahab, aapko milke bohot achha laga” she smiled cordially as she shook the man's hand. Altaf shook her hand back with a smile “Hum theek hain, mohtarma aap hume bataiye. Mere sher Chaudhary ne aapka sahi se dhyan rakha na? Kuch kami toh nahi hui thi?”
She grins at Altaf, her eyes flicking to Aslam for a moment who simply raised an eyebrow and gestured for her to speak carefully. “Hassan sahab…Aslam sahab ne mera theek thaak dhyan rakha. Nothing prominent to complain about other than his manners.” she joked. Aslam rolled his eyes and she winked discreetly at him.
By now the camera crews had set up and mic'd up both her and the commissioner. She began like this was as natural as breathing together “Hello and good evening India. I am Rashmika Raina! Welcome to the NNM international feature. I have spent the past few days in the cities of Karachi and Lyari in the nation of Pakistan.” she began in her reporter voice. Aslam looked at her curiously, so this was what she looked like in her element.
“I studied how the Karachi police differentiates between genuine policing and the effective policing required to deal with gang violence that has become more prompt in the area. Tonight I am joined by the esteemed Commissioner of Karachi police Mr. Altaf Hassan. Welcome commissioner sahab” She paused for a moment bringing the mic to Altaf who greeted the camera.
The interview was in full swing within moments. She moved through topics and questions so smoothly that Aslam had no choice but to be impressed with her talent. Altaf was smiling at her as they spoke, this was the first interview he had enjoyed in a long time.
Within moments tragedy struck. A group of gunmen burst through the front doors of the ball room. And without a word they began firing into the crowd. People immediately began screaming and running as bodies hit the marble floor. Rashmika froze in fear. Officers sprung into action safeguarding the top officials and trying to shoot back at the attackers. Aslam began ordering his men and pulling his own gun. Blood was staining the marble floors. Streams ran down the floor conjoining into a fucked up river.
Rashmika’s head looked around wildly as she tried to continue reporting. “Jaisa ki aap dekh sakte hain police HQ me kuch armed gunmen ghus aye hain. They have stated no demands or agenda and they have just started shooting” She gasped as a bullet grazed by her waist. She could feel its heat on her skin “AAH!” she yelped.
The Camera man dropped the camera and ran, SP Aslam was in action before she could blink. She was his designation. She was the asset he needed to protect. He grabbed her by the waist and threw her against his body as he implemented defensive shooting tactics. His callused hand was warm on the skin of her waist. “Chaudhary!” she gasped, clinging to his sherwani. She took his name for the first time.
“Chhot toh nahi lagi?” He says looking at her face for any signs of pain. The look in his eyes was wild with concern “M-Mujhe nahi pata” she gasped shakily “Mujhe yahan se nikalo please!” He nodded wordlessly. He grabbed her and carried her up in the air against this shoulder as he rushed through the hallways with her in his arms.
“Darro mat mai hoon, tumhe kuch nahi hoga” he grunted as he shot behind him a few more times. Her heart thrummed wildly as he held her against him; she clutched him for dear life.
—---------
Same day @ 10 pm
Police Guest House, Karachi, Pakistan
Within fifteen minutes Aslam had managed to bring them back safely to the guest house. He didn’t let go of her until he had safely brought her into his bedroom.
Then he shut the door behind them. When he was convinced they were safe he finally set her feet down on the ground. She took a shaky breath trying to calm her nerves. “Oh my god, oh my god” she gasped. Aslam held her close, he wrapped his hand around her shoulders and crushed her against his chest. He could feel how she was shaking against him. “Shh shh” he murmured into her ear.
“Chaudhary mujhe dar lag raha hai. Ye kya hua hai abhi? Mere r-report ke beech me goliyan!” she stuttered with wide eyes, her hands flattening against his chest. He held her against him as he walked her backwards towards the wall of his bedroom. His hands caged her to the wall, his fingers curled under her chin. He tilted her upwards so her gaze would meet his.
“Chhot lagi hai kahin?” he asked her gently so he could cut through her anxiety. She blinked as her lip trembled slightly. “M-mujhe nahi pata” she gasped trying not to cry. Aslam nodded. It was clear she was shaken up. “Mujhe ijjazat do. Mai dekh lun agar chot lagi hai ya nahi?” He asked. She nodded as she swallowed hard.
Aslam’s large hand goes to the pallu of her white silk saree. He gently peels it off, exposing her body. Rashmika gasps as the pallu lifts off of her. She suddenly feels very exposed, now just in her blouse and the half wrapped saree. Aslam drags his eyes over her carefully. Her exposed collarbones, the neckline of her blouse, her heaving chest below it, the curve of her breasts beneath the blouse as she pants under her gaze.
He drops her pallu to the ground and he suddenly bends his knees and kneels on the ground in front of her. “-Chaudhary!” she gasps seeing him on the floor in front of her. A powerful and dark man on his knees in front of her wondering if she was hurt.
His hands ghosted along her waist as his eyes scanned her body for injury. She took a shaky breath each time his fingertips brushed her skin properly. Once he was satisfied that Rashmika wasn't hurt his hands gripped her by her hips making her breath hitch “Ek baat bolun mai?” he hums at her darkly from his knees. She nods. “Jabse aapko airport pe dekha tha tabse mai soch raha tha. Soch raha tha in dheele dheele suiton ke neeche aap kaisi dikhengi”
Rashmika’s breath hitched. His warm rough palms dragged along the exposed skin of her waist “Phir aaj subha aapko uss nighty me dekha…phir party me aap ye saree pehen ke ayi. Aur tabse mera haal behal hai.” he looked at her with crazed eyes. He admitted it, he admitted that he was going crazy for her.
“Aur ab jo dekhliya toh kya haal hai aapka?” she whispered shakily. Her fingers brushed back his hair. Her nails dragging along his scalp. His eyes rolled back. Then without a word his hands went to the pleats of her saree. Slowly he untucked them from her waistline, then his hands began unraveling the fabric. The white silk pooled on the floor shining under the dim bedroom lighting and the faint moonlight from the windows.
Finally the last of the saree fell away leaving her in just the blouse and the petticoat. Slowly he stood back up. Towering over her, he leaned forward until their lips were almost touching. Her hands flew to clutch the collar of his sherwani. “Kya haal hai mera?” he asks, almost destroyed. His voice is raspy like he was on the edge of delirium.
She chuckled lightly. The sound much too light for this moment by Aslam found that it made his dilemma worse. “Sunke achha laga ki jo haal mera hai woh aakpa bhi hai” she whispered leaning in slightly more. Her lips now centimeters away from his. Restraint was a thin veneer between them that was already fracturing. And then, almost violently it broke, and his lips crashed into hers.
The kiss was electric, immediate, a release of tension that had been coiled tighter than either had admitted. She responded without restraint, moaning into his mouth, a sound that vibrated along his chest and back, pulling him further into the gravity of her. Her hands gripped the collar of his sherwani, pulling him closer, pressing him into the warmth of her body, against the bare skin of her waist.
Their lips moved hungrily against each other's hot open mouthed kisses. Aslam's hands roamed her body groping and squeezing with no restraint. His tongue moved with purpose trying to dominate hers. But Rashimika was not one to let go and submit easily. Their tongues batted for dominance, dancing a devilish tango
Her hands fumbled with the buttons and hooks of the sherwani. She groaned in frustration against his lips. He grinned against her lips as his fingers deftly flicked open the hooks of her blouse, then his thumb and index finger un hooked her bra with the same amount of ease. She gasped in shock, her gasp was swallowed by him quite smugly.
His fingers trailed down her spine making her shiver against him. His hands tangled in the waist band of the petticoat. He shoved it down along with her panties until both garments were pooled on the floor along with the discarded saree. She was almost completely bare, spare for her half shed blouse, and he was fully dressed. She pulled away from his lips gasping for breath as she unhooked the last hooks of his sherwani.
Her hands pushed the thick heavy fabric off of his shoulders with her palms making the fabric land with a heavy thud onto the ground. Beneath the sherwani he is kurta less. His bare torso is exposed for her viewing pleasure. Her hands felt up his muscular frame shamelessly as she kissed him again. Aslam groaned into her mouth as he groped the soft flesh of her ass.
He suddenly lifted her off the ground, her legs wrapping around his waist naturally. He walked her to the bed. As he walked she quickly shed her half open blouse and tossed it to the floor exposing her to him in her full naked glory. Aslam groans at the sight of her breasts spilling forward right in front of his face. They bounced with each of his steps and he mused darkly watching them “Mashallah….hindustan ko thoda credit dena hi padega” A flush crept up Rashmika’s neck at how he ogled her.
Without a warning he leaned forward and captured one of her buds into his mouth. His tongue swirling around her sensitive nipple as he sucked and bit the soft and supple flesh. A gasp and moan ripped from her throat. Aslam liked that reaction very much he realized as he lay her onto the bed. Her hands clutched his strong shoulders as she felt his head dip to the valley of her breasts again.
His rough beard scratched against her deliciously as he left kisses and bites all over the soft flesh. His mouth was now on her right breast, his hand came up to cradle the left one, squeezing and massaging the mound before his fingers tweaked her sensitive nipple hard. She gasped sharply in pain before it dissolved into a moan. Her thighs rubbed together in search of friction to soothe the wetness and arousal that gathered there.
“Aah..fuck, please!” she moaned as he bit down hard on one of her pebbled peaks before he soothed it with his warm tongue. He chuckled darkly as he used one of his hands to undo his salwar. He kissed her neck slowly. Maddeningly slowly. Her shaky breathing refused to stabilize, instead it turned into panting.
She tried speaking once again but he bit below her ear making her gasp, her words died in her throat “Kya hua reporter madam?” he asked smugly as he shed all of his clothes to the floor now. “Aab kahan gaye aapke shabd?” he teased cruelly as his hands parted her legs below him. His large paw-like hand pushed open her thighs. His eyes darkened at the sight before him. He used this thumb to very gently part her slick folds. She gasped at his words and actions.
Her eyes locked onto his hard length and the sight alone made her eyes flutter shut and a blush crept up her neck. He was big. Both in length and girth. His cock matched his body, and also shockingly it matched his smug bastard persona. Which was indeed a rare feat considering most men can only walk the walk of big-dick energy, barely any of them could talk the talk. But here everything matched and lined up oh so well.
Wait a minute, how dare he comment on her words? She was still shaken up by almost dying for gods sake. Rashmika now wanted to shut him up.
She reached her hand forward and wrapped her warm palm around him. She fisted him once. Her thumb swirled over his tip with finesse. Aslam choked on a moan, he hadn't expected her to be so bold and he certainly didn't expect her to be so good with her hands.
She grinned “Haanji shabdon ki kya baat ho rahi thi?” she asked innocently as she fisted his cock next to her thigh. Aslam groaned and glared at her as she circled his sensitive tip. She stared back with not an ounce of apology in her eyes, a grin on her face. She felt him twitch in her hand.
What a phenomenal mind fucking kind of woman thought Aslam as he bit back another groan. She had paused momentarily to spit on her palm to help her hand glide along him more smoothly. The grin on her face was infuriating and sexy. Infuriatingly sexy. Aslam wanted to wipe it clean off.
He stared into her eyes as she fisted him, his hand at her thigh began moving. He used his middle and ring finger to side through her wet folds. Then he suddenly thrust his fingers into her tight wet and warm heat. She gasped when she felt his large fingers stretch her. The stretch burned. His fingers were massive.
“OH!” she yelped when Aslam didn't let her adjust to his fingers. He pulled them out almost entirely before he shoved them back into her. Her hands left what they were doing and flew to his shoulders for something to hold on to. Aslam laughed darkly as he leaned forward to kiss her again. His fingers moved with a steady rhythm, pumping in and out of her. She whimpered against his lips when his free hand began to knead her breast again.
“Uff Raina madam,” he began darkly as he pulled away from her lips. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck biting and sucking on her pulse point. “Aap meri ungliyan bhi nahi smahal pa rahi hain…mujhe kaise samhalengi?” he hummed as his beard scratched against her throat. He accentuated his point by repeatedly tapping his fingers against her g-spot as he curled his fingers inside of her in a come hear motion.
She moaned and gasped at the pleasure. “Kahan gaye shabd aapke?” he laughed darkly as he brought his other hand to her puffy and slick clit. He rubbed hard and slow circles in time with his fingers. She whined, her nails scratching his shoulders as her legs opened wider on their own accord. He hissed in pain at the feeling of her nails on his back.
Aslam grinned like the devil as he watched her lose her mind thrust by thrust on his fingers. Her walls squeezed around his fingers like her body was trying to milk them. His cock twitched as he thought about his. She gasped and whined breathlessly, her hands clawing at his shoulders for some kind of grip. Soon her hips began grinding into his hand as they naturally sought more pleasure.
He stilled his fingers inside of her. Just holding them there. Rashmika groaned in annoyance “Fuck!” she cursed as she felt the pleasure stop “Sikke khatam ho gaye kya?” she glared at him through her lashes. “Kya matlab hai iska” he asked gruffly at her rude tone. “Nahi matlab aap ruk gaye na? Toh machine me sikke khatam ho gaye ya aapki ego ko aur khilana padega?” she stared at him, her eyes hazy with lust but sharp with annoyance.
He laughed at that. She felt his dark laugh in her core. “Has kyun rahe ho?” she said, tangling her hands in his hair, yanking his face close to her. He looked at her with lust smug eyes as he pulled his fingers out of her. She swallowed back a whine of disappointment, her hand loosening in his hair. Because she knew if she made that pathetic sound he would be even more smug.
“Agar hasane wali baat bologi toh hasunga na?” he responded arrogantly. He used her remaining slick on his hand to pump his aching dick. She huffed and looked away annoyed. His hand gripped her jaw hard. Forcing her to look at him. “Ye kaisa ravia hai? Mai dekh raha hun ki jabse tum ayi ho aise hi pesh aa rahi ho” he asked roughly
“Attitude? Aur mai?” She scoffed with her jaw in his grip “Chalu kisne kiya tha? Mai kitni tameez se aapke sath airport pe pesh ayi thi. Aapne hi battamezi se chalu kiya tha” she hisses back at him. “Battameezi?” he asks in shock, his eyebrows raising. A evil grin graces his face “Battameezi toh mai ab karunga”
“pyar se pesh aaraha tha mai ab tak” He hums darkly as he pushes her back onto the bed. She gasps in shock. “Socha tha ki aap shock me hongi, aapki jaan khatre me thi. Lekin ab toh dikh hi raha hai ki asliyat kya hai” he clicks his tongue at her as he drags the heavy head of his cock through her leaking slit.
She squirmed under his gaze and touch. Her smug words normally ready at a moment's notice now nowhere to be found. “Hilo mat” he growls at her as he grips both of her hips, hovering over her. He grips hard enough to make her gasp in pain. She knows that the next morning there will be bruises where he touched her.
He lines his cock to her entrance. Without any warning or further foreplay he pushes into her, burying fully to the hilt in one thrust. Rashmika’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her back arched and lifted off of the bed. A scream erupted from the depth of her soul.
“AAHHH OH OH MY GOD” she screamed into the darkness of the room, her brows furrowing. He was so fucking big she struggled to handle him. The veins of his heavy cock dragged against her walls. Her core burned with pleasure.
Aslam faced his own demons. God she was so tight, he didn't even understand how this was possible on a biological level. Her slick warm heat felt like heaven to a sinner like him. He groaned against her throat.
His eyes kept fluttering shut each time her walls twitch in a feeble attempt to accommodate him, “Oh Rashmika” he groaned gutturally. It was taking him genuine effort to not give in to the voice in his head that told him to cum right there and then.
Rashmika moaned when he took her name. Her walls fluttered again because this is exactly how he sounded in her wet dreams. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled him up from her neck by the hair. She brought her lips to his messily. He kissed her back painfully deeply. Like he was trying to consume her soul.
“Hilun?” he rasped against her lips when he felt like she had relaxed slightly. “H-Haan...please” she gasped. He pulled out of her almost completely before he slammed back in both of them moaning simultaneously. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands clawed at his shoulders again.
Aslam pulled back and slammed back into her. Once. twice. Thrice. And then he set a maddening rhythm not too fast and not too slow either. But instead a painful combination that ruined her for any other man.
Each of his thrusts were perfectly timed and paced to make her lose her mind. He hit against her g spot with one thrust. On the next thrust he bumped against her cervix. Then with the next thrust he hit her g spot once more. Fuck he was good.
Her breathing was erratic, unable to stabilize. Broken pants and groans pulled from both of them. Her hands etched deep lines into his back. THe muscles rippled with each of his powerful thrusts. The pain and the simultaneous pleasure made him hiss and bite her neck. Her nipples brushed against the hard planes of his chest. Each brush sends an electric spark through her.
“Mai- Mai- Oh…Oh god” she whined as she felt her orgasam approach her like a train. And she stood on the tracks waiting to be hit. His cock dragged against her walls deliciously each time he pulled out. The feeling made her shiver. She writhed and moved against the bed.
Aaslam felt how her walls quivered and fluttered around him. He heard the way her moans and whines got higher in pitch and frequency. She was close. And he wasn't about to let her off the hook so easily.
