Disclaimer - The fics are based on the character portrayal by the actors in the movie dhurandhar and by no means do I support the deeds or the real life terrorists. Enjoy reading
Warning - SMUT, Penetration, Oral receiving (M) , slight power play if you squint.
Happy reading~
Political rallies had always been tiresome for the king of Lyari. Yet his newfound interest in politics with the rise of PAP ignited the ember of an arson of political functions. Every week something new would come and he would have to invest himself in the boring dwells of political conversations with even more boring and equally corrupted men.
Today was no different. He had to attend a lavish throw of party at the Jamali’s. to his awful luck, his brother failed to accompany him. He was a lone wolf in the pack of rabied dogs almost. He could not help but drown his displeasure in glasses after glasses of Jack Daniels.
By the time he was ready to leave his “political mates” were obliterated and the wolf himself was a bit tipsy. In his intoxicated state he could not fathom to drive. Death for the Dakait should come with better glory than some measly accident.
Alas he decided to call his trustee Siyahi.
“Siyahi..Gaadi bhej jamali key aha…haveli laut na hai” Rehman slurred out.
“Bhai who apne eid ke liye saare drivers ko chutti di thi…toh filhal koi moujud nahi hai” the person on the opposite added as his voice laced with hesitation at refusing the King himself.
“Toh bhadve tu khud aja” Rehman barked out.
“Bhai…who mai….uh” The man had gotten recently married. No way he would want to leave the bed of his wife at 2am. He did not want to die a celibate. But on the other hand, he also did not want to lose his life to the hands of the infamous butcher himself.
“Bhai…mai bhejta hu kisko…ap thori der thehriye” he added and hung up the call before Rehman could bark out poison at him again.
Rehman huffed and stood leaning with his Davidoff hanging low between his thin yet sharp lips.
The wait was of about 15 mins when a familiar chevi pulled up infront of him.
“ah…agaya tujhe akal suar-” before Rehman could finish his intoxicated sludge of a sentence, his eyes met with an unfamiliar pair of eyes. The driver was not Siyahi, rather a woman.
He composed himself before enquiring with a squint “Tum kaun?”
“Ji mai Siyahi ka behen… Bhai ki tabyat thori kharab hai..toh mujhe bhej diya..Don’t worry I can drive well” You assured him with a smile which pounded up his intoxicated a few strata higher.
With a soft “oh” he got inside the car, his expensive leather chappal slapped against the floor of the chevi almost blooming his authority inside. He settled in on the soft seat, taking up space with his manspread.
“Siyahi se baat karni padegi…. ek akeli aurat ko raat mai bhej dia….bewakoof kahika” He added with pure disgust towards your poor brother.
“Rehman Sahab… aurat hu…chidhiya nahi ki kahi faraar ho jaungi” you snickered daring to answer back the man of death himself before driving off.
Rehman was indeed taken aback by your might and that sharp tongue of yours which swept ever so lightly over your cotton pink soft lips. He could not help but stare in an amalgamation of amusement, awe and a tinge of lust.
You on the other hand were no saint either. Unlike most frightened women lyari, youreyes never left the attractive charm of Rehman. You had been pinning on him for a while now. Always updated with his public appearance and what not. But owing to the sensitivity of his work you never got the chance to come across him. Today when you found your brother perplexed and your sister-in-law in a fit of rage, you knew you had to take this chance to meet the man of your sweet day dreams and even sweeter wet dreams. You offered a hand of help to your reluctant brother and here you were.
Your eyes never left the mirror which held the reflection of Rehman. God save you from crashing. You noticed how beautiful his wolf eyes looked in person, how beautiful his lips curled and veiny his fingers twitched. You wanted to be close, oh so close!
Rehman being the man of sharp eyes and even sharper intent did not miss the scream of your stare amidst the thick silence of the car.
The alcohol in his system made the ache of his need for lust worse than it should be and with your eyes on him, he was ready to gamble. The deep cut of her short black kurti which flashed just the perfect amount of her soft and smooth cleavage was not helping either.
“Kitna ghoorogi…. Paas akey dekh lo…yaha se nazara behtar hai” He added with his infamous smirk that could melt an iceberg to a puddle and you….were just a woman at his mercy.
You were to say the least caught offguard. “Kya?” you enquired to be sure that this was not your months of delicate need speaking.
“Stop the car. Get in the backseat. Let me help you and myself get a better show”. He growled out.
Like a woman under intense possession, you dared not to refuse. In a split of a second you were next to Rehman.
“nazara behtar hai?” he mocked.
“Behad” you answered with a confidence you did not know you had.
Your soft smiled maddened the man of control. His composure slipped as his hand snaked around your waist striding you up on his lap.
Before your mind or your body could, you could taste the bitter aftertaste of whiskey as his lips collided with yours. His tongue delved against yours making your body feel lighter than any drug could ever.
A sinful moan escaped your lips as his found their abode against the dip of your collarbone. Your sounds contradicted the silent chirps of the lone highway. You were getting consumed by the epitome of evil dressed in black Resham.
Rehman left soft purple bruises on your delicate skin as your fingers tangled with the murderous strand of his beautiful hair. He pulled away to admire his pivotal skill.
Your hooded eyes droopier than the intoxicated ones of Rehman. That damn smile which altered Rehman’s brain chemistry never left your lips.
The heavy breathing from the two of caused the two heaving chests to touch each other with contract and retract. The soft blur between absolute lust and a bit of sour reality was in the air when Rehman flipped to lay you flat on the soft seat of his adored Chevi.
“I wonder if you’re just as sweet everywhere my pretty little vixen”. He murmured almost to himself as he lowered himself between your covered legs in the jammed space of the car, which to his pleasure kept you in more contact to his skin.
“R-Reman…Koi dekh lega…yaha mehfoos nahi-” before you could finish your pseudo doubtful statement you heard a soft rip. Rehman had torn off your salwar which you selected with so much precision to meet the man between your legs now. Oh, how the night has turned, you thought as you threw your head back sensing his soft wet lips impatiently linger kisses on the soft premises of your inner thighs.
Your thighs rested on his broad shoulders and his fingers maneuvered their way to strand away the excuse which kept him from tasting the heaven closest to him.
His tongue laid flat on your soaked core tasting the drip that was almost praise for the man. You gripped his hair straining at his scalp which earned a hiss from him as he wrapped his lips around your swollen bundle of nerves.
As your back arched out he smirked against you mumbling “tch vixen, so sensitive huh?” he questioned without expecting answer. To his expectation you just whined in return.
His tongue thrusted in your aching entrance and his hand shimmied up to grope the soft peak of your breats. Your hand left his scalp and rubbed your clit along.
The second you touched your aching clit, Rehman retracted his tongue. Ignoring your whine he ignited the tip of his half smoked cigarette which rested on his car’s ashtray.
He looked at your messy state as your chest heaved at the mere presence of him. Your nipples strained the soft fabric of your deep necked kameez. Reman’s lips adorned with a smile before he lowered his cigarette near your greedy cunt.
The filter of his cigarette replaced your finger on your clit. The soft filter of the cigarette circled your clit as your eyes shut close with your mouth opening in a tiny “o”.
Rehman did not utter a word, drown9ng himself in the sweet music of your whimper. The filter soaked up with your slick when he pulled it back up to his lips. Your eyes fluttered open and you found his lips around the soaked and dripping filter as he took a puff. His lips glistened with your wetness. The sight made your spine run cold. His composure reeked of authority and yours of pure need.
He exhaled the smoke and it clouded over your soft features and your smirked up at his action eyeing his significant bulge.
“Need you…please” you managed to whisper out. Your voice dripped a mixture of honey and trailed of pure cocaine which Rehman would inhale in a second.
He undid his pants revealing his impressive strain. His length beaded with preecum stood red and eager as your mouth and cunt watered at the sight. His tongue had already left half minded, you wondered what that monster could do to you.
Rehman’s hand hooked behind your thighs, digging his fingers in as he yanked your delicate and already limp with anticipated self on his lap in a reversed position. He sank you down on his length slow and aching. You could feel every curve of his veins mark your velvety insides. You fit him like a glove. The stretch was besotting.
“Fuck….warm as a glove little vixen” he groaned against your shoulder.
The reversed cowgirl position restricted you from seeing his face yet his dark eyes was visible on the rear view mirror of the car.
His glare made your knees weaker than they already were as you whimpered at the burning stretch. His teeth sank down your shoulder as his thrusts took up. Your brain rejected any thought formation and all you could do was beg for more under his mercy. The windows of thee car fogged up as you screamed at the strength of his thrust.
His hands gripped your hips pistoning in. The tip of his length created a dull bulge on your lower stomach. His need to claim you and your need to be claimed turned the two of you in a blend of insanity.
You lulled your head back when your eyes laid on the pack of cigarette. You fumbled to reach it and eventually ignited the tip almost replicating the flame of desire within the veins of you and under the skin of him.
You rode him as the car filled with the sound of skin meeting and fog from sex and smoke.
As you rode him, you rode out your need, your pleasure and eevery ounce of shame. You needed him and he craved you right back and it was evident by the marks his demanding grasps left on your soft aching skin.
Watching you smoke rehman moaned out as his hands gripped your breasts whilst he rutted in and you matched his rhythm.
You exhaled the smoke with shudder and waves of your own orgasm. The escaped your llips as a sign of victory and a flag of triumph. You were claimed by the man of your most sinful void himself.
You held the cigarette against his lips weakly as waves of your knot releasing clouded your mind. Rehman took a drag and with few languid thrusts he painted your walls with thich coat of his release with a roaring groan.
You slumped back on his as he peppered kisses down your neck. You nuzzled against him admiring the end of this meeting which you became a penchant for. You finally dreamt of rest.
Rehman’s knuckled met with your flushed cheek in a light smack to keep you awake.
“No no no vixen…I am not done with you yet… the walls of the baaloch haveli needs to memorise your screams and my name as a chant from you before I even consider letting you go.”
Your eyes shot up to meet the glee in his and you knew that the den has called for you.
You are fucked…..literally.
A/N - author whilst writing. Also please do comment and lmk how do y'all like it.
I have a fic idea 🧎🏻♀️ Major Iqbal x Indian Spy reader who’s pretending to be Hamza’s sister. Iqbal is sus about Hamza but he’s completely convinced that the reader is a Pakistani who’s held hostage and he’s totally whipped for her ☺️The ending is a sad af and angsty 🫶🏻
@goodasaysboo x @depressedgiftedburnout Collab kind shii, HUGE CREDS TO @depressedgiftedburnout dawg i couldn't have done it without her 😋😋😋
Pairing: Rahul Gandhi x Reader
T.W; THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION WRITTEN ON REQUEST. THIS DOES NOT IN ANY WAY PORTRAY OUR (@goodasaysboo and @depressedgiftedburnout's [helper in concept and editing]) OWN PERSONAL BELIEFS ON POLITICS. PLEASE TAKE THIS AS FICTION AND NOT ANY ADMIRATION TOWARDS ANYONE MENTIONED HERE
Ch.1- A moment and a Text
The office is quiet, the only sound being the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of heavy paper.