He pulled out of her entirely making her almost sob in frustration “What- Why! FUCK” she cursed. “Muh band rakho apna!” he growled into her ear. His hands flipped her onto her stomach with a scary amount of ease. Like she weighed nothing. And that in itself was incredibly hot.
His beefy arm anchored around her neck. Her face was squished between his muscles. “Bohot zyada hilti ho tum!” he hissed in her ear as he set her in the pro bone position. She gasped and whined into his arm. He shoved into her once more with a groan. He cursed and grunted by her ear with each thrust. His cock dragged against her g-pot with every movement.
“Ahh please!” she begged as her eyes began to tear. Even though she didn't understand what she was begging for. She just knew that Aslam was the only one who would be able to give it to her. He laughed darky in her ear, the sound rough with exertion. “Pata hai tum aise bohot achhi lagti ho.”
“Jab tumhara ye muh band hota hai toh phir rooh ko chain milta hai. Warna bus bakar. Bakar. bakar karti reheti ho.” He accentuates each point with a deep and hard thrust and a hard bite on the junction of her shoulder and neck. She screams into his arm as she feels the familiar pull of pleasure in her navel. “P-Please!” she whines, her teeth biting on his arm as a last resort to hold her sanity.
“Shh shh..” he laughs darkly “Bas bas. Mai teen tak ginunga. Phir apne hosh kho baith na theek hai?” He kisses her shoulder blade as he continues fucking into her. His beard brushed against her shivering skin. She nods dumbly to his instructions.
“Ek” he began As he sped up slightly. The room is filled with sounds of skin slapping against skin. “Doh” her cries get louder and breathier. The heat between them grows exponentially. If someone lit a match between them it would set the room a blaze.
Aslam groaned as he felt his own core tighten in pleasure. Her cunt fluttered around him rapidly. She moaned into his arm desperately. “Fuck! Aur……Aur chahiye” her teeth sank into his arm hard enough to make a lasting mark. He speeds up as he groans by her ear “Kitni demand karti ho tum.”
Then suddenly the pleasure was too much. She gasped breathlessly into the crook of his elbow. His arm was choking her slightly. Her head went fuzzy with pleasure. “Ah…Chaudhary! zyaada hogaya hai! please please! Aramse!” she sobbed.
He laughed darkly in her ear “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Kya hua Rashmika?” he hummed in mock sympathy “Tumko lagta hai ki yeh ab tumhare haath me hai?” he rasps. God he was so fucking cruel. Sweat rolls down his spine as he fucks into her like a man possesed. He is most definitely not slowing down. “Chaudhary mujhse ruka nahi jaega!” she warns, gasping, her hands fisting in the sheets..
“Nahi ruka jaega?” he coos at her as he yanks at her hair to lift up her limp head “Theek hai phir,” he hums. “Please!” she screams into his arm, her mind had stopped working a while ago. She didn't care that she was begging anymore. The bed was creaking with each thrust. Thumping against the wall rhythmically. Her screams filled the room
“Teen!” he grunted by her ear with one final hard thrust. Both their orgasms crashed violently against each other. White burst behind her eyes. Her body was trembling with pleasure as she screamed into the night. Her body burned and her breath faltered. Is this what heaven felt like?
After the flashes of white she felt a deep blackness pull at her vision. Within moments she lost consciousness with a weak moan.
With a broken groan he falls off the clif of pleasure. Aslam’s forehead fell against her back as her walls milked his cock. His hips fucked into her of their own accord as his cock twitched and painter her insides white with thick hot ropes of his cum.
The sheets were ruined no doubt as he leaked out of her stuffed entrance. A mix of her cum, her slick, and his cum dripped out of her spasming cunt.
He collapses beside her gasping for breath. She has gone limp in his arms, unconscious but breathing. Her body shivers, shakes, and twitches in the aftershock. Their cum now properly drips out of her to ruin the sheets definitively.
Aslam simply pulls the covers over her shivering body as he pulls her close. Soon sleep begins to pull at his own consciousness. And he gives in.
—----------------------
Sat @ 11 am
Police Guest House, Karachi, Pakistan
SP Chaudhary Aslam had woken up first. Histreached his arms but felt a weight on his biceps that prevented him from moving freely. He turned his head in confusion. And then he saw her.
Rashmika Raina was using his arm as a pillow curled up next to him like a cat. Her hair wildly spread over the bed and his arm. She snored softly. Aslam didn't know why he did it, he felt an urge. His fingers gently brushed the hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear.
God! What was wrong with him? He shook his head and got out of the bed. He grabbed his discarded salwar from the floor and pulled it on. The soft morning light bathed her bruised body. And in the light aslam saw how he marked her last night. Bites along her shoulder blades, hickies on her neck.
Brusises on her hips from how hard he held her in place while he fucked her. She shifts slightly in her sleep then he can see the rest of his handiwork. Her chest and breasts are littered with bites and purple marks. He had gone insane. In the best way possible last night he had gone insane.
Suddenly he remembered why they left the party in such a rush. The shooting. Right. He lights a cigarette and leaves the room as he shakes his head. This was about to be his headache for today… But at least he had someone to take his frustrations out on. He chuckles quietly as he exhales smoke into the air before he takes another drag.
—-----------
Within moments of when he leaves the room Rashmika blinks awake. It takes her less than 30 seconds to figure out what had happened last night and where she was. She had fucked him and then fallena sleep in his room. She groans heavily.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She hisses as she clambers out of the bed with shaky legs. She walks around the room collecting the clothes he had thrown unceremoniously. Her underwear and her bra are the first to be put on. Then the white blouse and petticoat of her saree.
She grabs the 6 and a half yards of white silk on the floor and tries to make sense of it with a pounding head. In front of the mirror she tucks in the first round and then attempts to make pleats. Her hair is wild around her head. The remaining kajal in her eyes has set into a smoky look further deepening her eyes. Her hands fumble and drop the pleats she managed to create shakily. “Madarchod” she curses under her breath as she tries again.
—-----------
At the same time Aslam walks back into the room. And for a moment he just stares at her. She is draping her saree again, her hair wild and messy in a sexy way. Her hands whooshing the silk around her body with practiced ease. The morning light makes her glow and he can't help the words that tumble out of his mouth "Subhanallah"
Her head lifts from her attention to the pleats in her hand as she hears him. She watches him through the large mirror as he walks closer. “Aap poochenge nahi? If I need help or not? Manners be ek cheez hoti hai”
“Agar utarne ke liye madat chahiye to boliye” he says like the absolute smug bastard he is. She flattens the expression on her face and responds “Chup chaap meri madat kariye. Ye pleats pakadiye sahi se set nahi ho rahi” and to both of their surprise Aslam nods.
He walks to her and kneels in front of her again. She swallows hard. His hands hold the pleats steady, his cigarette hanging in between his lips. Rashmika shakily begins reforming and adjusting the pleats in her hand before she tucks them into her petticoat. Silently he picks up the pallu material from the floor and hands it to her as he gets up off of the ground.
She takes it from him and drapes it ver her torso and chest and onto her shoulder with ease. He stands there and watches her, taking a lazy drag from hsi cigarette. Something in her softens and then she whispers, "Flight hai meri aaj, wapas India ki."
“Jaana zaroori hai kya?” he asks, not sure how he feels. But he knows he doesn't want her to leave yet.
“Kyun pyar hogaya hai kya mujhse?” She jokes with a smirk to lighten the tense air between them but she can't take the look out of her eyes. She can't take the softness out of her eyes.
“Nahi time paas achhi ho tum” He jokes back realizing what she is trying to do. He is grateful for it.
She laughs “Toh phir embassy jaake mera special visa extend karwaiye” Aslam gives her a rumbling chuckle and walks out of the room shaking his head.
She is glad that he is the one who walked away. Because she didn't know what to say next. Because this was never meant to happen.
—----------------------
Same day @ 5 pm
Karachi International Airport, Karachi, Pakistan
SP Chaudhary Aslam did not want to be here. Here they were around the circle from where they started.
He didn't want to pick her up from the airport then and he most definitely didn't want to drop her off now. He hates that he is feeling this way. “Mohtarma ke bags utar!” He orders his constable. “Ji Janab!” He salutes and walks towards the boot of the jeep.
Aslam watches Rashmika rifle through her hand bag for her passport. She looks exactly like the day he picked her up. But instead of gray she was wearing a navy blue suit. Her sunglasses on her face again and her hair tied back yet some strands stubbornly fell on her face with the wind.
Finally she finds her passport and along with it a slip of paper. She takes the bags from the constable with a smile and a “Shukriya” The constable smiles “Arre humara farz tha mohtarma”
She turns to aslam and pushes her sunglasses up her head so she can meet his eyes for a moment. She drags her eyes over him once more. As if trying to commit what he looks like to memory. “Har subah aapki chai me mootne ke liye sorry” she starts with a laugh “Aapke chutti pe tapakne ke liye bhi sorry” she continues. He holds out the paper to him, aslam takes it quietly from her, simply arching an eyebrow for an explanation.
She gathers her bags in her hands “Dekhiye its clear. You love me, aap deny karlo jitna karna hai but you cant hide from it. And agar aapko lage ki aapki mohobbat ruki nahi jaa rahi… toh phir phone miladena. Khuda Hafiz SP Sahab” she smiles at him one final time before she runs to the airport and begins walking in.
Aslam watches her leave with the ghost of a grin on his face, he shakes his head lightly. She was a fucking headache and a half. He took a drag off of his cigarette and placed the slip of paper with her number on it in his wallet.
He liked this Indian headache. More than he was willing to admit.
-----------------------
My first work that wasn't DSKVS! hope y'all enjoyed thattttt ;)
Tags: (DM or COMMENT TO BE ADDED) @fleurnoir@mainyahaankyunhoon@roses-and-iron@bohotbadajalebi@golgappalicious@tere-naal-nachna@curiousbutbored@harrystyleskiwi9@scentedwolfdragon@patrakilekha@immortalinvaderrogue@wan2bey-n @lemonsquishee @goodnightkathrine @livelaughlovebylerr@shadylovedhurandhar@noor-archive@dc-reign@alyislost@harrystyleskiwi9@goodasaysboo@tanipartner@anxiousbeeing@bitchystxnk @gowrimenop-1 @layinglowkey@slutforkaz@angellwhisperswritez@angelllk1ssed@buchanana00@hum-suffer@ch3rrycok3s@mandaakiniii@krishavania@moonysscar@akshayes@kamalkafool@bombaybomb@snihrayy@nooriyat@drownedinindigolove@thisismyaltsblog@vakalatnelagadiye@royaldreamermonsoon@poetry-beauty-love-writez
Helloooo I'm soo sorry mann but I've been soo busy with work, And household stuff, anyways I did write the fic and changed the plot a bit but where you go-
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Every Ken needs his Barbie
Pairing:Tarun Ahwalat x Partner!Reader
T.W:SMUT GOOD DELICIOUS SMUT BUT MDNI, 18+
Tarun liked his life quiet, dark, and predictable. He liked his suits sharp, his coffee bitter, and his house smelling of nothing but expensive leather and old paper. He was a man of logic, a man who solved cases by stripping away the noise until only the cold, hard facts remained.
But Y/N was the noise. And secretly, he was addicted to it.
He’d never admit it to Gaitonde or any of his men, but the moments when she invaded his space were the only times he actually felt alive. He’d pretend to be annoyed when she replaced his elegant, white jasmine garden with a loud, messy patch of sunflowers and tulips.
He’d let out a heavy sigh when she’d march into his dark office and rip the blinds open, complaining that he lived like a hermit.
"Andhera? Sorry ab ye andhera rehne nahi wala hai aapki zindagi mein," she’d tease, her bright energy hitting him like a physical force.
He’d just grunt, pretending to be irritated, but inside, he loved the way her chaos forced him out of his own head. Without her, he feared he’d just become another cold, unfeeling part of the bureaucracy. She was the only thing in his world that wasn't grey.
_________________________________________________
On his birthday, the Salgaonkarr case was a nightmare. Tarun was slumped in his chair, the dim light of his desk lamp casting sharp shadows over his head. His mind was a mess of forensic reports and dead ends. He felt heavy, the silence of the house feeling more like a burden than a comfort.
Then, the door swung open. The scent of vanilla and something sugary hit him before he even saw her.
Y/N walked in, looking entirely too bright for a man in the middle of a mental breakdown. She was carrying a cake that was, quite frankly, an eyesore bright pink fondant, massive glittery bows, and enough sugar to give him a heart attack.
"Happy Birthday, IG sahab!" she beamed, setting it down right on top of his messy pile of case files.
Tarun rubbed his face, his eyes stinging from the screen.
"Y/N... meri jaan, thank you. But please, just give me a moment. Mere paas waqt nahi hai... this case is a mess."
Tarun leaned back in his leather chair, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to give way not to the case, but to the sight of her. He didn't even try to look back at his laptop. Instead, he just watched her, a small, private smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was already amused. He knew exactly what was coming.
"Kaam? Is that all you think about?" Y/N started, her hands on her hips as she glared at the stack of files.
She didn't wait for an answer, she never did. "Tarun, it is your birthday! Log birthday manate hain, tum yahan files me hi khoe rehte ho! If you keep this up, you’re going to fall sick. Your brain is going to fry, and then who will handle all these cases?"
She started pacing the small space of his office, her voice rising in that way it did when she was truly offended on his behalf.
"And don't you dare say you're fine. Dekho apni halat! You look like you haven't seen the sun in three days. You need sugar, you need rest, and you need to stop being so...obsessive over your work!"
She stopped her pacing right in front of his desk, leaning down until her face was inches from his. The scent of her perfume something sweet, floral, and unapologetically feminine completely drowned out the smell of his old files.
"Laptop band karo," she commanded, her eyes flashing with a playful but firm authority that only she could pull off with a man like him.
"Now."
Tarun didn't argue. He didn't even try to defend his work or explain the urgency of the Salgaonkarr files. He simply watched her, his dark eyes tracking the way her lips moved as she ranted, a silent, amused warmth spreading through his chest.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and slammed his laptop shut. The click of the lid sounded final in the quiet room. He pushed the files aside, clearing a space as he stood up, his tall, imposing frame towering over her.
Before she could launch into her next lecture, he stepped into her space, his large hands sliding around her waist to pull her flush against him. Y/N let out a small, startled huff of air as she was tucked against the solid warmth of his chest.
Tarun didn't let her pull away, instead, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, nuzzling against her skin. The scent of her vanilla, sugar, and her was an instant sedative to his racing mind.
"Tarun..." she murmured, her scolding tone faltering as she felt the heat of him.
He breathed her in, his lips brushing against her skin as he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"Jaisa aap kaho, meri Rani," he murmured.
He felt her hands settle on his shoulders, her fingers curling into his shirt, and for the first time all day.
Tarun didn't pull back immediately. He stayed there for a moment, savoring the way her heartbeat had sped up under his arms, the way her body had gone from a whirlwind of lecture to a soft, yielding warmth in his arms.
He let the silence stretch, the air between them thickening with a tension that had nothing to do with police work and everything to do with the way she was looking at him.
Slowly, he lifted his head, but he didn't let go of her waist. He leaned in just enough so that his gaze could lock onto hers, his eyes brimming with a playful, uncharacteristic mischief. A slow, smug smirk spread across his face the look of a man who knew he had already won the argument.
"So..." he murmured, his voice dropping an octave,
"Since I've been such a good boy and closed all my files... Tohh, aren't you going to give me a present? It’s my birthday, after all."
He punctuated the question with a slow, deliberate wink, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips before meeting hers again. A challenge, an invitation, and a blatant move to shift the focus from the pink cake to something much more interesting.
Y/N felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she wasn't about to let him have the upper hand that easily. She let out a soft, knowing laugh, her eyes dancing with the same spark he had just thrown at her. She reached up, patting his cheek condescendingly, though her fingers lingered just a second too long against his skin.
"Oh, so now you're a demanding one?" she teased, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear, making him catch his breath.
"Don't worry, Tarun. Present toh milega."
She pulled back, a triumphant grin on her face, and gave his waist a playful squeeze before stepping out of his arms. Without another word, she turned on her heel, her hips swaying just a little more than usual as she began walking toward the bedroom. She didn't look back, but she knew he was watching her. She could practically feel his gaze burning into her back.
He followed her into the bedroom, his footsteps heavy and purposeful on the floor. He didn't care about the cake, the files, or the Salgaonkarr case anymore; the only thing that mattered was the woman walking ahead of him.
He caught up to her in the middle of the room, his hands finding her waist and spinning her around. Before she could even get a word out, he was on her. His mouth crashed against hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle it was demanding, possessive, and tasted of the sudden, frantic need he had been suppressing all day.
He backed her up toward the edge of the bed, his hands roaming her body with a restless energy. He was a man on a mission, his movements efficient but desperate. As he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin of her jaw, his fingers worked feverishly at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it open as he tried to shed it in one fluid motion.
At the same time, his other hand slid down, his palm hot against her skin as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down with an urgency that left them both breathless.
"Tarun! Ruko!" Y/N gasped against his lips, her hands coming up to press against his chest to create even a fraction of an inch of space between them.
He let out a low, frustrated groan, a sound that was half growl, half plea, but she wasn't having it. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his desire, but she wanted to savor this. She wanted him to feel the anticipation just as much as she did.
"Slow down, you impatient man," she teased, her voice slightly breathless but filled with a playful command.
She used her strength to guide him, pushing against his shoulders until he was forced to sit back on the edge of the mattress.
She stood between his knees, her hands resting on his shoulders as she looked down at him. His hair was slightly mussed, his breathing heavy, and his eyes were dark with a hunger that made her heart race. He looked up at her, his expression a mix of intense longing and slight disbelief that she was actually making him wait.
"You're supposed to be the methodical one, remember?" she whispered, a triumphant, beautiful smile playing on her lips.
"Slow and steady, IG."
Tarun sat on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the mattress so hard his knuckles were white. He was a man who prided himself on control, but watching her was making it nearly impossible. He could only watch, his breathing shallow and heavy, as Y/N began to move.
She didn't rush. She took her time, her eyes locked onto his, making sure he felt every single second of the anticipation. She reached for the hem of her top, sliding it slowly over her head in one fluid, graceful motion. The dim light of the bedroom caught the curve of her shoulders and the soft glow of her skin.
"Dekh rahe ho?" she whispered, a playful, sultry lilt in her voice.
"Abhi toh sirf shuruwat hai."
As she stepped out of her shorts, her movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic. But it was when she reached for the final layer that Tarun’s breath completely hitched in his throat.
Beneath her casual clothes, she wasn't wearing her usual comfortable things. She was wearing a set of lacy, deep pink lingerie the exact shade of the bows on her cake, but far more dangerous. It was delicate, sheer in all the right places, and hugged every curve of her body like a second skin.
The sight hit him like a physical blow. The sheer, unapologetic femininity of it the way the lace contrasted against her warm skin sent a jolt of pure arousal straight to his core. He felt a sudden, heavy ache in his trousers, a prominent, pulsing tension that made him let out a low, involuntary groan.
His gaze traveled from the lace tracing her hips up to her eyes, which were shimmering with a mix of mischief and pure desire. He looked completely undone, his usual composure shattered by the simple, beautiful sight of her.
"Tum..." he managed to rasp, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He reached out, his hands trembling just a fraction as he gripped her waist, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed so she was standing right between his thighs.
"Tumhe pata hai tum mere saath kya kar rahi ho?"
He looked up at her, his eyes dark, hooded, and filled with a raw, primal need that made the air in the room feel thick and electric.
Y/N looked down at him, seeing the way his chest was heaving and the way his gaze was practically glued to her, dark and unravelling. She could see the physical evidence of just how much she had affected him, the heavy, undeniable tension in his lap that made it clear he was far past the point of being "composed."
Instead of immediately falling into him, she let out a soft, melodic giggle. It was a bright, bubbly sound that seemed to dance in the heavy, charged air of the bedroom. She leaned forward slightly, her hands resting on his broad, bare shoulders, her eyes dancing with pure amusement.
"Kitne jaldi haar maan gaye, IG sir?" she teased, her voice light and playful.
She reached down, her fingertips grazing the waistband of his trousers just enough to make him jump slightly.
She couldn't help it, seeing the formidable, unshakeable Tarun Ahwalat the man who could stare down the most dangerous criminals in Goa without blinking looking so completely undone by a bit of pink lace was the most delicious thing she had ever seen.
"Aap toh bade hi impatient nikle," she whispered, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughed softly.
She loved this power. She loved that she was the only person in the world who could make this man lose his legendary composure with just a single look.
Tarun let out a sound that was halfway between a growl and a sigh, his hands tightening on her hips. He didn't care if she was laughing at him, he didn't care about his dignity anymore. The amusement in her eyes only served to fuel the fire in his blood.
"Don't laugh," he warned, though there was no real bite in his voice, only a deep, heavy hunger. He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against her stomach as he looked up at her, his expression intense and raw.
"Mazaak mat udao... warna phir sambhal nahi paoge."
But Y/N wasn't finished playing with him. Instead of reaching for his belt or fumbling with his buttons, she leaned in and captured his lips again. This wasn't the frantic, desperate kissing from before, this was slow, deep, and agonizingly sensual. She tasted of the sweet cake and the heat of her own skin, her tongue dancing with his in a way that made his head spin.
As they made out, Tarun’s hands wandered upward, driven by a need to touch every inch of her. His large, warm palms slid up from her waist, tracing the curve of her ribs until they cupped her breasts.
He groaned into her mouth as he began to knead the soft, heavy weight of them, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks through the thin, lacy fabric of her bra. The sensation was erotic, a sharp contrast to the rhythmic, slow movement of her lips against his.
Eventually, she pulled back just an inch, her breath hitching as they both gasped for air. Her eyes were hooded and dark, but as she tilted her head, her gaze drifted downward.
She looked past his chest, past his stomach, straight to the center of the heavy, pulsing tension in his trousers. The sheer intensity of his arousal was impossible to miss, the fabric of his expensive trousers was stretched taut, bulging prominently, and a dark, damp patch was already beginning to bloom at the crotch of his pants from the sheer amount of pre cum he was leaking.
Instead of being shy, Y/N leaned closer, her face hovering just inches away from the bulge. She looked at it with a mock serious expression, as if she were inspecting a particularly interesting piece of evidence in one of his files.
"Aww, dekho toh isko," she cooed, her voice dropping into a silly, patronizing tone as she looked directly at his crotch.
"Itna impatient kyun ho rahe ho? Bas thoda sa intezaar karo... You need to be a good boy. I’ll give you all the attention you want in a little bit, okay? Abhi toh bas thoda sa wait karo!"
Tarun felt a hot flush of pure, unadulterated embarrassment creep up his neck and settle in his cheeks.
He was the Inspector General of Police! He was a man of iron will and absolute authority! And here she was, literally talking to his crotch like it was a needy toddler.
"Y/N!" he hissed, his voice a mix of a groan and a desperate plea.
He tried to pull his hips back slightly, his face burning, but he couldn't stop the embarrassed, half smothered laugh that bubbled up in his throat.
"Kya kar rahi ho? Please... chup ho jao-"
But she just looked up at him, a triumphant, mischievous glint in her eyes, clearly loving every second of making the most powerful man in Goa feel completely ridiculous.
Y/N rolled her eyes at his protest, a playful, innocent shrug lifting her shoulders.
"Arre, main toh sirf usse samjha rahi hoon!" she defended herself, her voice light and airy, as if talking to his anatomy was the most natural thing in the world.
"He looks so stressed, Tarun. He needs to know there's a plan!"
She didn't give him a chance to argue or hide his blushing face. With a sudden, graceful movement, she slid off the edge of the bed and sank onto her knees on the floor between his legs.
The shift in her energy was instantaneous, the teasing girl was still there, but there was a new, simmering intent in her eyes that made the air in the room feel twice as heavy.
Tarun froze, his breath hitching in his throat as he looked down at her. He watched, mesmerized, as her small, delicate hands reached for the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers were nimble and sure as she began to work on the button, her focus entirely on the task at hand.
"Finally..." he whispered to himself, the word a low, ragged exhale of pure relief.
The teasing was over. The waiting was over. The sheer, agonizing tension that had been building since he first saw her in that pink lace was finally about to break.
As she deftly unbuttoned his pants and began to slide the zipper down, Tarun’s composure finally snapped.
He couldn't just sit there and watch anymore; he needed to feel her. His large hands reached down, his fingers sliding into the thick, dark strands of her hair. He didn't pull hard, but his grip was firm and possessive, his knuckles grazing her scalp as he tilted her head back just enough so he could look down at her.
His eyes were dark, hooded, and burning with a primal intensity that would have terrified anyone else. But Y/N just looked up at him, her lips parting as she saw the sheer, unadulterated hunger written across his face.
"Ab toh theek hai?" she whispered, her voice a sultry challenge, her hands now working to push the fabric of his trousers down past his hips.
Tarun didn't answer with words. He just tightened his grip on her hair, a low, guttural groan vibrating in his chest as he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her mouth, waiting for the moment she would finally, finally claim him.
The room was silent, save for the heavy, synchronized rhythm of their breathing and the wet, rhythmic sounds of her devotion. Y/N was thorough, her movements a masterful blend of teasing and intense, focused pleasure that had Tarun completely unmoored.
He sat there, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as his fingers tangled deeply in her hair, his knuckles white. Every slide of her mouth, every flick of her tongue was a delicious torture that pushed him closer and closer to the edge of total madness.
When he finally couldn't take another second of the exquisite tension, he let out a low, commanding growl. He reached down, his hands firm as he guided her up, and before she could even catch her breath, he had scooped her up into his arms. He moved with a sudden, predatory grace, tossing her gently onto the center of the bed.
He followed her down instantly, his heavy, muscular frame pinning her into the soft mattress. He was a man who had spent his whole life being precise and controlled, but now, as he hovered over her, he was all raw instinct. His eyes searched hers, before he began to work his way back down her body.
His hands, large and warm, slid down her stomach, his touch trailing fire across her skin. When his fingers reached the edge of her lacy pink panties, he didn't hesitate. He hooked the fabric aside, his gaze never leaving hers as he found her.
He was a man of detail, and he applied that same focus to her. As he slid his long, slender fingers inside her, Y/N let out a sharp, broken gasp, her back arching off the bed. He was incredibly precise, his fingers moving with a rhythmic, expert pressure that seemed to hit every single sensitive nerve she possessed.
The sensation was overwhelming. His fingers felt so large and perfect inside her, the friction of his skin against her slick, swollen folds sending jolts of pure electricity through her entire body. He watched her face, mesmerously tracking the way her eyes rolled back and her lips parted in a silent scream of pleasure.
"Pasand aa raha hai, jaan?" he teased, his voice a dark, velvet caress against her ear.
He increased the pace, his fingers curling and stretching her, driving her deeper into the mattress. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the way her inner muscles pulsed and clamped around him in desperate, rhythmic waves. He was making her lose her mind, and the sight of her completely undone by his touch was the most intoxicating thing he had ever experienced.
Y/N’s head tossed from bobbed on the pillow, her breath coming in short, jagged hitches.
"Mhhhh..." she whimpered, the sound lost against his lips as he leaned down to capture her mouth in another deep, soul searing kiss.
The world outside the bedroom the files, the case, the city of Goa had ceased to exist. There was only the friction of his skin, the scent of vanilla, and the maddening, perfect rhythm of his long fingers working inside her.
She was right on the edge, teetering on the precipice of a massive, crashing wave of pleasure. Her hips began to buck instinctively, her body searching for something more, something to anchor her as the tension in her core tightened into a hard, pulsing knot. She was so close, her entire being focused on the white hot sensation building between her thighs.
Tarun could feel it too. He could feel the way her muscles were clenching around his fingers, the way her heat was intensifying, and the desperate, rhythmic tremors starting to take hold of her body. He knew if he waited any longer, the sheer pressure of her need would shatter them both.
He pulled his fingers out, the sudden absence of his touch making her let out a frustrated, needy moan, and moved to position himself between her thighs. He was thick and heavy, a pulsing weight that promised the final release she was screaming for.
He guided himself to her entrance, the tip of him brushing against her soaking wet folds, and then, with one slow, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside her.
The sensation was overwhelming a total, seamless fusion of two bodies. Y/N’s eyes flew wide, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back as she let out a loud, uninhibited cry.
It felt as though he had filled the very center of her soul, the fullness of him stretching her and hitting her most sensitive depths with a precision that was almost divine.
Tarun let out a guttural, primal roar, his eyes snapping shut as he felt her internal muscles begin to spasm violently around him. She was coming, her entire body trembling in the throes of a massive, soul shaking climax. The rhythmic, crushing waves of her orgasm were the final trigger for him. He drove into her with a fierce, desperate intensity, his movements fast and heavy, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.
He felt the surge build in his own gut, a white hot tension that he could no longer contain. With one last, deep thrust that seemed to pin her to the very core of the bed, he let out a choked groan, his body stiffening as he came inside her, his release mirroring the intensity of hers.
They collapsed into each other, a tangled mess of sweating skin and heavy breathing.
Tarun lay on his side, his heavy arm draped protectively over Y/N’s waist, pulling her back against the solid warmth of his chest. He felt completely unraveled, his muscles heavy and pleasantly exhausted, his mind finally, blissfully silent.
For the first time in months, the shadows of the Salgaonkarr case had been completely chased away, replaced by the soft, golden glow of the woman in his arms.
He turned his head slightly, watching the way the dim moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft, silver highlights across her damp skin. She looked beautiful messy, flushed, and utterly content, her eyes closed as she drifted in the peaceful haze of the afterglow.
Slowly, as if afraid that even a sudden movement might break the spell, Tarun leaned forward. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips warm against her skin. It wasn't a kiss of passion or hunger, but one of deep, quiet reverence.
"Best birthday gift ever, Thank you, Meri Jaan...", he whispered, his voice barely a breath, thick with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to voice.
He pulled her a little closer, tucking his chin against the top of her head, closing his eyes. In the quiet of his bedroom, wrapped in the chaos and the sweetness of her, he had everything he actually needed.
hello ji
first of all, love your fics so much especially the sanjaya baru ones❤️❤️
I wanted to ask if you are taking requests? more specifically for pinda or udaybir sandhu..
I don't really write for Pinda 😅😅 but there are so many other authors who are great at writing for him I only write for AK
Tarun Ahlawat (Akshaye Khanna from Drishyam 2) X wife!OC (Indrani Ahlawat)
Prelude to Obhiman
ONESHOT
Masterlist
Smut so minor pls shoo shoo!
Had bits of this rotting in my drafts for a while, finishing it up before starting the Jai fic! Lowk I like their dynamic ahahaha :)))
Enjoy my shonas <3
Cigarette smoke blows easily from Tarun's lips, a drop of sweat making its way down his temple as he stands in the back of the Goa police headquarters, an almost finished Marlboro red between his index finger and thumb. He closes his eyes and takes the last drag from his cigarette, putting it out on a tree before throwing it into a bin. Takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he uses the back of his wrist to wipe the sweat off his forehead, leaning back against the wall of the building, jaw tense.
It is his birthday today. Indrani had woken him up early with a blowjob, much to his delight. Then, his mother and Rushali had surprised him with warm aloo parathas for breakfast. The reason for his sour mood is that his work pulls him away from his family, from Indrani's warm arms. His phone buzzes. Indu.
Hi:)))))))
Hello, meri jaan, do you need anything?
Miss you
Slow day at school?
Gave them a little surprise test
Don't need to keep an eye on them?
I don't think I can keep an eye on them from here.
She sends an invisible ink picture, making his heart race. Opens it. Fuck. A view right down her baby pink blouse, her breasts pressed up against each other, which creates the most tantalising valley. She looks to be in the washroom.
INDU!
YOU ARE AT WORK! I AM AT WORK!
IG Ahlawat, I know your cigarette breaks :P
What if I had been in a meeting?
You wouldn't have answered my text :(
Touché
Come on, let me make my birthday boy happy ;)
Indu
You're not saying no >_<
Another picture. Half of her face, two fingers on her tongue.
Remind you of something?
His breath hitches as he stares at the picture, gulping. He is sweating now as he adjusts his pants; the colour of his uniform is unflattering in such situations, and even the slightest bulge is visible. He puts his phone in his pocket, walking back into the building, looking incredibly tense now.
"All okay, sir?" a constable asks, and Tarun nods, schooling his expression back to neutral.
He needs to get a grip, but that is difficult when his wife is a vixen dressed in baby pink cotton, the woman whose texts are making his phone buzz in his pocket.
In his office, his mind wanders back to his wife, whom he has been ignoring for all of five minutes, so as not to get a hard-on and a warning from HR. Paperwork be damned as he opens his phone again. Three texts.
Tarun?
Tarun???
I hate you c_c
He lets out an uncharacteristic chuckle, opening her messages.
Meri jaan :(
What -_-
He sighs. Nobody would expect IG Tarun Ahlawat to be doing what he is doing right now, but perhaps it is because they only know IG Tarun Ahlawat and not the man who is owned by Indrani. He opens the camera and takes a picture of his incredibly obvious bulge, sending it to her. No invisible ink.
You do this to me, you maddening woman. At work, of all places. I have a reputation.
Haawwww do they not know you are your joru ka gulam?
Yes, but I don't usually have erections at the office, Indu shona
There is a first time for everything :)
Not the first time you've done this to me :O
Are you complaining?
Only an idiot would complain about having a gorgeous, sexy, funny and amazing wife :)
Good boy
Thank you, madam :")
She sends him another picture. Opens it. A picture of her perfect waist, the lovebite he had left above her hipbone this morning visible. She is in the library now. Maybe the test is over? Kids these days do not read anyway, and the library stays empty most of the time.
Your reward <3
I want to give you a trail of love bites all around your waist, like a kamarbandh
What's stopping you?
Work :(
Come home early today, cut the cake early, and we can retire to the bedroom early
You drive a hard bargain. I'll be home before 4.
See you, love you
Love you too
Tarun has never been one of those people who enjoys large gatherings; he will tolerate them for the sake of his job, but he would never go out of his way to organise one, let alone expect one for his birthday. In fact, he is perfectly content in this moment as his little family sings Happy Birthday for him, a dark chocolate tart in front of him with 6 candles, because forty-two candles would be preposterous.
"Happy birthday, baba!" Rushali smiles, hugging him just as the song ends.