It is well past midnight, maybe it's one am or maybe it's 2 am, who knew at this point? It was late. That was clear. No clock required. In fact, the ticking clock was making the room feel smaller with each tick. The heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains of the dark office certainly didn't help. In fact, they made the room feel more isolated from the rest of the world. The room was a world within itself and was painfully intimate. Almost too intimate for a professional setting. You sit at the edge of the desk, your eyes burning slightly from staring at the draft of the Lok Sabha speech for hours.
Beside you, Rahul is leaning over a stack of notes. The soft glow of the desk lamp caught the salt and pepper texture of his beard. In this light, it was even more apparent. Both the passage of time and the stress of politics had had an effect on him. His forehead was creased with numerous events and stresses that never really went away. But his eyes had crow's feet, and his face held smile lines beneath his beard. Both showed that even through stress, he had lived his life well. Even after a long day of politics, he looks composed in his crisp white shirt, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric slightly as he leans forward to read. But the day had taken its own toll; his shirt sleeves had been rolled up, his collar had been unbuttoned. His strong forearms flexed as he fiddled with a pen, deep in thought over the papers in front of him.
You try to focus on the wording of the speech, but your mind keeps wandering. Every time he shifts in his chair, you feel a jolt of desire. The movement was simple. He had just lifted off the chair slightly, and his fingers had pulled slightly at the fabric of his trousers that bunched at his thigh. He bunched up a bit more fabric so the seat of his pants would have more room for comfort. He had then sat back down with a little groan, his thighs splaying, manspreading casually. His mind was already back on the papers in his hands.
But your mind certainly wasn't on the papers anymore. You think you’re being discreet, your gaze lingering on the way his strong, disciplined hands move across the pages. His index finger traced a line he was reading, the rest of his fingers balling up as the finger moved on the crisp paper. The veins in his hands jut out with each movement. Those fingers held skill and experience. His index finger and middle finger slid down the margins of the paper absent-mindedly. That's when your legs cross of their own accord. One leg over the other, squeezed tighter than necessary. Those fingers on me….. trailing across my skin…. Began a dangerous thought.
He muttered tiredly to himself, mussing and fussing over the words in front of him. But all you could notice was the faint hint of a dimple through his short salt and pepper beard. And you swallowed hard. When he traced his finger along his lips, you found yourself biting the tip of a pen. Teeth clasping the tip while you watched him. If he felt your burning gaze, you could quickly look at the wall behind him, pretending you were deep in thought. A failsafe built directly into your shameless ogling.
Oh lord. Your brain gripped you by the face mentally, and it screamed brilliant advice. FOCUS Y/N. YEH SPEECH KAL SUBHA DUE HAI, ITNE HOT AADMI KO TAADNA BAND KARO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
That does the trick, and you shake out of your lusty thoughts with extreme reluctance. Filing them away with the promise of making use of them later in the privacy of your own home.
As the night drags on, the distance between you seems to shrink. You lean in to point out a specific line he needs to emphasize, and your thigh accidentally brushes against his. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You can feel the strong thigh muscle beneath his trousers. Not a single pure thought runs through your head
"Sir, yeh wala part... it needs more impact," you clear your throat, trying to hide any evidence of your husky voice.
He looks up, his eyes meeting yours for a second too long, and he pauses, his expression unreadable. For a moment, a cold fear slides down your throat. You hope to god he isn't a secret mind reader. You hope to god that in this low light, he can't see the flush in your face.
"Haan, dikhao," he replies softly, his voice deep and calm.
You reach for a highlighter to further emphasize your point on the paper. And he seems to have the same thought. That too at the same time. So when you reach for the same highlighter at the same time, your fingers graze his. The contact is brief, but it feels like a brand on your skin. You quickly pull back, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks. Well done. Very normal, and very oblivious. Your brain screams at you again. But you notice he doesn't immediately look back down at the papers.
He lingers on the contact for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his gaze steady on you before he finally nods toward the text. You try to pretend you're deeply interested in the speech, but the air in the room feels thicker now, heavy with a tension that has nothing to do with politics.
Finally, you check your watch. It's 2:45 am. The workday had ended hours ago, and even the janitors had left by now. It was much too late for coherent thoughts, much too late to bank on sane decision-making power. "Sir, kaafi late ho gaya hai... should we stop here?" you ask, trying to sound professional despite the chaos in your chest.
He looks at the large grandfather clock in the room. And then he nods at you. Leaning back in his chair with a tired sigh, his eyes scanning your face. Almost like he knows you are trying to run. Like, he knows you can feel the tension too. It's almost af if both of you know the air doesn't just hold politics anymore. And it had stopped holding it a while ago."Theek hai, let's wrap it up," he says, his voice sounding relaxed, though he doesn't look away as quickly as he usually does.
You start to gather your things, your movements clumsy and sluggish. Almost like you want to be in his air longer. To feel his presence longer. Beside you, he is straightening stacks of papers and organizing them. His hands cup the papers as he taps them on the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. His arms….his hands… his fingers…The same loop of twisted fantasies flash before you again. You swallow them back with a sip of water from your glass on the table. As you drank, you began to wish that instead of water, this was vodka. Maybe that would help with the burning in your body.
As you push your chair back to stand up, your leg catches the edge of the heavy wooden table. You lose your balance for a split second, letting out a small gasp as you stumble forward. Instead of hitting the floor, you feel a pair of sturdy arms wrap around your waist to balance you. They seem to realize that just stabilizing you won't help, so they tighten and pull you along. You land right in his lap, your body sinking into his warmth.
The world seems to stop. You are sitting directly on him, your heart racing so fast you're sure he can feel it through your clothes. You look up, breathless, and find him looking down at you.
His eyes widen slightly in surprise. It's almost as if he himself can't believe that he pulled you into him. Despite his surprise, he doesn't push you away. You are so close you can smell the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his skin.
"Oh my god, I'm sorry! So so sorry, Sir!" you stammer, your face burning a bright crimson as you instinctively try to push yourself up.
But before you can move, his hand reaches out, his fingers gently catching your wrist to steady you. He doesn't pull you closer yet, but he doesn't let you go either. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if he's seeing you in a completely different light. He reaches up with his other hand, his thumb grazing your cheek as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
"Sambhal ke, Y/N," he murmurs, his voice dropping a bit. A small, almost shy smile touches his lips, and for a moment, the professional barrier between you feels incredibly thin. “I can't have my best speech writer incapacitated now, can I?” he hums with the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "You've been a bit distracted tonight, haven't you?" his eyes twinkle in a way that makes your resolve weaken.
"Nahi, Sir... woh... actually..." You start to stammer, your words tripping over each other as you desperately try to find a way to explain the clumsy accident. Your mind is racing, searching for any excuse: the chair was too far, the table was in the way, you were just tired, but the words won't come out right.
You feel completely exposed, sitting there on his lap, your heart thumping so loudly against your ribs that you’re certain he can hear it in the silence of the office. You look down, unable to maintain the intense eye contact, your face feeling like it's on fire. "It was just... accidental, really, main bas..." You try to continue, your voice trailing off into a breathless whisper.
You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the solid strength of his thighs beneath you, and the sheer proximity of him is making it hard to even breathe. You're so focused on trying to regain your dignity that you don't notice him leaning in closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second.
Before you can finish your explanation, before you can even gather enough breath to defend yourself, he moves.
His hand on your wrist tightens just slightly, and suddenly, his lips are pressing against yours. The world around you vanishes. The heavy desk, the scattered papers of the Lok Sabha speech, the ticking clock, everything disappears, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on yours.
The kiss is warm and surprisingly soft at first, catching you completely off guard. A small, muffled sound escapes your throat as your eyes flutter shut instinctively.
He tastes like the coffee you both drank earlier and something uniquely him warm, masculine, and intoxicating.
As the initial shock wears off, a wave of pure, unadulterated longing washes over you, and you find yourself leaning into him, your hands instinctively reaching up to rest against his broad shoulders. Fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. You can feel the expensive cotton beneath your fingers.
He groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through your entire body, and the kiss deepens instantly. The gentleness is gone, replaced by a sudden, hungry intensity that makes your head spin.
His tongue grazes your bottom lip, a silent question that you answer by parting your mouth for him. The friction of his salt and pepper beard against your skin sends shivers racing down your spine, a delicious contrast to the smoothness of his lips.
His other hand moves from your cheek to the small of your back, pulling you even tighter against him, erasing every last millimeter of space between your bodies.
You can feel the hard muscles of his chest through the thin fabric of his white shirt, and the sensation makes your toes curl in your flats.
He shifts his weight, and before you can even process what's going on, he lifts you with surprising strength. You wonder why you were surprised at all. You had been ogling his arms the entire night. Each flex of his muscles. And now you have the strength.
You let out a soft gasp as he settles you onto the edge of the large, mahogany desk, clearing a space amidst the scattered notes of the speech with one sweeping motion of his arm.
The cool surface of the wood is a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body as he steps between your thighs, pressing himself firmly against you. Your breath hitches, your fingers tangling in his thick hair as the kiss turns into a desperate exchange of heat and hunger that makes the quiet office feel like it's vibrating.
The shyness that usually defines you begins to melt away, replaced by a sudden, intoxicating confidence born from the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. Your hands, trembling slightly, begin to wander. You trace the line of his collarbone before your fingers find the first button of his white shirt.
Your heart is drumming a frantic rhythm, but you don't stop. You slowly, carefully, begin to undo the buttons, your eyes locked onto his as you feel the warm skin of his chest beneath your fingertips. He lets out a ragged breath, his eyes darkening with heavy desire, his hands gripping your waist so tightly it almost hurts.
Just a little more, you think, your pulse racing as you reach the second button, the fabric parting to reveal the toned, athletic build of his chest. The air in the room feels heavy with the tension of what's about to happen
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The sharp vibration of a phone on the desk breaks the spell. You both freeze, the sudden sound feeling like a bucket of cold water.
Rahul groans, a low, frustrated sound against your neck, and tries to ignore it, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to kiss the skin there. But the phone doesn't stop. It vibrates again, and then again, the screen lighting up the darkened room with a persistent glow.
Suddenly, the voicemail that the persistent caller left begins to play of its own accord. “Rahul, itna late hogaya hai, where are you?? Your speech is in the morning, and you don't even have a final draft! Come home now so we can deal with this.” The voice on the other end of the line is unmistakable. It’s Sonia Gandhi. You feel your entire body go rigid. Oh my god, it's THE Sonia Gandhi. You feel your eyes widening in pure panic.
Rahul pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours as he lets out a long, weary sigh. He ignores the voicemail, hoping the persistence will fade, but a second later, the phone begins to chime with a flurry of incoming messages, the light blinking incessantly.
He realizes there is no escaping it. With a heavy heart and a look of pure, unadulterated frustration, he reluctantly pulls away from you.
The sudden loss of his warmth makes you feel cold and strangely empty. He reaches for the phone, glancing at the screen to see a string of missed calls and messages from his mother.
"Ab toh jaana hi padega," he mutters to you, his voice husky and strained, his eyes still burning with the desire he's trying so hard to suppress. So he continues speaking, “Jab Mata Shri ka phone ata hai mai..ek grown man…thodi na ignore karsakta hun?” he mutters. You can't help it; a laugh bubbles out of your chest, your hands coming up to cover your mouth.