"Thank you, beta!" he laughs, bending down to press a kiss to her head.
"Gift hai aapke liye," she grins, running over to the living room and coming back with a wrapped box. I have a gift for you.
He opens it, glancing at Indrani, who is watching them fondly. His mother is watching a bit intently as he neatly takes off the tape. A knitted scarf. The stitches are uneven, and wool is sticking out in places, but he can feel tears pricking the back of his eyes. His little seven-year-old daughter had painstakingly knitted him a wonky blue scarf.
"Yeh aapne banaya?" he asks, earnestly trying not to cry. Did you make this?
"Dadi ne sikhaya," she grins, nodding. Grandma taught me.
He kneels in front of her and pulls her into a hug. "Thank you, baccha, I love it. I love you."
"I love you too, baba," she says gleefully, kissing his cheek.
After dinner, Tarun tucks Rushali into bed before going to his own bedroom to find Indrani sitting on the bed wearing a black silk robe. He walks up to her, taking her face in his hands, looking into her eyes before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Apna gift unwrap nahi karonge?" she smiles, taking his hands and placing them on her waist near the belt of her robe. Won't you unwrap your gift?
"What do you mean?" he asks, playing dumb. "You already gave me such a nice book on Bobby Fischer's life?"
"Oh yeah? Does his trip to Yugoslavia turn you on? His anarchy gets you hot?" she teases, laughing as she falls back into bed. He bursts out laughing, his eyes darting to her toned legs peeking out from the slit of the robe. Silky smooth skin, she had shaved last night during her shower, he knows.
"You are such a dirty girl, texting the IG of Goa pictures while he is at work," he smirks, climbing on top of her.
"What pictures?" she hums, looking up at him with a challenging expression.
"Pictures of these," he smiles, undoing the tie on her robe. As he expects, nothing underneath, and he immediately reaches for her breasts, squeezing them. She moans softly, arching into his touch.
"I can send my husband whatever I want," she murmurs.
"That is unfortunately the truth," he whispers as he takes the robe off her, manhandling her as he does, she lets him.
"Is it such a bad thing to receive pictures of my breasts?" she asks breathily as he reaches down to press at her folds. She is wet, wanting him as much as he has been wanting her all day.
"It is a bad thing to have an erection at the police headquarters as the IG," he counters, index finger circling her clit.
"Only a bad thing because your cock is huge," she murmurs, endlessly stroking his ego. He knows he is well endowed; no man has lived in the twenty-first century without measuring his cock and looking up the average size. He is way above average; he had found out at twenty-one.
"It is a bad thing anyway, Indu," he insists, pushing two fingers inside, which makes her gasp.
"I don't care," she whines low in her throat.
"I know," he smiles, capturing her lips in a kiss as he fingers her, his face now against her hips. He keeps his promise, leaving a trail of love bites all around her waist where it dips.
"Take your clothes off," she whispers against his lips, and he pulls away, standing near the bed as he undresses in record time, climbing back on top of her, his erection poking at her thigh. He pushes inside her gently, beginning to move. He fits perfectly inside her; he has known this since they first started having sex. She was made for him. Emotionally and physically, it has always just felt right with her. He understands why people do insane things for love because he would do insane things for Indrani.
"It feels so good," she moans in his ear as he fucks her, his left hand on her right breast, squeezing hard.
"Because it's you," he says breathily, his hips taking on an almost tormenting pace, which makes her eyes roll to the back of her head, her mouth agape as a low sound leaves her throat. Slap. Slap. Slap.
Not very long until he can feel his release is close, he squeezes her breast tighter. "Rub your clit," he grits out. "You'll cum with me." She complies, reaching down to rub her clit as he thrusts in and out of her, the movement not fast but deep and harsh, hitting her cervix almost every time.
They do finish at the same time, a comical sort of alignment between the couple as they swallow each other's moans. He releases deep inside her, staying that way until their orgasms fade.
"You are evil," she murmurs, not actually angry. His weight on top of her has always calmed her down.
"Ab kya kiya?" he laughs tiredly, stroking her soft hair. What did I do now?
"What if I get pregnant?" she grumbles.
"We'll have another baby?" he asks cheekily, and she slaps his arm.
"Is it a joke to you?" she reprimands.
"Well, you look delightful when you are pregnant," he pouts. "These get bigger," he grins, squeezing her right breast.
"অভদ্র কোথাকার! লাজ শরম কিছুই নেই!" she gasps, pushing him off her. You're shameless!
"Bit hard to accuse me when you were the one riling me up all day, no?" he laughs, pulling her into his arms, holding her in place.
"I hate you," she grumbles.
"I love you too, Indu," he smiles, kissing her temple. "Let's shower, clean up."
Under the spray of the water, Indrani has calmed down significantly as he massages shampoo into her scalp, the scent of apples filling the room.
"Thank you," he says softly. "For being my wife, for loving me when I do not deserve it half the time, for giving me a little version of you who will remain when we are both long gone, so the world can find in her all the reasons why I have loved you from the moment I saw you."
"What prompted this?" she chuckles, looking at him fondly.
"Mou learnt how to knit," he murmurs, turning her to let the water wash away the shampoo from her hair. "Made me the nicest scarf I own."
"I think it is because she hangs out with her dadi all day," she laughs, but Tarun shakes his head.
"You never acknowledge any labour you do, and now you are extending that onto our daughter?" he chortles, kissing her cheek.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she concedes. "We have an amazing daughter."
"We do," he smiles, squeezing some conditioner onto his palm before applying it to the long, dark lengths of her hair. "And it is because her Ma is amazing."
"Buttering me up because I might be pregnant?" she chuckles.
"Guilty as charged, jaan," he laughs, but really, he hopes he is better for this uncertain pregnancy than he had been when Indrani had been pregnant with Rushali. He wants to be a better husband.
Ofc lmk if you want to be added or removed from my taglist
Disclaimer: This series is inspired by the 2025 movie Dhurandhar by Aditya Dhar. This is in no way meant to idolize the real people the movie is about; they are bastards, and this is just a fanfic for the appreciation of the movie and the lovely actors who brought the characters to life. SO TAKE A FUCKING CHILL PILL and enjoy <3
Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Drinking
Masterlist
Author's Note: OMG, guys, we are at the series break post!!! Wow, I'm emotional! This has been such a long journey, and I'm so glad you guys are here and sticking around! As a reminder, the series will go on break for I think 2-3 weeks so I can give ya'll some yummy work that's not this series <3 Be on the lookout for the official announcement and the special masterlist coming soon
About the chapter- I'm genuinely sorry in advance. I'm writing this note from a security bunker because I am afraid for my life :) DONT KILL ME
Special appearance: Himmat Singh from Special Ops.
Chapter 15. Nafrat Karte Hain Aap Humse?
A week after the ending of chapter 14, sometime in late November @ 5 pm
Baloch Haveli front verandah, Lyari, Pakistan
“Tch Rehman mujhe saree phenana zaroori tha kya?” huffs Rehanna as she adjusts the fall of her maroon cotton saree that she wore with a maroon blouse. Her thick fluffy braid falls over her right shoulder, a few curls fall against her face escaping her braid as she leans over slightly. Her hands grip the pleats, shaking them out gently.
The verandah is deserted at the moment. But soon it would be bowling with all the boys clamoring into the cars that were lined up to take them for their meeting today. Suddenly she feels Rehman's presence behind her. She can feel the heat of his broad chest through her backless blouse as he gets closer to her.
Rehman's hands ghost along the top edge of her saree. Then he leans in, placing a kiss to the back of her neck, his naughty fingers pinch the soft flesh of her waist making her gasp. His arms wrap around her, his palms hot against the bare flesh of her stomach as he pulls her flush against him. Rehanna gasped her fist hitting his shoulder. He grinned shamelessly “Haan bohot zyada zaroori hai..faide ki baat hai”
“Accha? Meri saree pehn’ne se ya na pehen’ne se kya faida hai is meeting me?” she raised an eyebrow at him, turning slightly in his hold to look at him. He really looked quite handsome in this sand colored kurta. A dark brown waistcoat and matching dark brown leather punjabi mojari shoes accentuating the look more. He leaned forward into the crook of her neck. And began placing little feather light kisses along the line of her throat and shoulder, his fingers drawing little swirls against her stomach.
Her eyes flutter shut and a soft oh pulls from her throat. “Faida bohot hai meri jaan…” he murmurs into her neck. “Faida hi faida..” his tone dips with the second ‘faida’, his hands now running up and down her exposed waist. His true benefit of her wearing a saree now abundantly obvious to anyone with two functioning braincells “Oye!” says Rehanna finally shaking out of it “Ek second! Ek second! Sirf aapke ghurne ke maze ke liye mujhe aaj saree pehen’ne ko bola aapne?” she narrows her eyes at him.
“Dekhiye bola toh apne hai, maine nahi bola!” says Rehman cheekily pressing a kiss to the back of her neck now. She huffs at him angrily “Ab toh mai change karne ja rahi hun…agar saree ka itna hi shauk hai to phir in sab ladke logon ko kehdo ki saree pehenke gume. Pata hi saree samahlne me kitni gaand lagti hai?” she turns her nose away as she pulls away from his embrace.
Rehman chuckles warmly at her nakhre, it's one of his favorite things about her. His hand grips her wrist and spins her back into him. Her back hitting his chest an oof pulling from her body naturally. His other hand reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat, pulling something out of it gently. He presents it to her carefully, its a big beautiful brilliant white rose. Its truly perfect in every aspect. Which is only possible when a flower is hand selected.
Rehanna raises an eyebrow at the flower and then at him. Her expression is unimpressed “Iska kya aachar dalun mai?” Rehman's shoulders shake in silent laughter; this woman and her wit would be the end of him. She looks even more annoyed at his laughter “Phele toh inke ghurne ke liye saree pehno phir inke gulab ka achaar banaoun?” she rolls her eyes fighting out of his grip again.
Rehman stifles his laughter with great effort as he holds her tighter against him. When she stops squirming with a huff he brings the rose close to her face. He gently threads the de-thorned stem through her braid, weaving it between any small openings. When fully set the large rose sits by her ear it accentuates her beautiful features. The white of the rose petals brighten the white of her eyes. They make the pink of her lips more vibrant.
“Meri jaan.. Hum toh apke husn ke qadardan hain” he begins softly bringing one of her hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to it. The annoyance on her face melts slightly. “ Aur waise bhi ghoorne wale kya jane, niharna kya hota hai?” he hums to her as he gently pushes a loose curl out of her eyes. Tucking it behind her other ear. His palm rests against her cheek. He pulls her close slowly, capturing her lips sweetly.
She pulls away after a moment, his forehead now against hers. “Bhagwan kasam Rehman har bar aapki ye meethi meethi batieen apko bacha leti hain” she mutters against his lips with steadily melting annoyance. He grins triumphantly at her, because he knows he is a sweet talker. She pulls away from his grip again and begins walking away.
Two steps later she looks behind herself over her shoulder “Aap niharenge mujhe?” she asks. “Behad shiddat se” he replies, dragging his eyes over her once. His eyes landed on the soft curve of her waist before begrudgingly going to her equally beautiful eyes. “Kab tak niharenge?” she questions again. Rehman grins now “Jabtak aap chahien”
She hums with a begrudging smile like the answer satisfied her. Then without another word she turns and keeps walking. Raja and sultan show up and begin nudging her leg for attention. She scratched their ears gently and lovingly. This time there is a more pronounced sway in her hips, because she knows someone is staring. Because more than that she knows someone is appreciating.
Rehman's eyes stay on the hypnotic sway of her hips with a goofy grin pulling at his face. One one hand he didn't want her to ever walk away from him. On the other hand he doesn't mind the view one bit.
—-----------------
A few minutes later
A few minutes later the haveli erupted into its usual chaos. Footsteps thundered through hallways, someone shouted for car keys, Hamza yelled at Siyahi for stealing his lighter again, and somewhere in the kitchen a cook was loudly arguing with Donga about who had eaten the last kebab from the tray left out for the boys.
The evening sky over Lyari had begun dimming into that bruised blue color right before sunset disappeared entirely, the air carrying the distant scent of frying food, dust, sea salt and old Karachi smoke. One by one the men piled into the cars lined across the front driveway like a moving procession ready for war disguised as routine business. Eventually everyone settled themselves in place.
Donga took the driver’s seat of Rehman’s maroon corvette with immense self importance radiating off him. Uzair dropped dramatically into the passenger seat beside him scrolling through his phone lazily. In the backseat Rehman sat beside Rehanna while the second car carrying Hamza and Siyahi rolled out behind them.
As the car eased onto the roads of Lyari, Rehanna gracefully settled back against the leather seat, one leg crossing over the other carefully so her saree remained in place. Her elbow rested against the window sill while her fingers absentmindedly toyed with the loose edge of her pallu. Outside, the streets blurred in streaks. Small tea stalls glowing under yellow bulbs, children kicking footballs through narrow lanes, old men sitting on broken charpais discussing politics like the fate of the nation rested personally on their shoulders.
Karachi moved around them in all its beautiful ugly chaos. Rehman kept sneaking glances toward her every few moments despite himself. Fondness tugged painfully at his chest when she turned her head slightly and lifted the white rose closer to her face to inhale its scent. Her lashes lowered for just a second, her expression softening in a way that only he ever really got to see. The sight hit him harder than it should have. Suddenly he leaned forward slightly and spoke toward the front. “Donga kuch gaane chala.”
“Ji bhai,” Donga nodded immediately, fiddling with the radio controls with the seriousness of a surgeon performing an operation. Static crackled through the speakers before music finally filtered softly into the car. A qawwali began to play. Familiar. Rich. Deep. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s voice flooded the vehicle like velvet smoke curling through the air itself. Rehanna blinked softly in surprise. Her favorite. And then to make matters worse, the song was Yeh Jo Halka Halka Suroor Hai. Rehman leaned back slightly against the seat and offhandedly began singing along in that deep voice of his that nobody expected a gangster to possess.
His tone was rough around the edges yet strangely melodic, the kind of voice that sounded better because it carried life in it instead of perfection. “Ye jo halka halka suroor hai…” he sang casually. Uzair practically jolted in the front seat. “Oh ho bhai!” he clapped loudly. “Wah bhai!” Donga appreciated with an impressed nod while drumming the steering wheel dramatically.
Rehanna turned her head sharply toward Rehman, genuine surprise flickering across her face. Nobody expected Rehman to sing like this. Nobody expected a man with blood on his hands and guns hidden beneath his seat to sound like warm whiskey and midnight smoke when he sang.
Rehman caught her shocked expression immediately. And the bastard winked at her. Then he kept singing, this time clearly looking directly at her. “Ye jo halka halka suroor hai…ye teri nazar ka qasoor hai…ki sharab peena sikhadiya…” Rehanna bit the inside of her cheek hard before she could visibly blush. She rolled her eyes dramatically and looked away toward the window again but not before Rehman caught the tiny smile threatening the corner of her lips.
He was enjoying this entirely too much. The smugness on his face became unbearable as he stopped singing lyrics and simply hummed along to the music now, spreading himself back against the seat like some victorious king who had just conquered another kingdom. One arm stretched lazily behind Rehanna across the backrest though not touching her openly.
Uzair suddenly twisted around in the passenger seat to look at Rehman. “Bhai…ye jo nayi mohtarma aapne patai hai Ulfat bhabhi ke baad…jinka naam aapke phone me aapne meri jaan se save kar rakha hai…kya unko bhi gaana gaane se pataya?”
Rehanna’s eyebrow immediately twitched upward. Rehman slowly looked at Uzair. “Tujhe kya dilchaspi hai?” he asked suspiciously. “Nahi bas aise hi puch raha hun…koi dilchaspi nahi hai,” Uzair answered way too quickly before turning back around toward the windshield. That alone was enough to make Rehman suspicious. “Uzair,” Rehman drawled slowly now, a grin beginning to form.
Donga meanwhile had gone completely still as realization suddenly exploded across his face. “Bhai bhai bhai!!!” he nearly shouted excitedly. Uzair looked at him with murderous intent instantly. “Donga chup!” Too late. Donga now wore the most disgusting shit eating grin imaginable. “Bhai uss din Jamali ke ghar pe ek mohtarma se ishq hogaya hai Uzair ko unka naam hai Yasmi-mmmhph huumph!” Uzair practically lunged across the front seat, slapping a hand over Donga’s mouth before he could finish the name. The entire car burst into laughter.
Rehanna leaned back laughing openly now. “Aye haye Baloch sahab!” Even Rehman threw his head back laughing before leaning forward to clap a heavy hand onto Uzair’s shoulder. “Ishq ho gaya hai mere chotte bhai ko? Wah bataya bhi nahi bhenchod!”
“Arre nahi bhai aisa kuch nahi hai!” Uzair protested immediately though his ears had turned the faintest shade of pink. Which only made the laughter worse. Donga was wheezing behind Uzair’s hand now trying to continue exposing him through muffled sounds.
Rehanna was laughing hard enough that she had to hold the edge of her saree to her stomach. Even the car behind them briefly honked because Hamza and Siyahi were apparently demanding to know what the hell was so funny. Uzair groaned dramatically and dropped his head against the seat. “Kasam se jahil logon ke beech phas gaya hun.”
“Mohabbat karne wale hum nahi tum ho,” Rehanna teased sweetly. Uzair pointed accusingly at her. “Vakeel sahiba aap bhi mazaak uda lo.” “Bilkul udaungi,” she replied shamelessly.
The laughter inside the car refused to die down even as Uzair glared murderously at every single person present. The maroon corvette cut smoothly through the evening traffic of Karachi, headlights streaking across the windshield in long golden smears while the qawalli continued floating softly through the speakers. Inside the car there was warmth, teasing, familiarity. The kind of warmth built only through years of surviving together.
Uzair looked deeply offended as Donga continued wheezing with laughter beside him. “Mai kasam se tujhe gaadi se neeche phenk dunga” he muttered darkly. “Bhai dekho dekho sharma bhi raha hai!” Donga practically cried from excitement while clutching his chest dramatically. “Haye Allah pehla ishq!”
“Abe chup kar na!” Uzair snapped, finally shoving Donga’s shoulder hard enough to make him bounce against the door. Rehanna laughed softly from the backseat. Rehman noticed immediately. He noticed everything about her. The way her fingers absentmindedly touched the white rose braided into her hair. The way the corners of her lips curved now.
“Acha toh naam Yasmin hai?” Rehanna asked innocently, although the amusement sparkling in her eyes made it obvious she intended to make the poor man suffer. Uzair immediately pointed at Donga accusingly. “Is gadhe ne bataya?!?!”
“Arre maine kya kiya?” Donga defended himself shamelessly. “Mohabbat chupti thodi hai bhai!” Rehman leaned back against the leather seat with a grin so smug it should have been illegal. His arm stretched lazily along the backrest behind Rehanna, fingers nearly brushing the edge of her saree pallu. “Mere chotte bhai ko mohabbat ho gayi…” he repeated with immense satisfaction, shaking his head slightly. “Mashallah.” Uzair groaned loudly. “Bhai aap bhi shuru mat hojao.”
“Kaise hui?” asked Rehanna now, fully invested. “Pehli nazar wala chakkar tha kya?” Uzair crossed his arms stubbornly and looked out the windshield. “Mujhe nahi pata.” “Jhoot.” Rehanna narrowed her eyes immediately. “Aapko bilkul pata hai.”
“Vakeel sahiba sahi keh rahi hain,” Rehman added helpfully. “Ye chehra dekho iska. Seedha qatal hua hai.” The entire car burst into laughter again. Uzair finally sighed in defeat and rubbed a hand down his face. “Bas…dekha usko aur…” he stopped. “Aur?” Donga leaned closer eagerly. Uzair stared blankly ahead for a moment, like he genuinely hated himself for what he was about to admit. “Aur dimagh band hogaya.”
That made even Rehman bark out a proper laugh now, deep and warm and genuine. Because his little brother was just like him in some ways. Rehanna pressed her lips together trying not to laugh harder because poor Uzair looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. “Woah,” Donga whispered dramatically. “Maut.”
“Bohot buri wali,” Siyahi’s voice crackled suddenly through the speakerphone from the second car because apparently Hamza had called Donga at some point during the chaos. “Bhai ka toh kaam tamam hogaya.”
“Tum log meri janaza kyun nikal rahe ho?” Uzair snapped. Hamza’s laughter echoed through the speakers now too. “Kyuki Uzair bhai aapka haal dekh ke lag raha hai.” Rehanna shook her head fondly while the qawalli continued playing softly beneath the conversation.
The city lights reflected against the windows casting flickering gold over everyone’s faces. Just teasing and music and winter settling softly over Karachi. Then Rehman looked at her again. His eyes softened almost painfully when they landed on her face. Rehanna caught him staring. One eyebrow lifted slightly. “Kya?” she mouthed silently. Rehman’s gaze dropped briefly to the rose in her braid before returning to her eyes. A small smile tugged at his lips, softer this time. Possessive in a way only she could understand.
“Bohot khoobsurat lag rahi hain aap,” he whispered quietly enough so that only she could hear. Heat bloomed instantly beneath her skin despite herself. She rolled her eyes dramatically to hide it and turned back toward the window again, but the tiny smile pulling at her mouth betrayed her completely.
{Ye jo halka halka suroor hai… Ye teri nazar ka qasoor hai…}
—---------
Same day @ 6pm
The Khanani Brothers factory, Karachi, Pakistan
The loading bay of the Khanani Brothers factory smelled like hot ink, machine oil, paper dust and money. Not metaphorical money. Real money. Enough money to buy ministers, judges, policemen, entire districts. Enough money to start riots if released in the wrong places.
The maroon corvette rolled into the massive industrial loading dock with a low growl before coming to a stop beneath bright white warehouse lights that hummed overhead. Huge steel machines thundered in the background somewhere deeper inside the factory, their constant mechanical rhythm vibrating faintly through the concrete beneath their feet. Rehman stepped out first as always.
The moment his shoes hit the ground workers nearby subtly straightened, some lowering their eyes respectfully. Fear and reverence mixed together strangely around him. He rounded the car without hurry and opened Rehanna’s door himself. There was not a universe in existence where Rehman Baloch would allow her to open her own door while he stood breathing.
Rehanna placed one hand lightly in his and stepped out gracefully, the maroon saree flowing around her legs in soft folds. The white rose tucked into her braid looked almost startling against the dark richness of the fabric. She gave him a small smile before turning her attention toward the factory itself.
The moment they stepped inside both Rehanna and Hamza slowed slightly. Stacks. Endless stacks. Indian five hundred rupee notes. Freshly printed. Fresh enough that the sharp chemical scent of ink still lingered in the air heavily. Massive pallets towered beside them wrapped in plastic. Workers moved boxes with forklifts while giant industrial printers spat out sheets of currency with terrifying precision. Crores upon crores upon crores. Enough fake currency to quietly poison an economy from the inside out.
Hamza’s eyes widened for only a fraction of a second before he schooled his expression again. Rehanna shot him a glance. A single glance. Take note. Hamza gave the smallest nod possible in return. Understood. Neither spoke. Rehman walked ahead completely unbothered, hands casually slipped into the pockets of his dark waistcoat while his mojaris clicked softly against polished factory flooring. To him this was business. Another dangerous room. Another dangerous alliance. Another day.
A few moments later two men emerged from deeper inside the building. Javed Khanani smiled broadly the moment he saw Rehman while his brother Altaf Kahnani followed just behind him adjusting the cuffs of his expensive suit. Both men radiated old money and illegal money simultaneously. The sort of wealth that came from knowing exactly how much morality could be purchased. “Assalamualaikum Rehman bhai,” greeted Javed warmly while shaking Rehman’s hand firmly. “Walekumassalam,” replied Rehman smoothly. Both men then turned politely toward Rehanna. “Salam mohtarma.” “Walekumassalam,” she replied with an elegant nod.
Javed immediately began walking beside Rehman. “Major Iqbal sahab bas Zarwari sahab se milke aa hi rahe hain.” “Hm.” Rehman nodded once. They continued deeper inside the factory while giant machines roared around them. Workers glanced nervously at the group before immediately pretending not to notice them at all.
Uzair and Hamza moved slightly ahead, opening a heavy office door for Rehman and Rehanna before stepping aside respectfully. The room inside was colder. Sharper. Dangerous in a quieter way. Several men sat scattered around an expensive conference table smoking cigarettes and speaking in low murmurs. The moment Rehman entered the room, conversation dipped slightly.
“Ayie bhai,” Javed announced warmly. He began introducing everyone one by one. “Ye Sajid Mir hai Lashkar se.” A bespectacled man stood and shook Rehman’s hand. “Assalamualaikum.” “Walekumassalam.” “Yeh Abdul Bhuttovi aur Azam Cheema hain,” continued Javed. Both men stepped forward next. “Muridke me sabse bada mujahidon ka training camp chalate hain ye dono.” Rehman raised an eyebrow slightly. “Hmm accha?” “Bilkul.” Javed smiled before motioning toward another man standing nearby. “Aur ye hai Dawood Sayed Gilani urf David Headley. Ye Major Iqbal ke sath kaam karta hai.”
The foreign looking man stepped forward calmly. His eyes immediately stood out. One blue. One grey. Cold eyes. The kind that looked through people instead of at them. He salamed Rehman politely before his gaze shifted toward Rehanna. And lingered. Rehanna stared back evenly. Something twisted unpleasantly in her stomach. Not fear. Instinct. The room suddenly felt wrong. Not politically wrong. Not criminally wrong. Something darker. Something that made the air feel heavier against her lungs. Headley finally looked away first.
Javed spread a hand proudly toward Rehman. “Aur ye hai Rehman Baloch. Lyari ke betaj badshah.” Rehman grinned lazily at that title. It suited him too well. “Bas ek siyasi taj lagane ki deri hai, PAC party ke jeet ka.” Javed chuckled before continuing. “Khair ye unke chotte bhai hain Uzair Baloch. Unke aadmi. Aur ye mohtarma unki vakeel hai.” Every pair of eyes in the room shifted toward Rehanna again. Still no name. Just mystery. Just “vakeel.” Questions lingered behind their stares. Before the silence could settle further another voice cut through the room.
“Samajh lijiye ki PAC ki jeet ka taj inke sar pe hai.” Major Iqbal of the ISI entered from behind them casually, placing an arm around Hamza’s shoulder almost too familiarly before stepping forward toward Rehman. Rehman laughed softly and shook his hand firmly. “Major sahab.” Iqbal then turned toward Rehanna. “Salam Randhawa madam.”
“Salam Iqbal sahab,” Rehanna greeted smoothly before extending her hand toward him. “Kaafi time ho gaya hai mile hue? Akhri baar shayad Dakait Sahab ke janam din pe tha haina?” Her smile looked sweet. Warm. Disarming. Exactly the kind of softness that made dangerous men underestimate her. Iqbal nodded with a small smile. “Ji waqt toh kafi hogaya hai. Aapne kabhi mauka nahi diya aapki khatir dari karne ka.” she replied politely “Ji zaroor denge,”
Javed motioned toward the seating arrangement. Rehman immediately gestured for Rehanna to sit first on the sofa adjacent to him. Only after she settled elegantly into place did he sit down himself. Several men noticed that immediately. The subtle respect. The space he unconsciously made for her.
Iqbal adjusted his military jacket before finally speaking business. Javed handed Rehman a folded note. Rehman opened it calmly. His face did not shift once while reading. Then he handed it directly to Rehanna. Her eyes scanned the page carefully. Weapons. Rifles. Grenades. Ammo. Pistols. Large quantities. Very large quantities. But nothing unusual yet. Nothing impossible. She handed the note back silently. Rehman passed it to Uzair behind him.
Iqbal leaned back slightly before speaking. “Hume bhari tadad me aapse asla barood chahiye, magar woh jaali saman nahi. Asli saman. Jispe Amriki ya Russi stamp lagi ho. Kal ko agar koi international investigation ho toh phir humara naam nahi ana chahiye. ISI ka naam nahi ana chahiye.” Silence settled briefly. Rehman tilted his head toward Rehanna. “Vakeel sahiba? Lagta hai ki hojaega?”
“Hmmm hojaega,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Lekin daam sahi hona chahiye.” A grin tugged at Rehman’s mouth immediately. Profit first. Always. “Daam sahi hona chahiye Iqbal sahab.” But Rehanna was no longer fully listening.
Her mind kept circling back toward the factory floor outside. The counterfeit Indian notes. The untraceable weapons. The men in this room. Something enormous was moving beneath the surface here. Something catastrophic. And R&AW needed to know immediately. She stood smoothly. “Dakait sahab,” she said calmly while adjusting the fall of her saree. “Hamza aur mai factory manager ko phone milake ate hain.” Rehman nodded easily without suspicion. “Theek hai.” Hamza immediately followed her out of the room. The heavy office door shut behind them quietly.
—--------
Same day @ 6:45
The Khanani Brothers factory, Karachi, Pakistan
“Hamza!” hissed Rehanna sharply the moment they were out of sight, her fingers wrapping around his arm and dragging him quickly down a quieter hallway branching away from the conference room. The sound of machinery echoed faintly through the factory walls while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead casting everything in harsh white light. Her saree swished furiously around her ankles as she walked fast, the maroon fabric moving like dark spilled wine against polished flooring.
Hamza followed immediately, still visibly stunned. “Didi itne saare notes! Innko Indian currency printing plates mile kahan se?” he whispered harshly, glancing back once toward the meeting room as if expecting someone to emerge listening. Rehanna shook her head tiredly. “God knows.” Her voice carried something grim now. Because she understood exactly what this meant.
This was not small scale counterfeiting. This was infrastructure. State level infrastructure. Destabilization. Economic warfare. She pulled her phone from beneath the folds of her saree while still walking quickly. Her fingers moved with frightening familiarity. Without hesitation she popped open the back flap and removed the current sim card carefully. Hamza blinked in shock. “Didi ye… ye kya kar rahi ho?”
“Abe chup reh na!” she tsked impatiently, not even looking at him properly. Then she did something that made Hamza stare outright. Her hand slipped carefully into the neckline of her blouse, fingers searching discreetly beneath the fabric. For a moment she frowned slightly in concentration before finally finding what she wanted hidden deeper inside. Hamza nearly choked. From a tiny stitched pocket hidden within the lining of her bra she pulled out another sim card. Smaller. Unmarked. Protected. Hamza gasped dramatically. “WAH didi genius hain aap!”
“Haan janti hun mai,” she replied smugly without missing a beat. Even now. Even here. That sharp arrogance remained untouched. She inserted the second sim quickly and dialed a number from memory with terrifying speed. The line connected almost instantly. A cold automated voice spoke from the other side. “State your credentials then leave a message on the encrypted line.” Rehanna leaned casually against the wall as if she were merely taking a normal call. Her eyes remained alert however, scanning the hallway constantly.
“This is Dhurandhara and Dhurandhar,” she said smoothly for both herself and Hamza. “The Khanani’s have access to print genuine Indian notes. Only five hundred rupee plates are confirmed so far.” Hamza watched her with open admiration now. She sounded completely different during operational reporting. Sharper. Cleaner. Deadlier. She paused briefly before her tone shifted with dark amusement. “Humari border paar wali chugal khor khala ko American aur Russian stamped weapons chahiye.”
Hamza bit back a laugh despite the situation. Border paar wali chugal khor khala. ISI. Trust Rehanna to insult an intelligence agency mid classified transmission. “A good amount for something big,” she continued more seriously now. “Not sure what yet. Will update with more info later.”
The second she finished speaking she disconnected immediately. No hesitation. No goodbye. Nothing. The entire exchange had taken less than thirty seconds. Efficient. Controlled. Safe. Any longer then the risk of tracking and tracing increased dramatically. She immediately removed the special sim card again and slid her regular one back into place with practiced movements. Then the secure sim disappeared right back into the hidden stitched pocket beneath her blouse. Hamza stared at her like she had personally descended from heaven.
“Didi kasam se…” he muttered in awe. “Aap R&AW wale pagal hote ho.” Rehanna smirked faintly while snapping the phone shut. “Professional word ‘resourceful’ hota hai. Tera first mission hai na? Bete maine itne khel khele hain ki ab mai khel set karti hun, neend me ek haat se khelti hun.” Hamza raised his eyebrows at that claim but she continued “Tu bhi seekh jaega ek din, kyunki hum R&AW wale sache me aise genius pagal hain ki log dekhte rehjate hain”
Then her expression shifted serious again. “Ja. Wapas room me ja. Mai cover kar lungi.” Hamza nodded immediately. “Theek hai.” He turned and headed towards the cars to make his disappearance slightly longer while trying to force his face into something less suspicious. The moment he disappeared around the corner Rehanna’s entire demeanor changed seamlessly. Like flipping a switch.
Her shoulders relaxed. Her expression softened. Her tone brightened. She raised the phone back to her ear casually while beginning to walk deeper down the hallway. “Aree Salam Arman bhai!” she greeted warmly, now loud enough for anyone nearby to overhear naturally. “Hanji hanji factory ka dispatch schedule hi discuss karna tha…” Anyone watching would assume she had been dealing with ordinary business matters the entire time.
Her fingers absentmindedly reached toward the white rose woven into her braid. Soft fingertips brushed carefully over the petals. A tiny unconscious smile touched her mouth for only a second. Rehman. Even surrounded by counterfeit money, terrorists, smugglers and intelligence officers… somehow her mind still wandered back toward him.
—--------
Meanwhile inside the meeting room while Rehanna and Hamza are not in the room
The room falls into an odd silence the moment Rehanna and Hamza leave. The kind of silence that only exists in rooms where dangerous men are thinking dangerous things. The air conditioning hums softly overhead. Somewhere deeper in the factory heavy machinery continues running, the faint mechanical rhythm vibrating through the walls like a second heartbeat beneath the conversation. Rehman sits back against the sofa now, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, his broad hand loose against the armrest. Outwardly calm. Relaxed. Completely in control. But his eyes sharpen slightly the second Javed clears his throat.
“Rehman bhai…” Javed begins carefully, his smile polite but calculating. “Aapki vakeel hindustani hai na?” Rehman’s expression does not change. Not even slightly. He simply nods once. Slow. Controlled. Watching. “Haan.” Javed exchanges the briefest glance with Iqbal before continuing. “Toh phir achha hai ki woh yahan nahi hain.”