That laugh of yours radiates through his body. He can feel it in every nerve ending. He can see how your previously lust-hazed eyes were beginning to clear. They now held a twinkling excitement despite the exhaustion of the late hour. And my god, it doesn't help the lust swirling through him right now.
He helps you slide off the desk, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment longer than necessary to steady you. The professional mask is trying to slide back into place, but his hair is messy, and his lips are swollen from your kiss, making the lie of 'business as usual' impossible to maintain. He takes your hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of your palm in a slow, soothing motion. He leans in, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the back of your hand, his eyes searching yours one last time.
He walks you toward the door, the silence of the office now feeling heavy with the weight of what was left unfinished. Just as you reach the door, he pauses, looking back at you with a small, private smile that makes your knees weak. " I hope to find you right here.. after the Lok Sabha session tomorrow is over, here I would like to continue this session," he promises, his voice a low murmur that promises much more than just a debriefing.
The walk from the office to the elevator is agonizing. The silence between you is heavy, thick with the realisation of what just happened and the frustration of it being cut short.
You can feel the heat still radiating from your skin, your lips still tingling from the pressure of his mouth. Every step feels clumsy, as if you’re walking through water. When the elevator doors slide shut, the small, enclosed space feels like a ticking time bomb. The air is tight, and you’re acutely aware of his presence just inches away.
You want to say something, anything to break the tension or maybe to acknowledge the chaos, but your throat feels tight. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, watching the numbers on the display change, while you can practically feel his gaze burning into the side of your head.
When the doors finally open on the ground floor, the cool air of the lobby hits you, but it does nothing to dampen the fire in your veins. You walk toward the exit, your heart still thumping a frantic rhythm.
Just before you reach the heavy glass doors, you can't help it, you turn your head back to look at him one last time. But he’s already looking straight ahead, his expression unreadable, his jaw set tight. A small pang of something disappointment? embarrassment? hits your chest.
A second later, he begins to turn his head toward you, his eyes searching for yours, but you’ve already pivoted and started walking away, your heels clicking rapidly against the marble floor. You don't look back again. You can't.
The moment you reach your car and slam the door shut, you let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding since the office. You lean your head back against the seat and just stare at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of images: his hands on your waist, the way his salt and pepper beard felt against your skin, the sheer weight of him pressing you into the desk.
"Holy shiiiiiitttt," you groan, slapping a hand against your forehead, your voice echoing in the small space. The driver jumps slightly in his seat. His eyes flicked to you through the rearview mirror. You don't sense it, you continue, "What the hell just happened?" Your face is still burning, and your body feels restless, like you're still vibrating from his touch.
A few yards away, Rahul climbs into the back of his heavy, armored Tata Safari. His security detail is already inside, the driver waiting silently, but for the first time in a long time, Rahul doesn't care about the politics or the schedule.
He leans his head back against the leather seat and runs a hand roughly across his face, his eyes closing tight. He can still feel the ghost of your hands on his chest, the way you had started to undo his buttons. The image of you sitting on the desk, looking up at him with those wide, beautiful eyes, is burned into his mind. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, feeling the sudden, sharp ache of wanting you.
Logged back in to Tumblr after two days to find people kinkshaming others ???
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The gun in my hand is a living thing, quivering with a pulse that isn't mine. I can’t breathe. I can’t believe this. The man I loved, the man whose name I wear like a vow, the man I married is nothing but a hollow mask?
The diary is a lead weight in my other hand, pressed so hard against my ribs I can feel the ink staining my soul. I’ve read the names. Every single one. Names of my people. People he befriended with a smile and extinguished with a steady hand.
“Hamza, jawab do!” [Hamza, answer me!]
The yell tears through me. My body is a furnace of rage, a contrast to the chilled air of our living room. The sound of my voice echoes, bouncing off the dimly lit, wide empty halls of a house that was never a home.
And him? He doesn’t flinch. He stands at the threshold for a heartbeat before closing the distance with lazy strides. Like he’s been waiting for this scene to play out since the day he first lied to me.
“Maine kaha tha na tum mujhse koi sawal nahi puchhogi?” [Didn't I tell you that you wouldn't ask me any questions?]
He speaks with a terrifying calm. No tremor. It’s the voice of a man who has rehearsed this scenario a thousand times in a windowless room during training. He isn't my husband right now.
I stumble back, the sleek marble floor slick beneath my feet, my world tilting on its axis. "Tumne sach chhupaya.” [You hid the truth.]
He’s in front of me in a second, a sudden eclipse of light, looming over me. But then, he does something that shatters the last of my resolve. He reaches out, his large hand guiding the cold barrel of the gun until it’s pressed firmly against the center of his forehead.
He’s daring me. He’s looking at me with those steady, unreadable eyes, inviting me to end the lie with a single click. But my finger is lead. I can't do it. Not him. Never him. Because despite the treason—I love him.
The realization breaks me.
The gun almost slips from my sweating palms before he catches it in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the couch behind him like a discarded toy. He’s keeping the danger away from us, or perhaps, keeping me away from my only escape.
“Kyun kiya aisa? Kya bigada tha maine tumhara?” [Why did you do this? What did I ever do to wrong you?]
The question is a plea. My eyes are burning, welling up with tears that I refuse to let shed: not in front of this stranger. The betrayal is a suffocating weight, heavier even than the years of love I poured into this ghost.
“Koi galti nahi thi tumhari. Lekin jaan, main samjha sakta—” [You did nothing wrong. But darling, I can explain—]
The word ‘jaan’ is the final insult. Before the lie can leave his lips, my hand moves on instinct.
Slap.
The sound is violent, a sharp crack that echoes through the hollow halls. His face turns to the side from the force, but he remains terrifyingly silent. He doesn't even move to touch the red mark blooming against his skin.
I collapse. My legs give way and I drop to my knees, hugging myself on the cold, unforgiving marble floor. Make me understand what? That my marriage was a mission? That every "I love you" was a tactical maneuver?
“Tumhara haq hai.” [It is your right.]
He whispers the words like a benediction, devoid of the anger I expected after the slap. But the mercy feels like a second blow. The damage is done.
After a few moments of deafening silence, he sinks onto the floor beside me, and gently pries the leather diary from my frozen fingers.
He turns the pages before he begins to read the names—“Kandahar Hijack, 1999, HuM. Parliament attack, 2001, JeM. 26/11 Mumbai attack, 2008, LeT.” He splats the diary onto the marble with a sickening thud. “Isme se koi ek naam bata do jo begunah hai.” [Tell me just one name in here that is innocent.]
The realization hits me like a physical force. They aren't just names of my countrymen. They are extremist organizations.
I look up at him, ready to scream, but the words die in my throat. Tears? He’s crying? The man who disarms assassins without blinking is shattering right in front of me.
“Tum meri dushman nahi ho, jaan. Dehshadgard hain.” [You are not my enemy, darling. The terrorists are.]
He clarifies the line he’s been walking, his voice thick with a decade of unspoken trauma. “Magar main tumhe nahi rokunga. Mera mission khatam hone ke baad, tum jaa sakti ho. Ho sake toh… mujhe maaf karna.” [But I won't stop you. After my mission is over, you can go. If possible… forgive me.]
He joins his hands in a plea, his rings glinting under the cold light filtering through our floor-to-ceiling glass, begging for a redemption he knows he doesn't deserve.
And that is what burns the most. Even now, with his hands joined in a plea, he is calculating. He is still prioritizing the mission over the wreckage of our life. It was never about us.
“Humare rishte ko khel samjha hai aapne.” [You’ve treated our relationship like a game.]
The words are acid on my tongue. “Apni marzi se aaoge, apni marzi se jaane ko bologe?” [You’ll come as you please, and tell me to leave as you please?] I grit my teeth, violently wiping the moisture from my cheeks. The betrayal is a living thing between us. “Shuruat se hi saazish thi na?” [It was a plot from the very beginning, wasn't it?]
The first time we met, the adrenaline of that midnight bike ride, the way he looked at me under the streetlights.
He can’t look at me. He collapses inward, his hand slapping over his head in a gesture of absolute defeat. A surrender that comes too late. “Main jhoot nahi bolunga. Haan… lekin—” [I won’t lie to you. Yes… but—]
“Lekin kya?” [But what?] I cut him off with a jagged, sarcastic laugh. “Lekin ab bhi pyaar karte ho? Lekin tumne meri zindagi jaan-bujh ke barbaad nahi kari? Aur maafi bhi maang rahe ho?” [But you still love me? But you didn't ruin my life on purpose? And you’re still asking for forgiveness?]
I stand up, “Mujhe afsos hota hai ki maine tum jaise aadmi se pyaar kiya!” [I regret that I ever loved a man like you!]
I reach for my wedding ring. It’s tight, a testament to the years we’ve spent building a lie. I wince, pulling it with a desperation that scratches the skin until a thin line of blood blooms. It’s a shallow sting compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I rip it off and hurl it; it hits the floor with a sharp sound that echoes through the silence.
“Tumhara toh asli naam bhi Hamza nahi hoga.” [Even your real name probably isn't Hamza.]
Nothing. The silence is his confession. I am married to a ghost with a thousand aliases.
I turn my back on him, walking to my room with the last of my dignity. I slam the door and turn the lock. I wait. I wait for him to knock. I wait for him to yell, to beg, to be the man I thought I knew.
But the hallway remains silent. He is an operative, after all. He knows when a target is lost.
✯
I stare at the ring abandoned on the cold marble, a small, silver circle of shattered promises. I pick it up, and wipe my face with the back of my hand before slipping it into my jacket pocket.
Every instinct I have, every bit of the man who loves her, is screaming at me to knock on that door. To beg. To explain. But the agent in me wins. I will give her space. She has survived enough wreckage for one night.
I retrieve the diary, the weight of a hundred deaths in my palm, and retreat to the study. The air here is thin. I take a deep breath, chugging water from a bottle on my desk to wash away the bitter taste of my own lies. I open the laptop, the blue light hitting my face as I begin the transmission.
I share the day’s intel with the spies assigned to Operation Dhurandhar: Lyari Branch, and another encrypted burst to my handlers.
It’s midnight. In this business, a clear head is a weapon, and sleep is a necessity. I turn off the machine and lie on the small bed in the study. I no longer have the privilege of sharing a room with my wife. Exhaustion, heavy and grey, finally claims me.
I wake around seven to the mocking chirp of birds and a muffled, persistent alarm bleeding through the walls from another room. I groan, my body aching from the stiff posture of a soldier even in sleep. I peel off the jacket, the thick vest, and the heavy layers until the flowy kurta and pyjama finally offer some semblance of comfort.
I walk to our bedroom door and knock, my voice gravelly and low.
“Seherzadi, darwaza kholo.” [Princess, open the door.]
No response. The alarm continues its rhythmic torture. I realize then, the lock isn't engaged. I push it open, my heart thumping a jagged rhythm against my ribs. “Kya socha kal raat ke baare mein?” [What did you think about last night?]
I reach for the clock, silencing it, and yank back the covers—
Pillows. Just empty, propped-up pillows.
My face drops. The silence of the room is a physical blow. I am a man trained not to panic, but at this moment, I am completely undone.
I yell her name, the sound echoing through the house as I sprint up the stairs, checking every corner, every shadow. I dial her phone, only to hear it buzzing on the nightstand. What the hell?
I call her father immediately. His voice is calm, irritatingly domestic. “Arey bachche, itni subah call?” [Hey child, a call this early?]
“Meri biwi kahan hai?” [Where is my wife?] I demand, my professionalism stripping away.
I let out a ragged sigh, my hand trembling. “Main mazak nahi kar raha. Woh yahan nahi hai. Aapke ghar mein hai?” [I’m not joking. She’s not here. Is she at your house?]
“Nahi toh. Kahin gayi hogi, aajayegi wapis.” [No. She must have gone somewhere, she'll be back.]
I shake my head, clutching my long hair, my breathing shallow. “Use sab pata chal gaya.” [She found out everything.]
The silence on the other end is sudden and heavy. “Mere baare mein bhi?” [About me too?]
“Nahi. Sirf mera sach jaanti hai.” [No. She only knows my truth.]
I stare out the window, the world outside looking far too peaceful for the fire burning in my chest.
“Theek hai, shant reh. Koi galat kadam mat utha. Main karta hoon intezam.” [Okay, stay calm. Don't take any wrong steps. I'll make the arrangements.]
The line goes dead.
I hurl the phone onto the rumpled bedsheets and plop down, the springs groaning under the weight of my failure. Another ring. A notification light bleeds through the dimness. It’s Rizwan: Today weapon delivery at 3 PM to Major Iqbal. I almost roll my eyes. Major Iqbal.
Work is the last thing on my fragmented mind. How can I deliver iron when my own foundation has turned to dust?
I reach for her phone again, my thumbs flying over the screen. I scroll through her search history, her tabs, her location pings, but nothing clicks. There is no trail. No digital breadcrumbs. This isn’t a panicked flight; she’s being deliberate. She’s operating with a cold, analytical precision that I recognize all too well. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I tear through the wardrobe, checking the alignment of her dresses, the stacks of her sweaters. Everything seems in place. No suitcases missing. No heavy coats gone. But then, my hand brushes the back of the mahogany cabinet.
The weight is wrong.
I pull the hidden drawer open. The thick stashes of emergency cash are gone.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. She doesn't want me to track her. She’s gone off the grid. No credit cards. No GPS. Just paper currency and a head full of my secrets.
And this is bad. This is catastrophically bad.
Because she’s out there alone. In a city where the shadows have teeth. In a place where "Hindustani agents" aren't the only ones hunting.
If the news breaks, the dam bursts. It’s that simple. I don’t want the state police sniffing around this, if they find her before I do, she might burn the whole world down just to see me in the ashes. She has the truth, and the truth is a lethal weapon in the hands of a woman who has lost her sanctuary.
But how long can I maintain this hollow silence? My house is a hive of activity—cleaners, chefs, workers, guards—each one a pair of eyes, each one a potential leak. I can’t fire them; a sudden purge of the staff would be a flare in the dark, signaling that something is rotting in the house of Hamza Ali Mazari.
If I mobilize Rizwan and the cell, I’m igniting a forest fire. Spies asking questions at local dhabas and bus stands is how rumors start, and in Lyari, rumors are more effective than the morning news. It will reach the media within hours.
My jaw ticks, the muscle tight and aching. I can’t find her like this. Not through conventional means. Even my father-in-law is a ghost in a suit, performing the theater of politics, attending rallies and shaking hands while his soul is likely screaming. He’s in a tighter vice than I am; he has a constituency to fool.
And then, the darker thoughts, the ones that bring the bitter taste of iron to my mouth. If she falls into the wrong hands... I know what men in this city do to women who are alone and unprotected. The memories of my sisters claw at the back of my mind.
But she isn't them. She is my wife. My mirror. She is fire.
What would I do if I were her? Think, Hamza. Use the brain they trained, not the heart she broke.
A loud, demanding buzz vibrates through the desk. I flip open the laptop, and my heart sinks. Sanyal and Bansal, the twin pillars of Indian Intelligence. The IB and R&AW chiefs, staring at me through the encrypted feed with the cold eyes. Of course my "lovely" father-in-law dragged them into this. He’s looking for a containment strategy, not a daughter.
I join the meeting, my face a mask of granite.
Bansal speaks first, his voice clipped. “Tumhari wife ke baare mein suna. Kya kya jaanti hai woh?” [I heard about your wife. What all does she know?]
I stop pacing, standing rigid in the center of the study. “Sirf itna ki main Indian agent hoon. Koi proofs nahi hai u paas.” [Only that I am an Indian agent. She has no proof.]
“Are you sure?” Bansal leans in, his shadow stretching across the screen. “Jis tarah se bhaagi hai it seems like she knows a lot. Sab kuch re-check karo aur report bhejo.” [The way she fled, it seems like she knows a lot. Re-check everything and send a report.]
I nod, the movement stiff. “Ji sir.” [Yes, sir.]
Then Sanyal breaks in, and his tone is a serrated blade. “Jaskirat... you've fucked up big time. Humare assets ki dhajjiyan udd jayegi if something happens. Do not, I say do not escalate this. Mission is still your top priority. State surveillance ko involve mat hone dena. Kuch hua toh we'll deport you to Dubai. That's the only help we can do right now.” [Jaskirat... you've fucked up big time. Our assets will be torn to shreds if something happens. Do not, I say do not, escalate this. The mission is still your top priority. Do not let state surveillance get involved. If anything happens, we'll deport you to Dubai. That's the only help we can provide right now.]
The screen goes black.
Guns delivery karun? MMP political rally join karun? Handlers ko report bheju? Ya apni mashuka ko dhundhoon? [Should I deliver the guns? Join the MMP political rally? Send the report to my handlers? Or should I find my beloved?]
I pick up a cigarette from the desk and smoke.
I let it burn down until it stings my fingers, then I drown the feeling in a scalding shower. I dress up a fresh kurta, the weight of the formal vest, the long coat.
Breakfast is served, but it tastes like ash. I call the head worker over. I place a thick, heavy stash of cash into her weathered hands. “Saare mulaazimo mein barabar baat dena. Teen mahine ki tankhwah hai. Eid ke baad wapas aana. Main aur ma'am sahab zaroori kaam se bahar jaa rahe hain.” [Distribute this equally among all the workers. It’s three months’ salary. Come back after Eid. Ma’am and I are going out for some urgent work.]
“Shukriya, sahab,” she beams, her gratitude a needle in my chest. “Kahan jaa rahe hain aap dono?” [Thank you, sir. Where are you both going?]
I stop chewing. The lie is cold. “Kabul.”
She nods, satisfied with the romanticized mystery of it, and goes to share the "blessing." I watch them. I am paying for their silence, for an empty house, for the time I need to bleed in private.
By nine, I am at my father-in-law’s. The air is thick with the scent of marigolds and gunpowder. We drive to the rally, a sea of green flags waving in a victory that feels like a defeat. Him and I, the architects of this city’s destiny, standing on the open-roof car with Rizwan as our shadow. I slide on my black sunglasses, hiding the "Jaskirat" behind the "Mazari."
As the car crawls through the narrow, roaring streets, I reach into the bag of currency. I hurl the notes into the air, a rain of paper that buys loyalty. The roar of the crowd is deafening. “Hamza Ali Mazari, Lyari ka baadshah!” [Hamza Ali Mazari, the King of Lyari!]
I grin. It is a practiced, feral baring of teeth. But the uneasiness in my stomach is a coil of snakes. Every cheer is a reminder of how much I have to lose. Every face in the crowd could be a witness to my downfall.
It's twelve noon. The safehouse is a tomb of iron and grease. The workers move with lethal efficiency, packing the trucks with rifles and shotguns. The convoy is ready. One lead car, the trucks in the center, and my car bringing up the rear.
Major Iqbal... you’re finished today. You were the shadow that haunted Mumbai, and today, I am the one who brings the light.
But as the engine roars to life, my mind drifts back to the silence of our bedroom.
Where are you, Seherzadi?
✯
The park at ten in the morning is a cruel sight. It’s filled with the sound of children laughing, pure, uncomplicated joy that feels like a language I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’ve been sitting here since the world was gray and silent, long before Hamza—or whatever his name is—even opened his eyes to find the pillows where I should have been. I left the phone. I just wanted to clear my mind, but the fog only gets thicker.
I need to go home. Not the house of marble and lies, but the mansion I grew up in. I look at the thick stash of cash in my purse, the only honest thing he ever gave me was the means to escape him. I refuse to use his cars, his drivers, his shadow. I find an auto, and the old driver recognizes me instantly. Everyone in Lyari knows the politician’s daughter.
When we pull up to the iron gates of my father’s mansion, I try to pay him, but he waves me off with a smile. “Arey nahi beti, aap se paise thodi lunga.” [No, daughter, I won't take money from you.]
I shake my head, forcing the notes into his hand. “Nahi chacha, rakh lijiye.” [No, uncle, keep it.] I’m overpaying him for a fifteen-minute ride, but I need to shed his money. I need to be rid of everything that tastes like him.
The mansion is quiet, a hollow shell of its former self. I find a worker, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. “Abbu kahan hai?” [Where is Dad?]
The man straightens up, surprised. “Arey baby, aap? Aane waali thi bataya kyun nahi? Baitho, woh toh thodi der pehle hi Hamza bhai ke saath rally mein nikle.” [Oh, Baby, you? Why didn't you say you were coming? Sit, he just left for the rally with Hamza.]
Of course. He isn't looking for me. He’s out there waving flags, shaking hands, and chasing power. The "King of Lyari" hasn't missed a beat. I only nod and walk up the stairs to my old room. It’s exactly as I left it, the aesthetic, the books, the original photography on the walls.
I pace the hallway, eventually drifting into my father’s study. A massive portrait of him with the leader of the MMP stares back at me. I find myself looking at a smaller frame, a photo of me, my mother, and him. A happy family. But I notice a hairline crack in the glass. As I reach for it, my hands tremble. The frame slips, hitting the floor with a violent crash.
The glass shatters, a jagged mirror of my own life. I wince, kneeling to save the old photograph, but as I flip it over, my breath hitches.
There, on the back, is a date. It’s been aggressively crossed out with whitener, a clumsy attempt to bury the past. I dig my nail into the crusty white layer, scratching it away until the ink underneath is revealed.
31. 03. 1989. IN.
My heart stops. March 31st. That’s my birthday.
IN.
India?
I shake my head, my vision blurring. I’m overthinking. Why hide a date? Why use whitener to choke the life out of a simple sequence of numbers? I tear through his desks, flipping through recent legislative papers and MMP memos, but it’s all noise. I check under the heavy mahogany tables, under the bed, clawing at the wood until my nails ache. Nothing.
I move to my mother’s room. It still smells like her, jasmine and old silk, but today, the scent is suffocating. I find it in the back of her wardrobe: the heavy wooden box with the intricate locks. The one she used to scold me for even glancing at. I’ve never seen the keys. I don't need them.
I pick the box up and hurl it against the marble floor with a primal scream. It shatters, the wood splintering like my own heart.
Inside, there are no jewels. I find tiny, delicate red glass bangles, too small for a woman. And then, bracelets of brown, textured beads. I rub one between my fingers. They aren't blueberries.