That makes Rehman’s fingers still against the armrest. The room suddenly feels smaller. “Kya matlab bhai iska?” asks Rehman slowly now, his voice calm enough to be dangerous. Not aggressive. Not offended. Just measured. The kind of tone that makes men think very carefully before their next sentence.
Iqbal adjusts his tinted glasses leisurely, crossing one leg over the other like this is merely business discussion over tea. “Bhuttovi sahab,” he says mildly, “bataiye Rehman bhai ko ki inke diye hue asla aur barood kahan jaenge.” Bhuttovi leans forward slightly now, elbows resting against his knees. “Baat asi hai ki hummare kuch mujahideen ladke log India jaane wale hain.” His voice lowers with significance. “Iss bar kuch bada karne ka plan hai.” For the briefest moment Rehman’s mind blanks.
India. The word lands strangely inside him now. Not because of politics. Not because of morality. Rehman Baloch is not a man unfamiliar with violence. Violence built the empire he sat atop. Violence paid for the very factory beneath their feet. But the moment India enters the conversation, another face flashes through his mind before he can stop it.
Maroon saree. White rose. Soft lips muttering “Aap niharenge mujhe?” The image disappears as quickly as it comes but it leaves behind the faintest discomfort curling somewhere in the back of his mind. Tiny. Almost invisible. Not enough for him to even fully register. But it is there.
Now every single word he says has to be calculated carefully. Because these men are not fools. One wrong expression. One moment too defensive. One hesitation at the mention of India and suddenly questions begin. Questions about why Lyari’s king cares so much about a Hindustani lawyer. Questions about loyalties. Questions that could get people killed. Questions that would put his Rehanna in danger.
Rehman shifts slightly against the sofa, his face remaining unreadable even as his thoughts begin moving rapidly beneath the surface. Carefully now. Very carefully. “Major sahab…” he begins slowly, fingers tapping once against the armrest. “Hindustan me toh pehle bhi aapne kuch kaand kiye hain.” His eyes flick briefly toward Iqbal. “Iss baar humari kaise yaad ayi asla aur barood ke liye?” The question is casual enough. Curious enough.
But underneath it he is probing carefully, trying to understand how much these people know, how much they suspect, how much they are testing him right now. Iqbal chuckles softly. “Zarasal yaad toh aapki kaafi baar ayi hai…” he says leaning forward now, voice smooth like oil sliding across water. “Lekin isi cheez ne hume baar baar rok diya.” Rehman’s gaze narrows slightly. “Aapki Hindustani vakeel.” There it is. The room suddenly feels quieter. “Unke hote hue aapse kaise India ke khilaf bandookein le sakte hain?” Iqbal spreads his hands lightly. “Aap hi bataiye?” Javed sighs dramatically beside him, shaking his head like this is some tragic business inconvenience.
“Agar unka masla nahi hota…” Iqbal continues now, watching Rehman very carefully through those tinted glasses. “Toh phir aapke sath toh hum croreon ka dhanda karte.” Crores. The number hangs in the air heavily. Crores lost because of her. The room watches him carefully now. Waiting. Testing. Measuring. And for one brief second something ugly tries to crawl into existence somewhere deep in Rehman’s subconscious. A poisonous little thought planted carefully by experienced hands. Crores. Lost opportunities. Complications. All because of one woman.
But the thought barely forms before Rehman crushes it instinctively. Money? Money means nothing to him. He has seen more money than most men could dream of. Stacks of cash taller than grown men. Weapons deals worth fortunes. Entire neighborhoods bought and sold through fear alone. What is money compared to the woman who waits for him at night with sleepy and adoring eyes with messy hair? What is money compared to the woman who made life worth living again? What is money compared to the woman who wears his necklace between the plunge of her throat? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
Rehman leans back slightly now, one corner of his mouth pulling upward into an amused grin. “Croreon ka dhanda?” he repeats lazily. “Major sahab…Allah ka diya sab kuch hai.” His tone is easy now. Unbothered. “Dhande ki kami nahi hai.”
Iqbal smiles too but it does not reach his eyes. “Ji bilkul,” he says smoothly. “Hum toh bas afsos jata rahe the.” Afsos. Regret. Another tiny needle pushed carefully beneath his skin. Rehman ignores it completely.
But poison does not need immediate effect to be dangerous. Sometimes poison simply waits quietly inside the bloodstream until the right wound opens.
—-------
Same day @ 7 pm
The Khanani Brothers factory, Karachi, Pakistan
The heaviness in the room is immediate the moment Hamza steps back inside. It hits him before the door even fully shuts behind him. The men are quieter now. The air thicker somehow. Like something dangerous had been said while he and Rehanna were gone and now the remains of it still lingered in the room like smoke after gunfire. Hamza’s eyes dart across the faces in the room quickly.
Javed looks oddly tense. Sajid Mir is too relaxed. Iqbal is unreadable behind his tinted glasses. Uzair’s jaw is slightly tight. Rehman though…Rehman is impossible to read completely. That is what unsettles Hamza most. Usually Rehman carried his emotions openly in small ways. Amusement in his grin. Rage in his eyes. Fondness in the softness that appeared whenever Rehanna spoke. But right now his face is calm in a way that feels deliberate. Controlled. Hamza clears his throat carefully.
“Rehman bhai didi ki baat hogayi aapki factory se—” But before he can finish Javed interrupts suddenly. “Ek second,” he says, leaning back slightly. “Hume ye auzar aapse nahi chahiye.” His eyes flick briefly toward Rehman. “Aap toh first copy aur smuggled weapons dilwate hain na?” Uzair’s brows furrow immediately. “Humse nahi chahiye?” he says slowly. “Kya matlab?” Iqbal sighs softly then, folding one hand over the other atop his knee. His voice is calm when he begins speaking again.
“Balochistaan me kaafi maqbul pakad rahi hai aapki.” His gaze lands squarely on Rehman now. “Baloch United Force aur unke nau khalifo ne aapko Sher-e-Baloch ke khitab se nawaza hai.” Rehman tilts his head slightly. Sher-e-Baloch. The Lion of Balochistan. The title had spread through whispers first. Then graffiti. Then speeches. Then openly in villages where the Pakistani military was hated more than death itself. Rehman never openly acknowledged the title but he knew it existed. He knew what he represented to those people. Iqbal continues carefully.
“Woh toh aapko apna messiah mante hain.” His voice lowers slightly. “Aapke kahe ko kabhi inkar nahi karenge.” Hamza’s stomach twists. Something about this feels wrong. Very wrong. “Isiliye ye saara saman…” Iqbal says calmly, “aap unse khareed lijiye.” He pauses. “Hum keemat se bohot zyada denge.” Silence.
Then Uzair interrupts sharply before anyone else can. “Toh ye kaam aap khud bhi toh kar sakte the.” Iqbal looks genuinely stunned for half a second. “Hein?” he says softly. Then he laughs. Darkly. The sound crawls unpleasantly through the room. “Baloch azaad mulk ke liye hum hi se lad rahe hain,” he says. “Woh humein unki bandookein kyun denge?” Uzair immediately goes quiet. Hamza watches Rehman carefully now. Still expressionless. Still listening.
Then Sajid Mir speaks from the side casually as though discussing weather. “Major sahab ko toh bilkul bhi nahi denge.” He adjusts his glasses. “Haal hi me ISI aur Rangers ne kaafi BUF ke deshad gard mare hain.” Then Javed mutters into his fist with a small chuckle, “Interrogation ke naam pe unke sattar rishtedaron ko bhi toh marwadiya bhenchod.” Iqbal’s head turns slowly toward him. Cold. Sharp. Javed wilts almost immediately under the look and clears his throat awkwardly.
The room falls silent again. Heavy. Hamza can feel it now. This is not just a weapons deal. This is politics. War. Power. And suddenly he understands why Rehanna had looked so uneasy earlier. Even without hearing this directly she could sense something was wrong.
Rehman finally speaks after what feels like forever. “Mai apni kaum ko dhoka nahi dunga.” Simple words. Firm words. Real words. Because despite everything else Rehman loved his people fiercely. Brutally. Irrationally. Lyari’s king first and foremost belonged to Balochistan before he belonged to Pakistan. Iqbal goes quiet for a moment.
Then he hums softly. “Hmm theek hai.” But there is no disappointment in his voice. Instead there is patience. Calculation. “Lekin Rehman bhai…” he says after a pause, leaning forward slightly now. “Pakistani siyasat me jisne bhi hukumat ki hai…woh sab kuch na kuch galat harkat karke hi uss mukaam tak pahunche hain.” Rehman’s eyes narrow slightly. Politics. There it is.
The real bait. ‘If you want power,’ the man is really saying, ‘then blood is the price.’
“Agar aapko is hammam me utarna hai toh…” Iqbal continues smoothly, “nanga toh hona padega.” The words settle heavily into the room. Hamza looks toward Rehman instinctively. And for the first time tonight he sees it. Hesitation. Tiny. Brief. But there. Because politics.
Politics was Rehman’s weakness. Not money. Not women. Not fear. Power. Real power. The kind that made governments bow instead of gangs. The kind that put kings into parliament buildings instead of back alleys. Rehman can see the manipulation clearly. He is not stupid.
He knows exactly what Iqbal is doing right now. The man is dangling a ladder to power directly in front of him. And worst of all? It is working. Rehman takes a slow breath. Fuck. His jaw tightens once. Then he gives Uzair the slightest signal. Barely a movement. But Uzair understands immediately.
“Theek hai phir,” Uzair says calmly. “Ye saara maal aapko waqt se miljayega inshallah.” Hamza’s eyes widen slightly. The deal is done.
—---------
Same day @ 7:10 pm
The Khanani Brothers factory, Karachi, Pakistan
And before Hamza can even process that fully the door opens again. Rehanna walks back inside. And suddenly the entire room changes. Like somebody opened a window.
“Arreh wah sauda hogaya?” she says lightly with a smile as she walks back in, completely unaware of what she just walked into.
Both Hamza and Rehanna are completely unaware that the weapons are going to India. Only Rehanna, completely unaware that these weapons will not come from Rehman’s stockpile. Rehanna is completely unaware that these will be Baloch weapons. Stolen from men who trusted Rehman. The irony is almost unbearable.
But Rehanna notices business before emotion as always. “Raqam dollars me hogi,” she says smoothly, already stepping into negotiation mode. “Adha delivery se pehele aur adha delivery ke baad.” She pauses, looking toward Rehman instinctively. He blinks once in confirmation. Continue.
“Dono transactions alag alag offshore accounts me jaenge.” Her voice is calm. Professional. “Mai baadme Khanani sahab ko de dungi.” Iqbal watches Rehman closely now. Very closely. Waiting to see if the knowledge changes him. If having his Indian lawyer in the room suddenly affects his behavior. If this weakens him.
But Rehman’s face gives absolutely nothing away. Instead he leans back slightly and begins speaking, looking first at Javed then at Iqbal. “Mujhse wada kiya gaya hai.” His voice is calm. Deadly calm. “Usse bhulne ki gustakhi mat karna.”
The room quiets instantly. Rehanna looks at him sharply now. And then comes the grin. That dark grin. The one that makes even dangerous men uncomfortable. The one that makes her knees weaken. “Aap toh jante honge…” he says softly, “ki Rehman Dakait ki di hui mauth…” his eyes sharpen slightly now, “badi qasainuma hoti hai.”
Heat floods through Rehanna so suddenly it almost embarrasses her. God. The way he says things. The confidence. The darkness in his voice. The utter certainty that he could destroy everyone in this room if he chose to. She swallows hard. Her pulse stutters violently beneath her skin.
Iqbal nods with a quiet huff of laughter. The meeting is over. Rehman stands first. “Khuda Hafiz.”
And then without looking directly at her he gestures subtly for Rehanna to walk ahead. She glances toward him instinctively. And immediately he sees it. The flush spreading slowly across her face. The slight dilation in her eyes. That look. That dangerous look she gets whenever he says something that gets beneath her skin just right.The one that tells him she is imagining things she absolutely should not be imagining right now.
A smug grin settles onto his face. Rehanna immediately turns away before anyone notices. But as she walks out she adjusts the white rose in her braid unnecessarily, fingers brushing over the petals softly. And Rehman watches her go with entirely too much satisfaction burning in his chest.
—-------
Same day @ 8:40 pm
The Khanani Brothers Mansion, Karachi, Pakistan
The dining hall of the Khanani mansion glowed gold beneath massive crystal chandeliers, the kind that looked expensive enough to buy entire neighborhoods in Lyari. Their warm light reflected against polished marble floors and expensive cutlery, against whiskey glasses and gold trimmed plates and the heavy jeweled rings on the fingers of men who built empires through blood and smuggling and politics.
Outside the tall windows Karachi’s night glittered darkly, distant city lights swallowed beneath fog and sea breeze, but inside the mansion everything was rich, loud, decadent. Laughter echoed around the dining table in waves, thick cigar smoke curled lazily through the air, and servants moved silently around the room replacing empty dishes with fresh ones before anyone even realized they were gone.
Rehanna sat beside Rehman elegantly, the maroon saree wrapped around her body like molten wine beneath the chandelier light, the white rose still tucked into her braid now slightly softer around the edges after hours of wear. She looked devastating tonight. Not intentionally. That was the worst part. She simply existed beautifully. Her fingers curled around her whiskey glass as she listened to Altaf Khanani ramble on about some corrupt politician in Islamabad.
Occasionally she laughed softly, occasionally she added a sharp comment that made the entire table burst into louder laughter. Even the Khanani wives watched her with fascination. Rehanna had that effect on rooms. She pulled attention naturally without demanding it. But Rehman had stopped hearing half the conversation twenty minutes ago.
The whiskey sat warm and dangerous in his bloodstream now, softening his restraint into something reckless and hungry. His gaze kept drifting back to her again and again like a man possessed. First it was her neck. Then the elegant line of her collarbones glimmering beneath the chandelier light. Then the exposed curve of her back through the blouse. Then lower. The curve of her waist where the saree hugged her body so sinfully it made his throat dry.
Everytime she shifted slightly the tattoo near her ribs peeked through for one teasing second before disappearing again beneath silk folds. The white rose in her braid made her look softer somehow. More feminine. More his. And the alcohol made every thought worse. Because all he could think about now was later. Later when he would take every pin from her hair out one by one. Later when he would slowly unravel this saree from around her body. Later when all this maroon silk would end up pooled on the floor beside his bed while she sat in his lap breathless and flushed from the way he touched her.
That thought alone was carrying him through dinner. His jaw flexed slightly as he took another sip of whiskey. Beside him Rehanna was calmly eating saffron pulao while speaking to one of the Khanani wives about Karachi traffic like she wasn’t unknowingly driving him clinically insane. Rehman shifted slightly in his chair. Then slowly, discreetly, he dragged his chair a little closer to hers beneath the table. Nobody noticed. Except her. Rehanna’s eyes flicked sideways briefly but she said nothing.
His hand disappeared beneath the tablecloth. Then landed on her knee. Rehanna nearly paused mid bite. His large warm palm squeezed gently through the silk covering her leg. Slow. Possessive. Casual enough that nobody looking at them would suspect a thing. Rehanna shot him a sharp glare instantly. Rehman ignored it completely. The whiskey had destroyed whatever shame he possessed. His thumb rubbed against her knee lazily before his hand slid higher. Slowly. Deliberately. Until his palm settled against her thigh. Rehanna inhaled sharply through her nose.
Across the table Javed Khanani was too busy laughing at something Uzair said to notice Rehman Baloch was currently one inch away from causing a public incident beneath the dinner table. Rehman squeezed her thigh again. Harder this time. Rehanna nearly kicked him. Instead she picked up her whiskey glass with rigid elegance and took a long sip while glaring murderously at him from the corner of her eye. Rehman looked utterly unrepentant. In fact the bastard looked amused. His hand slid even higher. Now resting against the side curve of her waist beneath the tablecloth.
His fingers spread against the soft flesh there squeezing slowly possessively through the saree folds. Rehanna choked on her whiskey. Actually choked. The entire table looked toward her briefly. “Arey arey Vakeel Sahiba sambhaliye,” laughed Altaf Khanani. “Ji bas galat nali me chala gaya,” she coughed lightly, waving them off gracefully while beside her Rehman looked down into his whiskey glass like the devil himself trying not to grin. The pressure of his hand against her waist tightened slightly. Rehanna’s eyes widened furiously. This man had lost his mind completely.
“Vakeel Sahiba?” Rehman finally spoke calmly, his deep voice smooth as silk as he swirled whiskey around his glass. “Wo Sialkot wale supplier ka kya jawab aya tha?” Rehanna stared at him. For one second she almost laughed. Because this was exactly what she had done to him during Eid. The exact same excuse. The exact same trap. Her lips twitched despite herself. “Mai aapke ishare ka intezar kar rahi thi,” she replied smoothly while trying not to react to the fact that his hand was still very much on her waist beneath the table. “Agar aap chahein toh usko abhi phone karlen? Warna late hojaega.” The second the sentence ended Rehman stood up immediately. Too immediately. Like a man who had been waiting for permission. “Chaliye.” He grabbed his whiskey glass in one hand. Rehanna rose gracefully despite the heat flooding her face. Around the table nobody questioned it. Business calls during dinner were normal in this world. Weapons. Suppliers. Deals. Smuggling routes. Politics. Only Uzair noticed the way Rehman’s ears had gone slightly red beneath the alcohol. But nothing strange about that either.