My breath hitches as I pull out a scrap of paper from the bottom. It’s a charred fragment of an old newspaper, dated 1989. The headline is barely legible through the soot: The Rise of Kashmir Insurgency.
My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold the last item. It’s an old, grainy photograph of my parents’ wedding. But this isn't the Nikah I was told about. My mother isn't wearing a green sharara. She is draped in a deep red veil, her eyes downcast, and there is a streak of red vermilion, a sindoor, parted in her hair.
I collapse onto the floor, clutching my head.
Who am I? Was any of it real? Every birthday, every prayer, every memory of my childhood, was it all just a script?
What was I made for? I lie on the cold marble, the tiny red bangles biting into my palm. They are small, innocent things, yet they carry the weight of a heritage I was never allowed to claim. I never planned for this. I never planned to leave Hamza, or to walk away from the only family I’ve ever known.
But you cannot stay in a house of glass when the foundation is built on graves. Not once did they feel the urge to tell me. Not the man who shared my bed, not the woman who birthed me, not the father who raised me to be a pawn in his political theater.
I was never a daughter. I was a cover story.
I shove the bangles and the charred newspaper into my purse, my movements jagged. I wipe the tears from my face with a finality that scares me. I’m not forgiving them. I’m not letting them pull me back into the script.
But as I walk down those grand stairs and step out into the heat of Lyari, the question haunts me: Where do I go? I can't run forever, but for now, away is the only direction that doesn't feel like a cage.
I pull my dupatta over my face, a shroud to hide the girl who no longer exists. After walking for blocks, the silence of my grief is shattered by a roar. "Hamza! Hamza!"
I press myself against a brick wall, becoming just another shadow in the street. The rally is a riot of green flags and ego. I see my father, the man who hid my birthright under layers of whitener, dancing with a joy that feels like a slap. And there, standing like a king atop the open-roof car is Hamza. He is throwing money into the air, his face a mask of practiced charisma.
The car passes inches from where I stand. Neither of them looks at me. They are too busy feeding the monster of their own ambition to see the wreckage they’ve made.
As the notes flutter down like falling leaves, I bend down. My fingers brush the dirt as I collect the cash they’ve flung so carelessly. It’s a bitter irony, but I take it. I’ll need it to disappear. I’m using their lies to fund my truth.
Look at you both, I think, watching the dust settle behind their convoy. You think you’ve won. But you will suffer the way I have. You will look for me in every room, in every shadow, and you will find nothing but the silence you used to keep me.
✯
The evening light is a bruised purple, bleeding over the horizon as I stumble toward the mansion gates. My body is a map of pain, a cramped leg that drags with every step, the heavy, metallic scent of Iqbal’s blood still clinging to my skin. I have a thick bandage wrapped around my forehead and shoulders, the white gauze already spotting red from the fight. It was intense. It was primal. But at least the debt of 26/11 is partially paid. One of the main targets is finally cold.
I should feel the rush of victory. Instead, I feel like I’m walking into a trap.
I find my father-in-law in his study. The room is a wreckage. This house, usually a monument to disciplined power, is falling apart. Things are unorganized; drawers hang open like gasping mouths, and the air feels stagnant, heavy with the scent of a secret that’s finally escaped its cage.
He’s pacing back and forth, his face the color of old parchment. "Kya hua, abhi kyun bulaya?" [What happened, why did you call me now?] I question, forcing my spine to straighten despite the agony in my shoulder.
He stops. He won't look me in the eye. "Woh aayi thi," he says, his voice a ragged whisper. "Use sab pata chal gaya hai." [She came here. She knows everything.] He finally turns to me, and for the first time, I see pure, unadulterated terror in the eyes of the man who runs Lyari. "Aur ab humein nahi pata ki woh kahan hai." [And now, we don't know where she is.]
A shiver, cold and jagged as ice, rips down my spine. The room tilts.
She didn't run. She found the truth that I, her father, and her mother have been sitting on for years.
My mind flashes back to the rally. The uneasy feeling. The dirt. The crowd.
How bad can it get?
The mission is compromised. And the woman I called my Mashuka is now the most dangerous person in Pakistan because she has nothing left to believe in.
I drop onto the sofa with a heavy thud. My bandages feel tight, pulling at my skin as I look at the man who is both my handler and my father-in-law. "Sanyal sahab ko malum hai?" [Does Sanyal know?] I ask, my voice sounding hollow in the debris of the study.
He nods, a long, weary sigh escaping his chest. "Batana pada. Bohot bada lafda hogaya hai. Kaise sambhaloon samajh nahi aa raha hai." [I had to tell him. It’s a massive mess. I don’t know how to handle this anymore.]
"Maine sabko bata diya ki main kaam ke silsile se Kabul jaa raha hoon," [I told everyone I'm going to Kabul for work,] I mutter, looking up at him.
He paces, his eyes scanning the room as if the answer is written in the shadows. "Ek kaam kar, kuch din Lyari mein dhoondh Rizwan aur baaki sab ke saath. Agar na mile, toh bahar jana. Tab tak main media aur Lyari sambhalta hoon." [Do one thing: search Lyari for a few days with Rizwan and the others. If she’s not found, then go outside. Until then, I’ll handle the media and Lyari.] He reaches out, his hand patting my shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a warning than comfort.
I nod mechanically, my brain already discarding impossible locations and filtering through the grid of the city. I know her. I know her better than anyone else in this room of liars. Or at least, I thought I did. "Nahi mili toh...?" [And if she isn't found...?]
"Mil jayegi. Tu use dhundh, zinda ya... Bas dhundh." [She'll be found. You search for her, alive or... just find her.] His hand squeezes my shoulder hard.
Zinda ya...
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. My hand curls into a tight, trembling fist. Alive. I wouldn't let anything happen to her. Even if she hates me, even if she exposes me, I cannot let the blackholes swallow her.
The drive back to the house is a suffocating silence. The few security guards standing at the perimeter look like statues of a life I no longer recognize. I don’t even step into the bedroom; I can’t face the smell of her perfume or the sight of the empty vanity. I call Rizwan and Alam immediately. When they arrive, I lay it out in whispers. No obvious questions, no mention of her name to the public. Be vague. Be ghosts.
I ask Alam if she came by the juice shop, but he just shakes his head, his eyes full of a pity I want to claw out. She knows; she’s mapped out my entire social and tactical circle and drawn a red line around it. She’s avoiding every place and every face that smells of "Hamza."
That means we’re searching the "unknown regions", the blind spots of Lyari.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of living in a cramped, rented apartment on the outskirts where the dust is thicker than the hope. I’m staying low-profile. I’m losing it. IB is breathing down my neck, not about my wife, but about the mission. They want to know if I’m moving on the "Bade Sahab" or Dawood. That old hag is the least of my concerns. How can I hunt a terrorist when I’m being haunted by a girl I married?
We pull up to a mid-tier hotel, the kind of place that smells like cheap phenyl and secrets.
"Khushamdeed, Hamza bhai," the receptionist says, his smile too bright for this gloomy lobby. "Aap ke liye kya kar sakta hoon?" [Welcome, Hamza. What can I do for you?]
I take a long, slow drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling around my face like a mask. "Humein khabar mili hai ki humare saath ek gaddaar reh raha hai. Aur abhi woh yahan ghus ke baitha hai. Bas usi ki jaankari chahiye, CCTV footage ke saath." [We’ve received word that a traitor is living among us. And right now, they’re holed up here. I just need the info, along with the CCTV footage.]
The kid pales. "Maaf kijiyega, lekin... humara hotel logon ki raazdari ki ifazat karta hai." [Pardon me, but... our hotel protects the privacy of our guests.]
Rizwan and I share a look, the kind of look that precedes a storm. Rizwan dials a number and slides the phone across the counter. The receptionist picks it up, listens for three seconds, and his spine turns to jelly. "Sir, theek hai." [Sir, okay.]
I scoff, taking the phone back as his face contorts into a frantic, awkward grin. "Mujhe pata nahi tha aap owner ke dost hain." [I didn't know you were a friend of the owner.]
I pat his shoulder, my hand lingering just long enough to let the threat sink in. "Bohot kuch pata karna baaki hai." [There's a lot left to find out.]
He leads us to the back, his footsteps frantic. He shoves open the door to the surveillance room and barks at the staff, "Everyone, out!"
The room clears. The door clicks shut. Just me, Rizwan, and the glowing blue light of a dozen monitors.
Rizwan drops into the swivel chair, his fingers dancing across the keys with a frantic, mechanical rhythm. I pull up another chair, leaning forward as the blue light of the monitors washes over my face. We begin the grueling process of scrubbing through fourteen days of human static.
"Hamza... Yeh kya hai?" [Hamza... what is this?] Rizwan’s voice is thick with a mixture of shock and revulsion.
I almost choke on a lungful of smoke as the grid of screens reveals the hotel's true business. It’s a mosaic of voyeurism, hidden cameras in the rooms, capturing the most private, vulnerable moments of couples who thought they were alone behind a locked door.
"Mehman ki ifazat," [Guest's protection,] I mutter, the sarcasm tasting like poison.
I feel like I need to wash my eyes with soap after this.
"Yeh illegal hai. Mujhe toh lagta hai yeh log in clips ko bechate hain." [This is illegal. I think they sell these clips.] Rizwan is scrolling through gigabytes of exploitation.
Obviously. In a place this derelict, ethics don't pay the electricity bill. But my moral compass isn't the priority right now. I’m looking for a ghost.
"Ruk." [Stop.]
I see it. A flicker of cream-colored silk at the edge of the reception camera. A woman, her face meticulously draped in a shawl, standing at the counter. Even with the graininess of the footage, I’d recognize that stance anywhere, the way she carries herself like a secret waiting to be told. "Date check karo." [Check the date.]
One week ago.
Rizwan pulls the specific logs. We watch her enter, exchange a few words with the man at the desk, and leave within minutes. She didn't check in. She didn't linger. She walked in like a client and walked out like a shadow.
"Kya karne aayi hogi yahan?" [What could she have come here for?] My frustration boils over. I crush the cigarette into the bin, the dying ember a mirror to my own unraveling patience.
Rizwan shakes his head, "Stay karne toh nahi. Kuch help? Ya emergency? Rooms ke footages mein nahi hai." [Not to stay. Some help? Or an emergency? She’s not in any of the room footages.] He lets out a long, heavy sigh. "Kya karein?" [What should we do?]
I look at the screens, at the hundreds of lives being stored like trophies in this basement, ready to be exploited for a few dirty rupees.
"Delete kardo." [Delete it.]
We share a look. A silent pact between two men who have done terrible things for the state but still know where the line is. Rizwan hits the command, wiping the server clean, erasing the shame, the exploitation.
We tear through the ledgers, physical papers that smell of old grease and ink, and find the ticket services. Buses and trains. One week ago, at the exact timestamp we saw her on the grainy screen, a single ticket was booked for North Karachi.
That’s it. North Karachi. A labyrinth of middle-class bustle and anonymous streets. The perfect place for a ghost to lose herself.
The days start to bleed into a gray blur. Rizwan and I have split up to cover more ground, operating like shadows. He’s out there playing the part of a worried brother searching for a "sister" or a nephew looking for an "uncle", always vague, always moving, never letting the name slip past his teeth.