—--------------
The moment they stepped out of the dining hall and the heavy carved doors swung shut behind them, the atmosphere changed entirely. The noise of conversation and clinking crystal dulled into a distant muffled hum as Rehman suddenly grabbed her hand and began walking fast down the corridor like a man possessed. Rehanna let out a startled laugh, nearly stumbling in her saree as he dragged her along the marble hallway.
“Rehman!” she hissed between laughter. “Aaram se! Girwaenge mujhe aap!”
But he was several pegs deep and far beyond reason now and he did not slow down. If anything he walked faster. His ears were pink from alcohol, his expression dark and hungry and entirely too handsome beneath the warm golden lights of the corridor. The white rose in her braid brushed against her shoulder as she laughed again, trying not to trip over her own saree while he practically dragged her toward the library like a man possessed.
His whiskey glass still sat lazily in one hand while the other held her wrist tightly, possessively, like he needed to touch her or he would lose his mind entirely. His broad shoulders looked even wider in the dim amber lighting of the mansion corridor. The alcohol had loosened him up just enough to make him reckless, and Rehanna could see it clearly now in the dark flush spreading across his face and the hunger in his eyes every time he looked back at her.
The library doors burst open under the force of his hand. The room inside was dark except for the soft golden light of antique lamps scattered around the massive shelves. The smell of old paper, leather bindings, expensive wood polish and faint cigar smoke lingered in the air. Heavy velvet curtains covered most of the windows, turning the room into something intimate and secretive.
The second the doors shut behind them Rehman turned and pushed her gently but firmly against one of the towering bookshelves. The wood creaked softly behind her. His body immediately crowded into hers. Heat surrounded her from every side. For one long moment he said absolutely nothing. He only stared.
His dark eyes dragged over every inch of her face slowly, heavily, greedily. The rose tucked into her braid. The flush spreading across her cheeks. The little smile she was trying and failing to suppress. Then his gaze dropped lower. To the curve of her throat. The line of her collarbones dusted gold by the soft lighting. The maroon saree wrapped around her body so elegantly it was driving him insane.
Rehman lifted the whiskey glass to his lips without once breaking eye contact and took a long slow drink.
Rehanna pressed her lips together trying not to laugh at how absurdly gone he looked. His hair had fallen slightly messy from the evening, a few strands resting over his forehead. She reached up gently and brushed them back with soft fingers. His eyes fluttered briefly at the touch. “Aapki woh line badi sexy thi,” she hummed softly.
Rehman grinned immediately, one hand landing on her waist again like it belonged there. He took another sip of whiskey, eyes half lidded now. “Lekin puri tarha se sach nahi thi,” she tsks holding his face gently.
“Achha?” Rehman hummed with a smirk. His breath smelled like expensive whiskey and smoke and something dangerously warm.
He grabbed her waist immediately, fingers spreading wide over the exposed curve above her saree. “Accha?” he repeated his tone dropping slightly, stepping closer until his chest nearly pressed into hers. The whiskey on his breath was warm and intoxicating.
Rehanna nodded completely seriously now. She cleared her throat dramatically and took a deep breath. Then her face shifted entirely, turning stern and deadly serious exactly the way his had earlier in the meeting room. Even her voice dropped deeper trying to imitate him.
“Rehman dakait ki di hui chummi…” she began gravely. “Badi zaykedar hoti hai.”
For one second Rehman simply stared at her in complete shock. Then Rehanna broke instantly into quiet uncontrollable laughter against him at the expression on his face.
Rehman slowly placed the whiskey glass onto the nearby bookshelf without looking away from her once. “Meri di hui chummi zaykedar hoti hai?” he asked incredulously. Rehanna nodded between giggles. “Haan.”
Something in his expression darkened instantly after that. Not angry. Worse. Hungrier. Something in him snapped beautifully.
His hands gripped her waist hard and he crashed his mouth against hers with enough force to steal the breath from her lungs instantly. The kiss was hot and rough and whiskey soaked. Rehanna gasped into his mouth as his body pressed flush against hers, trapping her between him and the bookshelf. Her fingers flying to clutch his shoulders as his body pinned hers harder against the bookshelf.
The kiss tasted like whiskey and desire and the slow destruction of self control.
His palms moved greedily over her body like he had been starving for hours. His hands roamed greedily over her body like he had spent the entire dinner memorizing every place he wanted to touch. One palm slid along the curve of her waist squeezing hard enough to make her gasp while the other dragged over her thigh through the saree before pinching sharply at her hip.
“Rehman—” she gasped breathlessly before he kissed her again. “Bohot bolti hain aap,” he muttered against her mouth. His fingers pinched lightly at the soft flesh of her side making her jolt with a surprised squeal that dissolved into laughter.
He smirked immediately against her lips, pleased with himself, before kissing her harder. The rose woven into her braid brushed against his cheek every time he tilted his head. Its scent mixed with whiskey and her perfume until the entire moment felt dizzy and lush and decadent.
“Rehman—” she laughed breathlessly against his mouth. “Has kyun rahi hain aap?” he muttered hoarsely before kissing her again.
Because his hands would suddenly tickle at her waist between kisses. Because he was drunk enough to become shamelessly grabby. Because every time she gasped he looked unbearably pleased with himself.
His lips left hers only to drag down her jaw slowly. He kissed beneath her ear. Then lower. Along her throat. Warm open mouthed kisses that made her fingers tighten in his kurta helplessly. Slow wet kisses pressed against her pulse point while his hands squeezed and roamed everywhere they could reach. Her stomach. Her waist. Her hips. The exposed skin of her back beneath the blouse.
The white rose tucked into her braid was ever prominent. Its soft floral scent mixed maddeningly with whiskey, her perfume and the heat of their skin.
Rehanna’s head tipped back against the bookshelf with a shaky breath when his teeth scraped lightly against her throat. His hand immediately tightened against her waist possessively at the sound she made. “Rehman…” she whispered weakly.
“Ji meri jaan?” he murmured directly against her skin before kissing below her ear again.
“Aap ne kuch zyada pi rakhi hai, .”
“Haan.”
“Aap besharam ho chuke hain”
“Bohot zyada.”
She laughed breathlessly again right before he bit lightly at the side of her throat making a startled gasp leave her mouth. His hands wandered lower now, squeezing her hips, tracing over the pleats of her saree possessively. Every touch made her squirm harder against him. Every little reaction from her seemed to intoxicate him further.
Rehman suddenly shoved his face into the crook of her neck with a groan. “Meri jaan…” he muttered hoarsely. “Aapko koi haq nahi itna khoobsurat lagne ka.” Her cheeks warmed instantly.
His hands traveled upward again, one settling at the small of her back while the other cupped her jaw possessively before kissing her again. Slower this time. Deeper. The kind of kiss that made time blur completely. Rehanna melted into him with a soft sigh, her fingers tangling into his hair while he kissed her like he had all the patience in the world despite how desperately his body betrayed him.
By the time they finally pulled apart both of them were breathing heavily. Rehman’s forehead dropped against hers. His lips swollen slightly from kissing her. His eyes dazed. Then his gaze lowered to her saree.
Slowly his hands reached for the pallu draped over her shoulder. Specifically to the pallu draped elegantly across her body. Rehanna saw the exact moment the thought entered his mind. His hands immediately moved to the fabric, fingers curling into the edge of the pallu with clear dangerous intent.
Rehanna’s eyes widened instantly. “Rehman, Rehman!” she whispered sharply, grabbing both his wrists before he could tug it away. “Abhi nahi! Hum ghar pe nahi hai abhi! Intezar karo!”
The pout that formed on his face was almost childish beneath all that dangerous masculinity. Rehanna nearly laughed again. Instead she leaned upward sweetly and pressed the softest most innocent kiss imaginable against his cheek.
It absolutely destroyed him. One soft press of her lips that somehow affected him far more than the entire makeout session had. Rehman blinked slowly while she slipped from his arms with far too much smugness for someone whose lipstick was half ruined and breathing was still uneven.
She adjusted the rose in her braid unnecessarily before turning away. Then she walked toward the door with slow swaying hips that she knew he was watching. And oh he was watching.
Her hips swayed deliberately now beneath the saree. Slow. Taunting. Knowing exactly what it did to him.
Rehman watched her like a man moments away from losing every last shred of sanity he possessed. Then he laughed darkly under his breath and picked up his whiskey glass again before downing the rest in one burning swallow.
—-----
Same day @ 10 pm
The Khanani Brothers Mansion, Karachi, Pakistan
The dinner somehow stretched on for another hour after that little stunt beneath the table. God himself probably deserved credit for Rehman Baloch Dakait managing to survive it with whatever remained of his dignity intact. The whiskey had settled deep into his bloodstream now, warm and dangerous and heavy behind his eyes.
Three more massive pegs had disappeared into him over the course of dinner and now he sat there leaning back slightly in his chair, broad shoulders relaxed with intoxication, one arm slung lazily over the backrest behind Rehanna while the other held yet another dangerously full glass of whiskey.
He was very drunk by his standards. Not sloppy. Not weak. But definitely drunk enough for his restraint to be hanging by a thread. Especially with Rehanna sitting beside him looking like that.
Every few minutes she would laugh at something one of the Khanani wives said and her hand would rise instinctively to tuck hair behind her ear. The white rose woven into her braid shifted softly each time she moved. Her maroon saree pooled elegantly around her body like wine spilled over silk. The backless blouse exposed just enough skin to keep driving him insane every time she leaned forward slightly for another bite of food or another sip of whiskey.
And god the whiskey in her hand was not helping him either. There was something deeply intoxicating to him about watching her drink. The elegant tilt of her throat. The dark maroon lipstick against crystal glass. The composed look in her eyes despite the warmth slowly entering her system.
Rehman had spent most of dinner imagining peeling that saree off her inch by inch. Which was honestly becoming a problem.
By the time dinner finally ended the men were relaxed with alcohol and the women were laughing softly amongst themselves while servants began clearing plates from the table. Rehanna stood gracefully from her chair smoothing down the pleats of her saree before warmly hugging both Khanani wives goodbye.
“Khuda ki kasam bohot kamaal ka khana tha,” she smiled genuinely. “Especially woh saffron pulao.”
The older wife laughed proudly. “Aap phir aiyega Vakeel Sahiba.”
“Bas bula lijiye,” Rehanna replied warmly.
Across the room Rehman hugged Iqbal briefly before shaking hands with both Khanani brothers. He was swaying slightly now, just barely noticeable beneath all his natural swagger. The whiskey glass in his hand was still almost full despite how much he had already consumed. “Khuda Hafiz,” Javed grinned. “Khuda Hafiz,” Rehman replied.
Then his eyes drifted automatically toward Rehanna. Always toward her.
The group slowly filtered outside toward the cars waiting beneath the yellow driveway lights of the mansion. Karachi’s November-December air had sharpened considerably now that night had fully settled over the city. Fog lingered low against the roads and the sea breeze carried that particular cold dampness only Karachi winters had.
Donga had already started the Corvette by the time Rehman reached the passenger side rear door for Rehanna.
Like always, he opened it himself. Like always, he offered her his hand. Rehanna placed her fingers into his palm gracefully as she prepared to step in. Then suddenly a sharp cold breeze swept through the driveway.
She gasped softly. “Ahh kitni thand hai—” The cold hit the exposed skin of her back and shoulders instantly, making her shiver visibly. Rehman’s expression changed immediately.
Without even thinking about it he reached toward the rear windshield console inside the Corvette where something had been sitting folded there quietly all day. A shawl.
A maroon pashmina shawl embroidered delicately with white threadwork so intricate it almost looked hand painted beneath the driveway lights. It looked expensive because it was expensive. Soft luxurious fabric gathered in his large hands as he unfolded it carefully.
Because of course he had anticipated this. Of course sometime this morning while getting dressed he had looked at her backless blouse and silently thought she would get cold later. Rehanna watched him in surprise.
The whiskey warmth in his eyes softened slightly as he stepped closer and gently draped the shawl around her shoulders. His hands adjusted it carefully over her back making sure the cold could not reach her skin anymore. His fingers lingered briefly against her shoulders as he tucked the fabric around her arms securely.
Such small acts. Always such small acts with him. But devastating ones. Rehanna smiled softly up at him, genuinely touched. “Thank you Dakait sahab kitna khyal rakhte hain aap mera.”
The words should have made him smile. Instead something sharp twisted in his chest. Because she was right. He did take care of her.
He anticipated her cold before she did. He carried shawls for her. Bought flowers for her. Adjusted her saree pleats when nobody was looking. Held her during nightmares. Listened to her memories about India like they were sacred things. And then tonight he signed a weapons deal that could eventually spill blood across the very country she still remembered with tears in her eyes.
The guilt arrived suddenly and violently. So violently it almost sobered him for one terrifying second. Rehanna didn’t notice the shift immediately. She simply smiled once more before ducking into the car gracefully. Rehman shut the door quietly.
Then walked around the car toward the other rear passenger door with his whiskey glass still in his hand. By the time he sat beside her again the warmth had vanished from him. Or rather it had buried itself. The car pulled smoothly away from the Khanani mansion.
Inside the Corvette soft qawali still played faintly from the speakers while Karachi’s lights blurred past outside the tinted windows. Donga and Uzair spoke quietly in the front about traffic routes back to Lyari, but the backseat had gone strangely silent.
Rehman sat leaned back against the leather seat staring out the window. Not touching her. Not teasing her. Not looking at her. He only took slow occasional sips from the whiskey glass in his hand while the city lights reflected against his face in flickers of gold and white.
The silence felt wrong. Especially after how touchy and restless he had been all evening. Rehanna observed him quietly from beside him.
The shawl wrapped warmly around her shoulders, still carrying faint traces of his perfume from his hands. She watched the side of his face carefully. The hard jaw. The slight furrow now settled between his brows. The way his fingers tightened around the whiskey glass absentmindedly.
Something had shifted. Very suddenly. Her suspicion stirred faintly. But then she dismissed it. He was drunk. Very drunk. Maybe the alcohol had finally begun weighing on him properly.
Still, her eyes lingered on him thoughtfully for the rest of the drive while beside her Rehman stared out into Karachi’s dark winter streets wondering why guilt suddenly tasted so bitter beneath whiskey.
—---------
Same day @ 11 pm
Baloch Haveli Driveway, Lyari, Pakistan
The drive into the haveli had been silent except for the low rumble of engines and the occasional clink of glass whenever Rehman lifted the whiskey bottle in the car to refill his own drink like a man actively trying to drown something clawing at him from the inside. By the time the gates of Baloch Haveli finally opened before them, the alcohol had settled fully into his blood. Heavy. Dangerous. Unstable.
The cars rolled into the driveway beneath the yellow lantern lights lining the haveli walls. Winter fog curled low over the ground. Somewhere in the distance dogs barked lazily at the sound of engines before recognizing familiar cars and calming again.
The Corvette stopped first. For a moment nobody moved. Then Uzair sighed heavily under his breath before stepping out quickly and circling around to Rehman’s side because one look through had already told him enough. Rehman was drunk.
Not playful drunk. Not relaxed drunk. Properly drunk. The kind where his shoulders carried tension instead of looseness. The kind where silence became dangerous.
Uzair opened the door carefully. “Bhai.” Rehman grunted and stepped out heavily, one hand still gripping his whiskey glass while the other braced briefly against the roof of the car. He swayed visibly this time. His sand colored kurta is slightly wrinkled now with the buttons hanging open. Eyes heavy with alcohol and thoughts he should never have let poison him.
Rehanna stepped out on her own from the opposite side. For the first time in a very long time, he did not come around the car for her. That hurt her more than she expected.
The cold winter air brushed against her face as she adjusted the pashmina shawl around her shoulders quietly. Something felt terribly wrong now. The silence. The heaviness. The way Rehman would not look at her.
Hamza stepped out from the SUV behind them, shutting the door harder than necessary. His face looked furious. Not conflicted. Furious. And before anyone could stop him he walked directly toward Rehman. “Bhai ye aapne theek nahi kiya,” Hamza said sharply. “Aapne balochon ke sath dagabazi ki hai.”
The words cracked through the driveway like a gunshot. Rehanna frowned immediately. “Kya keh rahe ho Hamza?” Hamza turned toward her instantly. “Rehman bhai ne ye deal banai hai ki ye BUF se asla aur barood lein aur ISI ko dein.”
Rehanna froze. Actually froze. The blood drained from her face so fast it almost frightened Uzair standing nearby. Her eyes snapped toward Rehman. Shock. Disbelief. And then understanding. That strange guilt during the drive. The silence. The distance.
Hamza looked back at Rehman again. “Bhai apne kaum ke sath sahi nahi kiya hai, dhoka diya hai aapne.” Rehman’s face darkened instantly. The alcohol sharpened his anger instead of dulling it. Slowly he stepped down one of the haveli stairs toward Hamza, towering over him now.