I’m holed up in a new apartment. It’s okay-ish, the kind of place where the walls are a sickly, institutional green and the basic facilities feel like an afterthought. I’ve shed the Mazari skin. I throw a jacket over a plain t-shirt, hide my frame in loose cargos, and slide on a pair of glasses.
I’ve trimmed the beard down to a rough stubble and pulled my hair back into a messy manbun, letting a few strands fall to obscure my face. I don’t look like the King of Lyari anymore. I look like his distant, slightly disheveled cousin.
I walk out into the humid air to run groceries, a task the real Hamza hasn't done in years. But the city is already ahead of me. Thanks to my erratic sleep and the exhaustion weighing down my bones, I overslept. By the time I reach the stalls, the bazaar is a skeleton of itself. Empty crates, discarded leaves, and the lingering scent of damp earth.
I can’t find mushrooms anywhere.
I stand in the middle of the empty market. She loved them. The mushroom sandwiches with curd—no cream, no cheese. That specific, peculiar preference. I’m searching for the ingredients of a life I’ve already burnt down.
"Ae chacha, tees rupaye se zyada nahi dungi." [Hey Uncle, I won't give a rupee more than thirty.]
The voice hits me like a physical strike. It’s a sound I’ve heard in the quiet of our bedroom, whispered against my neck.
I scan the thinning crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs. There. A figure draped in loose kurti co-ords, her face and head swallowed by a dupatta. She is bargaining over... an egg tray? My breath hitches. The Princess of Lyari, the woman who had designers fighting to dress her, is standing in the dust, haggling over thirty rupees.
I want to sprint to her. I want to grab her, shake her, and ask her why she’s doing this to herself, to us.
But I stay rooted. A man in a hoodie and glasses. As she secures the eggs in a flimsy plastic bag and turns away. I follow her, using my height to keep that specific drape of her dupatta in my sights as she weaves through the lingering shoppers.
She doesn't look back. Not once. She stops at the edge of the road and disappears into an auto-rickshaw.
"Shit."
I lunged for the next auto, but the driver just stares at me with a lazy, half-chewed piece of paan in his mouth. "Pura full hoga tabhi jaunga." [I'll only go when it's full.]
I want to slap the indifference right off his face. I don't argue. I reach into my pocket and shove a fistful of excess cash into his hand. His eyes widen.
"Kahan jana hai?" [Where to?]
"Muh band rakh aur jaha bolun waha chal." [Keep your mouth shut and go where I tell you.]
I practically crawl into the cramped back seat, my head cracking against the low metal ceiling. I groan, the pain a welcome distraction from the roar in my ears.
I direct him with sharp commands, making sure we stay three cars back, close enough to keep the yellow-and-black frame of her auto in sight, but far enough that she doesn't see the man who’s been hunting her.
The ride is a chaotic blur of screeching tires and smelling of burnt rubber. My driver is clearly auditioning for the next Dhoom movie. When her auto finally pulls over, I’m out before my driver can even ask for a rating. I keep my distance, my hoodie pulled low, the plastic bag of useless groceries crinkling in my hand as I trail her through a side street.
Then, she stops at a gate. I look up, and the name on the template hits me harder than a bullet: Apna Ghar Women’s Shelter.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. A shelter. A place for victims of domestic abuse, for women fleeing violence and terror. Is that what I am to her now?
Suddenly, she turns. The wind catches her dupatta, pulling the fabric away to reveal the face I’ve been hunting for weeks.
I dive behind a parked truck, heart hammering against my ribs, clutching my bag of eggs and greens like a shield. When I peer back out, the gate is closing. She’s gone.
HONK.
The truck’s horn blares, a loud wavy blast that vibrates through my skull. I flinch, nearly dropping my groceries.
"Hatt sale!" [Move it, you!] I hiss. I kick the massive tire with enough force to bruise my toe. It feels like the entire universe is mocking me.
I shake my head. I can’t meet her like this. I need a plan. I’ll return late tonight, under the cover of real darkness. I’ll sneak in or find a way to get a message to her.
I reach into my pocket for my wallet, hoping for a cigarette or a distraction. Nothing but a few stray coins.
I look at the long, dusty road ahead of me. I’m the King of Lyari, the Babbar Sher of R&AW, and I’m currently broke, hungry, and facing a four-mile walk home because I overpaid an auto-driver.
✯
"Baji, kitni der ho gayi hai. Light band karke so jao." [Sister, it's been so long. Turn off the light and go to sleep.]
The voice of the girl in the next bed pulls me back from the edge of the abyss. She’s barely eighteen, her eyes still carrying the haunted flicker of someone who survived the unthinkable. She calls me "Sister," clinging to me like a life raft in this shared sea of trauma.
My heart aches for her. How do I tell her that I am not like her?
I click off the lamp, plunging the room into a heavy, suffocating darkness. I lie down, but the mattress feels like a bed of needles. Something is wrong. The air in the room feels displaced, as if a secret is breathing right next to me.
I shift, and my hand brushes something hard beneath my pillow. My blood turns to ice. I sit up, my fingers trembling as I pull out a small, folded piece of paper. There is no message written inside, no threats, no pleas. Just a weight.
I open the fold, and the golden glint of the ring catches the moonlight. My wedding ring. The one I hurled at his chest that night in a fit of rage and realization.
I gasp, my palm flying to my mouth to stifle a scream. He’s here. He didn’t just find me. He didn't just enter the building; he touched the very pillow where I lay my head.
I shove the ring into my purse. I slip out of the room, my bare feet cold on the tiled hallway. The corridors of the shelter are a tomb of shadows. I reach the window overlooking the backyard and stop, my breath hitching in my throat.
There, leaning against a beat-up bike by the rusted gate, is a man. He’s smoking, the orange cherry of his cigarette the only light in the darkness. He’s wearing a hoodie, his face obscured, but as he tilts his head back, the streetlight catches his glasses.
I flinch, pressing myself against the wall. It’s him.
Fear, sharp and jagged, slices through me. It’s not just the betrayal anymore; it’s the horror. The news of Major Iqbal’s "mysterious" death has been whispering through the streets. Though I have no sympathy for him. The public heard about a blast, but I know the truth. I know that Hamza didn't just eliminate him; he dismantled him. Both legs chopped, the kerosene, the screaming fire.
I’ve seen him with guns. But that... that was a monster I never knew, the one who doesn't just kill, but erases.
I ran with his secrets, with the truth of his identity. If he did that to a terrorist, what will he do to a wife who holds the detonator to his entire career?
Should I report him? The thought flashes like a warning light, but I hesitate. If I call the authorities, I’m not just calling the police, the media, and my father.
And despite the horror of what he did to Iqbal, he didn’t hurt me tonight. He had the chance to do anything while I was asleep, but he only left the ring.
But I can’t stay. If he can breach a high-security shelter then nowhere is safe.
I wait. Three in the morning, the hour of ghosts and secrets. I pack my life into a single bag: a few clothes, the egg tray, the burnt newspaper, and that cursed gold ring. I slip out of the room, my bare feet silent on the cold floor, heart in my throat.
I head for the front gate. The guards are slumped in their chairs, lost in the heavy sleep of the pre-dawn hours. I move like a shadow, scaling the iron bars.
I drop down on the other side, the impact jarring my bones, and quickly slide into my sandals.
He’s at the back. He won't notice the front. Right?
The Karachi night is a predator. I reach the station, my breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. It’s a graveyard of rusted iron and flickering fluorescent lights that hum with a dying energy. The ticket counter man is a slumped silhouette behind the glass, lost to the world. I don’t risk waking him; I find a discarded slip, a way in, and move toward the platform.
I sit at the very edge of the station, tucked near the overgrown bushes where the light doesn't quite reach. The insects are screaming in the grass, a frantic, rhythmic chirping that matches the tapping of my foot.
Then, the silence is broken by a sound that makes my skin crawl.
"Neele gagan ke tale..." [Under the blue sky...]
A slurred, gravelly voice. A man stumbles into the light, a bottle dangling from his fingertips, his movements loose and unpredictable. I pull my dupatta tighter, shrinking into the shadows, praying to be invisible. Don't look here. Just keep walking.
"Arey waah. Tu train ka intezar kar rahi hai?" [Oh wow. Are you waiting for the train?] He stops, his body swaying like a pendulum. He’s middle-aged, his eyes glassy and roaming.
I don't breathe. I don't answer. I stand up, intent on putting the entire length of the platform between us, but before I can take a step, his hand shoots out. His fingers, smelling of cheap spirits and filth, wrap around my wrist.
"Arey kahan jaa rahi ho jaaneman?" [Where are you going, sweetheart?]
"Haath chhor, haramzade!" [Let go of my hand, you bastard!] I snap, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and terror. I pull back, but his grip is a vice. He’s stronger than he looks, and in this empty station, at three in the morning, I am utterly alone.
This was the last thing I wanted.
"Arey aise kaise chhor de?" [How can I just let you go?] He sneers, "Raat ko akele ghumti ho, saza toh milegi." [You wander alone at night; you must be punished.]
The word Saza snaps something inside me. I have spent my life being "punished" for things I didn't do.
I twist my wrist with a jagged force, catching him off guard, and bring my heel down on his foot with every ounce of my weight.
He lets out a guttural scream, but as I lunge to run, he reaches out and snares the fabric of my dupatta. He tugs it back with a violent jerk. The silk tightens around my throat like a noose. I choke, my airway closing, my eyes welling up with involuntary tears of pain.
"Saali mard pe haath uthati hai?!" [You bitch, you dare raise a hand on a man?!] He spat, his face contorted in a mask of wounded ego. He tightens the grip on the cloth, pulling me toward him.
My free hand claws through the air, finding the neck of the bottle he’s still clutching. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I grab it and smash it directly against his temple.
The sound of shattering glass is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
He staggers back, the jagged shards and stinging alcohol piercing his skin and flooding his eyes. He howls, clutching his face as he collapses.
I fall to my knees, the pressure on my throat finally vanishing. I gasp for air, my lungs burning, coughing as I curl into a ball on the cold, dirty platform.
The drunkard is on top of me again, his nails digging into my neck like claws. "Tujhe toh pehle maarunga fir chodunga!" [I'll kill you first, then I'll fuck you!] His voice is a distorted snarl.
I try to kick, to scream, but my legs are pinned, and my air is gone.
Then, the weight is gone.
A violent, blurred motion. The man is dragged backward by his hair with such force I hear his neck crack.
"Kya karega?" [What will you do?]
That voice. It’s not the voice of my husband. It's Hamza. I roll onto my side, gasping, the cold station air burning my raw throat as my vision slowly clears.
"Bol na, haram ke pille!" [Speak, you son of a bitch!] Hamza’s boot connects with the man’s ribs. The sound of snapping bone is sickeningly loud in the empty station. The drunkard is coughing blood, his arrogance replaced by the whimpering terror of a dying animal.
"Jaane do bhaijaan, galti hogayi," [Let me go, brother, it was a mistake,] he pleads, crawling backward on the concrete.
"Galti? Aurton ki aabroo chhin kar maafi maang raha hai?!" [A mistake? You're asking for forgiveness after trying to snatch a woman's honor?!] Hamza is vibrating with a rage so pure it’s hypnotic. He isn't thinking like an agent; he’s acting like a deity of vengeance.
He picks up the half-broken glass bottle I used. "Aaj ke baad tu maafi mang ne ke laayak nahi rahega." [After today, you won't be in a condition to ask for forgiveness.]
My eyes widen. Before I can process the movement, Hamza thrusts the jagged glass into the man’s open mouth and punches the end of it. I hear the crunch of teeth and the wet, horrific sound of glass piercing the throat.
"H-Hamza... Ruko!" [Hamza... Stop!] I scream, my stomach churning.
He doesn't hear me. He doesn't see me.
He hauls the man, now a gurgling, faceless mass of blood, to his feet. In the distance, a low, tectonic rumble starts. The train. The light of the engine rounds the curve, blinding and white.
"Hamza, nahi!" [Hamza, no!]
It’s too late. He kicks the man off the platform.
The sound of the train is deafening. The screech of iron on iron, the heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud as the wheels pass over something that was once human.
I feel it, a warm, metallic spray of blood hitting my cheek, my dupatta, my hands.
Hamza stands at the edge of the platform, his clothes splattered with red, his chest heaving, his glasses reflecting nothing but the dark.
Hamza... What have you done?
✯
My chest heaves, every breath a jagged rasp in my lungs with adrenaline.I turn toward her, my boots crunching over the shards of the shattered bottle, the only remains of the man who dared to touch her.
She flinches as I approach, a sharp, instinctive jerk of her shoulders that cuts deeper than any blade. I freeze.
I kneel beside her, the station lights flickering overhead like a dying pulse. I reach for her hand, my fingers trembling. When she doesn’t pull away, I gather her into my arms, pulling her small, shaking frame against my chest.
She doesn't hug me back. She stays limp, a broken doll in a blood-stained sharara, her sobs racking her body in silent, rhythmic waves.
"Mujhe jaane kyun nahi dete?" she questions. [Why won't you let me go?]
"Mohabbat karta hoon," I whisper into her hair. [I love you.]
She shakes her head, the movement weary and hopeless. I pull back just enough to cup her face. My thumb brushes over her cheek, smearing the drying blood that isn't hers.
"Kyun kar rahi ho yeh sab? Tumhare bhaag jaane se sirf mujhe hi takleef nahi ho rahi, tumhare abbu ko ho rahi hai. Tumhe ho rahi hai," I say, trying to find a logic she will accept. [Why are you doing all this? Your running away isn't just hurting me; it's hurting your father. It's hurting you.]
"Mujhe toh yeh bhi nahi pata ki mera asli ghar kahan hai," she whispers, her eyes vacant. [I don't even know where my real home is anymore.]
The screech of the train’s brakes pierces the silence. It’s slowing down, the heavy iron wheels coming to a halt just meters away from the remains on the tracks. Soon, the guards will climb down. People will gather. They will find the "accident," and they will find us. I don't have time for existential crisis.
I grab her hand and haul her to her feet. She stumbles, her legs weak from terror.
"Kahan leke jaa rahe ho?" she asks as I pull her toward the shadows where the bike is hidden. [Where are you taking me?]
"....Ghar," I answer, my grip tightening. [...Home.]
We didn’t go to a terminal. We didn't wait for permission. From the bike, we hit the green-walled apartment just long enough to grab the essentials, the files, and her meager belongings from the shelter.
By the time the Karachi police were probably cordoning off the station, we were deep in the forest near the city limits, boarding a "ghost" plane, unregistered, unmarked, and invisible to the civil aviation radars.
Now, the morning sun of Afghanistan bleeds through the heavy curtains of our hotel room. The air here is different, thin, sharp. We are locked in. The room is a high-security bubble, guarded by men who don't exist on any official payroll.
I’ve freshened up. She’s sitting beside me, swallowed by my oversized t-shirt and pants, looking small and fragile against the backdrop of international espionage. I’m in a tank top and cargos, my hair tied back tight.
The laptop screen flickers to life, the blue light casting sharp shadows against the wall. The grid appears: Sanyal Sahab, looking grim; Bansal, ever the strategist; and her Abbu, whose face is a map of relief and suppressed fury.
I reach out, my hand finding hers on the table. I squeeze it, a firm, grounding pressure. "Daro matt," I murmur, my voice low and steady. [Don't be afraid.]
The meeting connects.
I keep my hand firmly over hers, feeling the frantic pulse in her palm.
"Sab safe hai?" Bansal’s voice breaks the tension. [Is everything safe?] I give a single, sharp nod.
Sanyal doesn't do pleasantries. He leans in, his eyes piercing through the lens. "I'm going to be straightforward. Aap kitna jaanti ho humare baare mein? Aur kya irada tha aapka sab kuch janne ke baad?" [How much do you know about us? And what was your intention after knowing everything?]
I feel her stiffen. Her fingers white-knuckle the hem of my t-shirt.
"Ghabrao nahi. Bas sab kuch sach sach bata do. Hamza ke ghar se kyun bhaagi thi?" Bansal adds, his tone shifting to that of a gentle uncle: a calculated move I’ve seen him use in a hundred interrogations. [Don't be afraid. Just tell us everything truthfully. Why did you run away from Hamza's house?]
"Mujhe fareb mein rakha gaya," she begins, her voice gaining a fragile strength. "Main bhagna nahi chahti thi, lekin fir mujhe pata chala ki Abbu bhi hindustani agent hai. Mujhse yeh bardasht nahi hua, aur..." [I was kept in a web of lies. I didn't want to run, but then I found out Dad is also an Indian agent. I couldn't bear it, and...]
"Aur aap bhaag aayi." Sanyal cuts in, his voice like sandpaper. "Miss, I really sympathize with your situation, magar yeh aapko bhi maalum hai ki yeh kitna khatarnak saabit ho sakta tha." [And you ran away. Miss... you know how dangerous this could have been.]
She nods, a small, defeated movement. "Haan. Lekin main dar gayi thi. Jis din mujhe Hamza ka asli chehra dikha, mujhe laga woh mujhse nafrat karta hai. Woh kuch bhi kar sakta hai mere saath." [Yes. But I was scared. The day I saw Hamza's true face, I thought he hated me. That he could do anything to me.]
"Kya usne kabhi zor zabardusti ki?" Bansal asks, his eyes flicking to me for a split second. [Did he ever use force or coercion?]
The room feels like it’s losing oxygen. She turns her head, looking at me—really looking at me—past the blood of the platform. She shakes her head slowly. "Kabhi nahi. Woh bohot narm dil insan hai. Lekin... Mujhe nahi pata main iss sach ke saath jee paungi ya nahi." [Never. He is a very soft-hearted person. But... I don't know if I can live with this truth.]
The three of them glare at me through the screen. Their silence is a tactical calculation. Her answer wasn't a relief to them; it was a red flag.
Her father clears his throat, the sound rasping through the speaker. "Beta, aapne kisiko humara sach bataya ya batane ka socha tha?" [Child, did you tell our truth to anyone, or even think of telling it?]
She shakes her head, her voice small but steady. "Nahi. Mujhe bass dukh hota hai ki sab ne mujhse sach chhupaya. Main itni bewafa nahi hoon," she looks at me, and the depth of her gaze feels like a dagger through my ribs, "ki apne shauhar ki bali chadha doon." [No. It just hurts me that everyone hid the truth from me. I am not so unfaithful that I would sacrifice my husband.]
I see them lean back in their expensive chairs, a collective sigh of relief passing through the digital grid.
"Case clear hai, lekin abhi bhi kuch doubts hain. Hum ek hafte tak debriefing karenge, fir sochenge aage kya karna hai," Bansal says, his tone clinical. [The case is clear, but there are still doubts. We will conduct a debriefing for a week, then decide what to do next.]
My temper snaps. "Usne jawab de diya hai. Aur kya chahiye aapko?" [She has given her answer. What more do you want?]
"Hamza, you know how dangerous this is," Bansal counters, his voice hardening. "We are only holding back because she’s your wife and his daughter. Otherwise, she would be under direct Analysis Wing surveillance, isolated, or worse, elimi—"
"Bansal Sir," I cut him off, my voice a low, dangerous rumble. "With all due respect, I understand the gravity of this situation. Look at her, she’s under immense mental stress, and all you’re concerned about are reports and protocols."
"Fine then. You’ll handle it."
“I—” The words die in my throat. The irony is suffocating. I’ve been ordered to interrogate my own wife, the woman I just committed a public execution to save.
Sanyal rubs his face, the fatigue of a decades-long lie finally showing. "Hamza, calm down. We’ve already broken so many protocols. Take care of her and yourself. Prepare the reports, then we’ll decide."
Beside me, I feel the shift in her energy. She looks up at the screen, her eyes flashing. "Aap logon ne pehle se hi sab decide kar liya na?" Her voice is trembling with a mixture of rage and heartbreak. "Mere paida hone se lekar aaj tak, sirf ek mission ka hissa rahi hoon main. Ek beti nahi, ek biwi nahi—sirf ek mohra." [You’ve already decided everything, haven't you? From the moment I was born until today, I’ve only been part of a mission. Not a daughter, not a wife—just a pawn.]
The silence that follows Sanyal’s words is toxic. "Agar aap mohra nahi banna chahti... toh khiladi banna padega." [If you don't want to be a pawn... you'll have to become a player.]
It’s the coldest recruitment pitch I’ve ever heard.
He’s looking at a woman who just survived a physical assault and a psychological collapse, and he's asking her to join R&AW.
"Aap mein haya hai? Is haalaat ko bhi mauke mein badalna chahte ho?" she snaps back, her voice trembling with a righteous fury that makes even Bansal look away. [Do you have any shame? You want to turn even this situation into an opportunity?]
Sanyal doesn't blink. He has no shame; he only has objectives. "Kisi ki side toh leni hogi. Aap wapis kahan jana chahogi? Pakistan ya Hindustan?" [You’ll have to take a side. Where would you want to go back? Pakistan or India?]
"Mujhe nahi pata... mujhe nahi pata mera ghar kahan hai." [I don't know... I don't know where my home is.]
Then, her father speaks. His voice is different now, no longer the powerful politician of Lyari, but a man haunted by the ghosts of a burning province. "Tere paida hone ke kuch mahine baad 1989 mein Kashmir mein dar ka mahol tha... Army mein tha, ghar jala diya gaya tha mera." [A few months after you were born in 1989, there was an atmosphere of fear in Kashmir... I was in the Army, my house was burnt down.]
I feel her hand go cold in mine.
"Sanyal sahab ne zindagi jeene ka ek aur mauka diya... Pakistani siyasat mein ghus ke yahan ki khabre un tak pahunchana. Magar apne pariwar ko alvida keh kar." [Sanyal Sahab gave me another chance to live... to enter Pakistani politics and send news to them. But at the cost of saying goodbye to my family.]
He looks at her through the screen, his eyes glistening. "Main ziddi tha, tujhe aur apni biwi ko saath le aaya. Socha tha ifazat karunga, apne desh ki aur parivaar ki bhi." [I was stubborn; I brought you and your mother along. I thought I would protect both, my country and my family.]