“Ye kaum ka drama mujhe mat dikha saale,” he snarled. The whiskey in his voice was thick now. Heavy and ugly. “Meri kaum ki ladai ne meri biwi aur bada baccha mujhse dur kardiya. Meri biwi usko leke Lahore me rehti hai, mere chotte bete ki koi ammi nahi hai!...........toh agar badle me thoda wapas le liya toh kaunsa tujhse teri ammi cheen li saale?”
Hamza recoiled slightly at the sheer venom in his tone. And immediately, Rehanna stepped in. Pure instinct. Pure older sister reflex. Completely ignoring how badly it hurt when he referred to Ulfat as his wife again. Not his ex-wife. But wife.
“Dakait sahab tameez me rahiye,” she snapped sharply. “Aise baat karne ki zaroorat nahi hai Hamza se.”
Rehman turned toward her slowly. Wrong move. Because now her own anger had risen too.
“Ye sach bol raha hai,” she continued in disbelief. “Aapne balochon ke sath dhoka kiya hai. Iqbal aur Khanani ne aapko dana dala aur aapne chugliya?”
That did it. Something ugly snapped inside him. “Bas,” Rehman barked harshly. “Ye tumhari jagah nahi hai bolne ki.”
“Ji bilkul meri jagah hai bolne ki,” Rehanna fired back immediately. “Mai aapki lawyer hun. Aapke aadhe se zyada business mai handle karti hun—”
“Haan aur wahi masla hai!” Rehman suddenly exploded. Everyone went silent. Even the dogs near the verandah stopped moving. Rehman laughed bitterly now, running a hand through his hair aggressively. “Tumne mujhe naram bana diya hai.”
Rehanna blinked in shock. “Kya?”
“Har jagah,” he hissed. “Har faisle me. Har deal me. Har meeting me mujhe tumhara khayal rakhna padta hai.”
“Dakait sahab aapne bohot pi rakhi hai,” Rehanna tried immediately, softer now. “Aap hosh me nahi hain.”
“Bhai bas kijiye,” Uzair stepped in quickly too. “Subah baat karlenge—”
But Rehman wasn’t listening anymore. Because the poison Iqbal planted earlier had finally found somewhere to grow. And alcohol had watered it beautifully. He laughed darkly now. Cruelly.
“Waise bhi…” he muttered. “Tumhari wajah se kitna nuksaan hua hai mera.”
Silence. Rehanna stared at him. He looked directly at her now.
“Tumhare yahan hone ki wajah se log sau baar sochte hain mere sath deal karne se pehele,” he continued bitterly. “Iqbal aur Khanani jaise log croreon ka dhanda karte agar meri…” he scoffed drunkenly, “…meri hindustani lawyer ka masla na hota. Nafrat karta hun mai aapse”
—--------------
Authors note: Listen to Nafrat by Darshan Raval.
Ye kaisi fitrat hai, jaaneya?
Mujhe to hairat hai, jaaneya
Tu pehle meri hasrat tha, jaaneya
Tu ab meri nafrat hai, jaaneya
Every single word landed like a blade. Rehanna’s face changed completely. Actually shattered. Not anger first. Pain first. Real pain. “Kya?” she whispered.
Uzair immediately grabbed her arm. “Nahi Vakeel Sahiba inhone bas zyada pi rakhi hai inki baat mat suno—” She yanked her arm away violently. “Nahi Baloch Sahab,” she said shakily, eyes locked only on Rehman now. “Mai unke muh se sunna chahati hun.”
The driveway had gone deathly silent. Even Rehman looked slightly unstable now beneath her gaze. She stepped closer slowly. Eyes glassy. Disbelief twisting through every inch of her face.
“Kya aap sach me mujhse nafrat karte hain?”
Mujhko ab hosh raha na, pal-pal jaise mar jaana
Aur kare na hum aitraaz bhi
Karke barbaad hai rakha, phir bhi na yaad hai rakha
Aur rahe na hum naaraaz bhi
Uzair looked horrified. Hamza looked ready to punch Rehman unconscious. And for one brief second Rehman should have stopped. Should have grabbed her. Should have apologized. Should have shut his mouth. Instead the alcohol chose for him.
“Haan,” he said coldly. The word echoed. “Nafrat karta hun mai aapse.”
Rehanna gasped softly. Like something physically pierced her chest. Tears instantly flooded her eyes but did not fall yet. And somehow that look on her face sobered Rehman more than anything else tonight.
But it was too late. Too fucking late. Rehanna nodded once slowly. Then dangerously softly, she spoke. “Jahan log mujhse nafrat karte hain…” her voice shook, “…mai wahan rukti nahi Dakait sahab.”
Even drunk, Rehman understood exactly what she meant. His jaw clenched. Then like a complete fucking idiot he doubled down. “Toh phir nikal jaiye MERI haveli se.”
Tu zakham de mujhe, chaah ke bhi boloon main na see
Haaye, kya pata itna gham deke
Khush rehne ki salaah doge tum
Silence. Absolute silence all the people present had gone deadly quiet. Rehanna stared at him for one long horrible second. Pain. Rage. Humiliation. Everything mixed together inside her eyes so violently it almost made him take the words back immediately. But she turned before he could.
And stormed past him into the haveli. Rehman scoffed bitterly and swallowed another mouthful of whiskey. “Nahi jaegi mai janta hun,” he muttered cruelly. He sat down on the porch swing on the verandah.
Akhiyaan na soye, yaara, roye, mera toota hai dil
Aisa haara ke dubara jeena hua mushkil
Akhiyaan na soye, yaara, roye, mera toota hai dil
Aisa haara ke dubara jeena hua mushkil
But upstairs chaos had already begun. Suitcases slammed open. Drawers yanked out violently. Fabric thrown everywhere. Uzair and the rest of the boys followed her upstairs desperately. “Vakeel Sahiba please—”
“Woh pehele bhi peeye huen hai,” she snapped while shoving clothes into a suitcase with shaking hands. “Kabhi bhi mujhse nafrat nahi ki.” That line nearly broke Uzair himself.
Her hands trembled violently as she packed. Not just with anger. With heartbreak. Real heartbreak.
“Baloch Sahab…” her voice cracked finally. “Agar ek meherbani kar sakein toh Siyahi, Donga aur Hamza ko boliye baki saman pack karwane me madad kardein.”
Uzair stared at her helplessly. The same helplessness he felt years ago because his bhabhi at the time had also left. And he could do nothing about it then. Rehanna wasn't his bhabhi, she is just his brother's lawyer. But why did it feel the same? Why did it feel like Uzair had failed once again from keeping his brother from destroying something he cares about.
Uzair sighed because he realized she was serious. She was actually leaving. Fifteen minutes later the haveli front doors opened again.
Ye kaisi fitrat hai, jaaneya?
Mujhe to hairat hai, jaaneya (Mujhe to hairat hai, jaa—)
Tu pehle meri hasrat tha, jaaneya
Tu ab meri nafrat hai, jaaneya (Aa)
Rehanna came walking out dragging suitcases behind her. She was actually leaving. Rehman’s expression changed instantly. Shock cut through his drunken haze. It was just her, the boys inside were helping her back just like she asked.
“Sach me ja rahi ho?” he laughed cruelly to hide the panic clawing up his throat. “Allah ka shukr.”
A tear escaped her eye. Just one. But it hit him harder than a bullet. His entire body froze. Like the alcohol finally cleared enough for reality to begin sinking in.
Rehanna laughed too then. But hers sounded broken. “Allah ka shukr…” she repeated bitterly. “Ya Bhagwan ki deen…” Another tear slid down her face. “Pata toh chala ki nafrat karte hain aap humse.”
Yе dard jo tere, bhulaaye bhi na jaayе
Chhupa bhi sakoon na, bataaye bhi na jaaye
Bejurm sazaayein bahut hee sataaye
Ke dil kare, haaye, hum abhi mar jaaye
Then suddenly she bent down. And ripped the payals he gifted her on her birthday off her ankles violently. The platinum snapped against her skin. Sharp edges sliced into her feet instantly making blood bead against marble.
She hissed sharply in pain but did not stop. Rehman stared horrified as she tore both payals free and threw them onto the ground before him. The diamonds and emeralds glittered painfully under the porch lights. Then she grabbed the pendant around her neck. The one he gave her. The one she never removed. And ripped that off too. The pendant with the little lion fell onto the marble with a hard clunk.
Bebasi dil mein kitni hai dekho, yaara (Aa)
Haaye, kya hua, kya pata, janoon na main
Ishq mera ye kaise zaaya ho gaya
“Jo mujhse nafrat karta hai uska kuch nahi chahiye…” her voice cracked violently now. “In payalon aur iss pendant me manlo ki apna ek dil ka tukda bhi chhord ke ja rahi hun.”
Something inside Rehman actually cracked then. Because suddenly those gifts lying abandoned on the marble floor looked grotesque. Pathetic. Dead. And for the first time tonight genuine fear entered him. She turned to leave.
“Waapas aao,” he called roughly.
She stopped. Turned slowly. The rage and hurt in her eyes stabbed straight through him. But he still couldn’t say sorry. Still couldn’t undo it. Instead he chose cruelty again.
“Woh shawl bhi mera hai.”
Rehanna stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly stepped closer. She held the shawl out toward him. Rehman reached for it instinctively. And just before his fingers touched the fabric— She dropped it onto the floor. A final fuck you.
Akhiyaan na soye, yaara, roye, mera toota hai dil
Aisa haara ke dubara jeena hua mushkil
Akhiyaan na soye, yaara, roye, mera toota hai dil
Aisa haara ke dubara jeena hua mushkil
Then she turned. And walked away without looking back once. The white rose slipped from her braid then. It fell silently onto the stone beneath her heel. Crushed instantly as she stepped on it. Rehman saw it happen.
And something about that flower dying beneath her foot made his stomach turn violently. Because it felt symbolic. Like watching the sweet morning they had, die in front of their eyes. Like watching something sacred get strangled.
Barbaadiyo ka meri, jaanib, aane ki jo wajah bataaun
Tu hee hai naubat, tu hee musibat, tu hee qayamat, jaaneya
Aashiq duniya bhar ke saare, sab kuch apna ishq mein haare
Rehanna felt it too. It felt like strangling herself. But she kept walking anyway. One ragged breath after another. The Raja and Sultan, the German shepherds who adored her more than they loved Rehman, began barking frantically now. Whining. Whimpering.
Raja actually tried following her immediately. The brown long coated german shepherd had begun padding behind her whimpering for her to wait. “Raja!” Rehman barked sharply. The dog stopped instantly but whimpered miserably watching her disappear through the gates. He turned back to Rehman as if begging him to stop her or at least to let him go with her. But rehman looked at the path she had walked out of his haveli with a strange coldness.
And then she was gone. Actually gone. Leaving behind blood drops on marble. A crushed white rose. And one drunken man standing in the middle of the driveway finally realizing he may have just destroyed the only thing he ever truly loved.
Barbaadiyo ka meri, jaanib, aane ki jo wajah bataaun (Ye ishq barbaad karega)
Tu hee hai naubat, tu hee musibat, tu hee qayamat, jaaneya (Ye ilm tha mujhe)
Aashiq duniya bhar ke saare, sab kuch apna ishq mein haare (Par iss qadar kar dega)
Rehanna Randhawa’s Old Apartment, Hindu Colony, Lyari, Pakistan
She makes it home somehow. She doesn’t even remember climbing the stairs. Doesn’t remember unlocking the apartment door. Doesn’t remember dragging the suitcases inside. All she remembers is the sound of his voice following her like a curse through the entire night.
“Nafrat karta hun mai.”
The moment the door shuts behind her she exhales sharply, like she had been holding her breath since the haveli driveway. Her suitcase slips from her hand with a loud thud against the floor. The apartment greets her with silence so heavy it almost echoes. White sheets cover the furniture like abandoned ghosts. Dust dances through pale moonlight spilling in through the windows. Everything smells closed off, untouched, lonely.
And suddenly every memory of him crashes into her skull all at once. Rehman holding her waist in the verandah this morning. Rehman threading the white rose into her braid so carefully like she was something precious. Rehman wrapping the pashmina shawl around her shoulders before she got cold. Rehman braiding her hair in that club room with rough careful fingers after she fell asleep.
Rehman kissing her forehead. Her cheeks. Her knuckles. Rehman looking at her like she hung the moon itself in the sky. Then his voice cuts through every single memory like a blade.
“Haan. Nafrat karta hun mai.”
Her breath stutters violently. A broken sound leaves her throat. She presses the heel of her palm hard against her eyes trying not to cry but tears spill through anyway. Because that was the problem with him. E
ven now her mind refused to make him cruel completely. Every loving thing he had ever done kept fighting against what he said tonight. Her brain kept trying to defend him while her heart bled out all over the floor. She laughs bitterly to herself while wiping angrily at her tears. “Stupid,” she whispers shakily. “Kitni stupid ho tum Rehanna.”
Because all those months ago when Rehman had practically carried her away to the haveli, she had quietly continued paying rent for this apartment anyway. Replaced every broken lock. Repaired every damaged door. Maintained it carefully. Just in case.
Maybe some wounded instinct inside her always knew this kind of love could never end peacefully. And for all Rehman knew she had nowhere to go tonight.
Yet he still told her to leave his haveli. That thought hurts almost more than the fight itself. Because he always corrected her before. Humari haveli. Aapka ghar. Your home too. Now suddenly it belonged only to him. How fucking convenient
She walks numbly toward the liquor cabinet and yanks it open harder than necessary. Glass clinks loudly. Her fingers curl around half a whiskey bottle shoved near the back. Good enough. She unscrews the cap and takes a long burning swig straight from the bottle.
The alcohol tears down her throat viciously. Good. Maybe it will cauterize something inside her. Another swallow follows immediately. Then another.
She leans back against the kitchen counter staring blankly at the ceiling while tears continue slipping silently down her face. The whiskey swirls bitterly in her mouth while her chest aches harder and harder.
Her phone suddenly rings. The sharp sound cuts through the apartment violently. She glances at the screen. Its Himmat Singh, her colleague and best friend from R&AW. Of course.
She stares at the name for a few seconds before answering tiredly. “What?” she mutters hoarsely.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT?” Himmat practically explodes the second the call connects. “Tumhara dimag kharab hogaya hai kya Rehanna?”
She shuts her eyes immediately. “Himmat please—”
“Nahi please nothing!” he snaps furiously. “Hamza ne mujhe call kiya abhi. Bola tumhara Rehman ke sath itna bada jhagda hua ki tum haveli chhod ke nikal gayi?”
At Rehman’s name her throat tightens painfully again. “Haan toh?” she mutters defensively, taking another sip straight from the bottle. “Haan toh?” Himmat repeats incredulously. “Do you have any idea how badly you could be compromising the mission right now?”
Something inside her finally snaps. “Mission?” she laughs sharply. “MISSION?”
“Haan mission!” Himmat shouts back. “Tum emotionally involved thi already, aur ab ye drama? Tumhe andaza bhi hai kitna dangerous—”
“Dangerous?” she cuts him off loudly now. “Tumhe lagta hai mujhe nahi pata dangerous kya hota hai?”
“Rehanna calm down—”
“No you calm down!” she yells back. “Mai toot gayi hun yahan!” Silence hits the line for half a second. Then Himmat speaks again, still angry but softer now. “Yaar…”
But she is crying properly now. Furious tears. Hurt tears. “He said he hates me,” she chokes out before she can stop herself. The words hang between them heavily. Himmat goes completely quiet. Then very carefully he asks, “Kya?”
Her laugh comes out broken.
“He said he hates me, Himmat. But dont worry I'll make this problem go away, I'll pretend like everything is fine.” She wipes violently at her face. “Khush? Happy now? Mission safe hai. Congratulations.”
“Rehanna listen to me carefully. Please tell me you don't love him—”
“Nahi! I don't love him. Khush?” she snaps again. “Leave me alone. Bas. Mujhe akela chhod do.”
“Rehanna—”
“GET LOST HIMMAT!”
And she cuts the call. The silence afterwards feels monstrous. Her hand trembles around the whiskey bottle. Then slowly she slides down the kitchen cabinets until she is sitting on the cold floor. Knees pulled loosely toward herself. Tears falling endlessly.
Because every time she closes her eyes she sees him loving her. Holding her. Protecting her. Looking at her like she mattered more than breath itself. And then his voice destroys it all again.
“Nafrat karta hun mai.”
—------------------
Meanwhile at the same time @ 0000 hours
R&AW Headquarters, Global Anti Terrorism Intelligence Wing, Himmat Singh’s Office, Delhi, India
Himmat stood frozen in the middle of his office staring blankly at the disconnected phone in his hand. The anger drained from his face slowly. Replacing itself with something much worse. Realization. “Oh fuck…” he muttered quietly.
His other hand settled against his hip while he stared at the wall hard enough like answers might appear there. Because he knew Rehanna. Knew her too well. And he had never heard her sound like that before.
Not after injuries. Not after operations gone wrong. Not after near death. Not even after her first kill. But tonight? Tonight she sounded shattered.
Himmat slowly dragged a hand down his face. Then looked toward the intelligence files scattered across his desk. Advocate Rehanna Randhawa. Rehman Baloch Dakait. Lyari. ISI movement. Weapon routes. Counterfeit currency. Everything suddenly felt far more dangerous than it had an hour ago.
Because now one horrifying thought kept repeating in his mind over and over again.
She might actually love him.
Oh fuck.
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