"Ifazat? Mujhe jhoot mein paal ke? Mera naam, mera mazhab, mera desh, sab jhoot tha?" [Protection? By raising me in a lie? My name, my religion, my country, all of it was a lie?]
She doesn't wait for an answer. She doesn't look for comfort. She pulls her hand out of mine.
She turns her head just enough for the camera to catch her eyes. "I'm sorry to say this, sir, but you only care about assets, not the person behind them."
The screen remains frozen for a heartbeat. I can see the frustration on her father's face and the detachment on Sanyal’s.
"Bohot hi baaghi ladki paali hai aapne," Bansal mutters to her father, his voice dripping with the annoyance of a handler whose "asset" has suddenly developed a soul. [You've raised a very rebellious girl.]
Sanyal simply clears his throat. He doesn't take offense; he just adjusts the variables. "Usse pucho aur confirm karo woh kya chahti hai. Jo woh chahegi, uska report banakar bhejo. Fir hum decide karenge." [Ask her and confirm what she wants. Send a report of whatever she chooses. Then we will decide.]
"You won't take extreme actions," I warn.
Sanyal doesn't argue. He doesn't promise. He just smirks, that same cold, knowing smirk he gave me when he pulled me off death row and the call cuts to black.
The laptop lid clicks shut, a finality that leaves us in the heavy, airless silence of Kabul. I walk toward her, my shadow stretching across the floor until it touches the hem of my t-shirt she’s wearing.
She doesn't turn around. "Unhone tumse bhi yehi sawal poocha tha na?" she questions. [They asked you the same question, didn't they?]
I stop a step behind her. The truth isn't just a mission requirement anymore; it's the only thing left between us. I nod, the movement stiff. "Bayees saal ka tha tab. Sirf behen aur maa thi, papa aur didi ko maar diya... bara mardo ki laashein bichha di." [I was twenty-two. Only had my sister and mother left; they killed my father and sister... I laid out twelve bodies.]
I describe the death penalty, the trade with Sanyal, the 30,000 rupees that bought my soul and my family’s safety. I tell her how I thought I’d be back home in months, but the years turned me into a shell. "Bacha toh sirf junoon, apne desh ko ifazat rakhne ka junoon." [All that remained was a passion, a passion to keep my country safe.] I look at her silhouette. "Fir tum mil gayi." [Then I found you.]
She turns then, her eyes searching mine with a terrifying clarity. "Mere milne se sab theek hogaya?" [Everything became okay because you met me?]
A dry, hollow chuckle escapes me. "Bigad gaya. Lekin jo mohabbat maine tumse ki woh sachchi hai." [It got worse. But the love I felt for you is real.]
The air shifts. The ultimate barrier is about to fall. "Mera asli naam janna chahogi...?" [Do you want to know my real name?]
She blinks.
"Jaskirat," I say.
The name hangs in the room. She says nothing. She just looks away, the weight of the lie settling on her shoulders. "Aur mere asli naam ka kya?" [And what about my real name?]
I smile, though it feels like a fracture. "Woh bhi hai mere paas." I walk to the luggage and pull out the birth certificate, the one that had been tucked away with her bangles. I hand it to her.
She reads it, her eyes filling with tears as she sees the name and the origin that were stolen from her in 1989. "Koi fayda nahi. Sab khatam ho chuka hai. Woh log mujhe maar denge." [It's no use. Everything is over. They will kill me.]
"Nahi," I say, my voice turning into a serrated edge. "Main jaanta hoon R&AW ke system ko. Woh extreme decision nahi lete jab tak liability ka proof na ho. Fikr matt karo, main reports mein sab sambhal lunga." [No. I know the R&AW system. They don't take extreme decisions unless they have proof of a liability. Don't worry, I'll handle everything in the reports.]
She looks up at me, her eyes raw and red. "Itna bharosa hai mujh par? Tumhare ghar se bhaagi thi main. Kahin maine kisi ko tumhara sach bata diya toh?" [You trust me that much? I ran from your house. What if I told someone your truth?]
I lean in, my face inches from hers, "You won't dare, jaan. We both know it.”
✯
Two weeks in Kabul.
I’ve spent my days wandering the perimeter of this hotel suite, a ghost in oversized clothes, watching him. He thinks I’m not looking, but I see the blue light of the laptop screen reflecting off his glasses late into the night.
I caught a glimpse of the file once. The official R&AW header, the cold, clinical font. He wasn’t writing about his wife.
FIELD REPORT: ASSET EVALUATION
Subject: [Redacted]
Status: Post-Extraction / Kabul Safehouse
Behavior: Neutral, detached; currently exhibiting high levels of acute mental stress.
Liability Assessment: Low. Exhibits impulsive behavior under emotional duress but shows zero inclination toward disloyalty or state-level betrayal.
Recommendation: Minimal surveillance required. Subject to remain under the direct supervision of [Hamza] to ensure stability.
It’s a strange, suffocating kind of love. He is trying to save my life, but he is doing it by turning me into a case file. He is protecting me from Sanyal, yet he is studying me like a specimen under a microscope.
Tonight, the sky finally breaks. I walk out onto the balcony, the Afghan night air sharp and cold. The thunder is a low, distant rumble, a warning from the mountains. As the first tiny droplets of rain touch my face, I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.
"Seherzadi, andar aa jao. Thand lag jayegi." [Princess, come inside. You’ll catch a cold.]
His voice drifts from the room, steady and commanding, but I don't move.
I’m tired of being told where I’ll be safe. I haven't let myself breathe, truly breathe, since the night in Lyari when the world turned upside down.
I reach up and pull the tie from my hair, letting it spill over my shoulders. I step further into the rain, letting the downpour soak through my kurti and shorts, the water grounding me to the earth.
I can feel his presence before I see him, the weight of his gaze as he leans against the doorframe, watching me reclaim a piece of myself.
I look over my shoulder, my hair plastered to my neck, the rain stinging my eyes. "Maine mann bana liya hai," I say, my voice cutting through the sound of the storm. "Mujhe Vancouver jana hai." [I’ve made up my mind. I want to go to Vancouver.]
I don’t choose India. I don’t choose Pakistan. I choose the only place that doesn't demand I be a lie.
The rain is turning into a deluge. I see the muscle in his jaw ripple, a violent twitch that I’ve learned to recognize as Hamza's battle with himself.
"Vancouver? Akele? Tumhe lagta hai Sanyal tumhe ek civilian ke tarah jaane dega?" [Vancouver? Alone? Do you think Sanyal will let you go like a civilian?]
I turn to face him fully, the water dripping from my chin, my eyes locked onto his. "Tum hi ne toh kaha tha reports sambhal loge. Toh sambhalo na, Jaskirat. Apni mashuka ko azad karo." [You were the one who said you’d handle the reports. So handle them, Jaskirat. Set your beloved free.]
He steps closer, the rain drenching his tank top, clinging to the heavy muscles of his shoulders. He doesn't care about the cold anymore. "Azad? Kisse? Mujhse azad hona chahati ho tum? Tum samajhti ho ki maine tumhe qaid karke rakha hai?" [Free? From whom? You want to be free from me? You think I’ve kept you imprisoned?]
His voice breaks at the end, a vulnerable sound that I’ve never heard from the King of Lyari. He sounds... hurt. Like a boy who just realized his favorite bird wants to fly away from the golden cage he spent his life building.
I shake my head, my wet hair slapping against my cheeks. "Tumse azadi nahi. Sab se. Jhooth ke mohtaj se behtar akelapan hai." [Not freedom from you. From everyone. Loneliness is better than being dependent on a lie.]
He takes a deep breath, "Fir wapas India ya Pakistan aana mushkil hoga. Ek do saal ki baat nahi hai, tumne settle hona hoga." [Then coming back to India or Pakistan will be difficult. It’s not a matter of a year or two; you’ll have to settle.]
"Ho jaungi." [I will.]
"Mere bagair?" [Without me?] He stops himself, the word hanging in the air between, "Jaan, main khudgarz nahi hoon. Magar apna sab kuch khoya hai, tumhe nahi khona chahta." [Jaan, I’m not selfish. But I’ve lost everything; I don't want to lose you.]
"Mujhe pata hai," I say as a flash of lightning illuminates the skyline, turning his face into a mask of pure, tragic resolve. "Chahe jo ho jaye, tum apna maqsad intikhab karoge." [I know. No matter what happens, you will always choose your mission.]
"Main..." He stops, the word caught in a throat that has barked orders and silent threats for years. "Don't make me choose between my nation and my love."
"You'll have to. I've made my choices too," I reply. My voice is steady, even as my heart hammers against my ribs. I’ve chosen a life that hasn't been written for me by a handler. I’ve chosen the truth, however cold it may be.
He shakes his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Kamal karti ho, jaan. Mujhe aise waham mein daal diya ki main majboor ho jaun. Mein tumhe dhundhne aaya tha, aur ab bhi tum mujhse dur bhaag rahi ho." [You’re incredible, my life. You've put me in such a dilemma that I feel helpless. I came to find you, and even now, you’re running away from me.]
"Tum mujhe dhoondhne nahi aaye the, Hamza," I say, "Tum yeh dekhne aaye the ki main tumhare bagair kaise jeeti hoon." [You didn't come to find me, Hamza. You came to see how I live without you.]
He stares at me, his eyes wounded. "Galat faimee hai, jaan. Mujhe poora bharosa hai ki tum mere bagair aaram se jee sakti ho, lekin main nahi jee sakta. Ek mahina tumhare bina murjhaye gulaab jaise guzara hai maine." [That’s a misunderstanding. I’m fully confident you can live comfortably without me, but I can't live. I've spent a month without you like a withered rose.]
The imagery of the withered rose, so unlike the "SHER-E-BALOCH," so unlike the "Hamza", stabs at me.
I feel the pull of him, the gravity of a love that has endured blood and betrayal. "Tumne jhooth bola tha, Hamza. Shuru se." [You lied, Hamza. From the beginning.]
"Haan," he gulps, the sound audible over the rhythmic thrum of the rain. "Kya tum mujhse pyaar karti yeh jankar bhi ki main Hindustani agent hoon?" [Yes. Would you have loved me knowing I was an Indian agent?]
"Nahi na..?" [No, right?]
"Nahi!" I yell, the word tearing from my throat. "Lekin ab bhi karti hoon. Kya woh kaafi nahi hai?" [No! But I still do. Isn't that enough?]
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine for a logic he can't find. "Fir yeh sab kyun?" [Then why all this?]
"Kyunki tumne jhooth bola!" My voice breaks, "Humari shaadi ke baad, ek baar bhi khud se mujhe bata diya hota ki tumhari sachchai kya hai, toh main tumhe maaf kar deti. Lekin tumne woh sach chhupaya, jab tak ki mujhe pata nahi chala." [Because you lied! After our marriage, if even once you had told me your truth on your own, I would have forgiven you. But you hid that truth until I found out.]
The tears come then, hot and stinging, mixing instantly with the rain so that neither of us can tell where the storm ends and my grief begins.
Then, the unthinkable happens.
The man who dismantled twelve men without blinking, drops. His knees hit the wet concrete with a heavy, dull thud.
"Main haar gaya hoon tumhare saamne, jaan." [I have lost before you, my love.] His voice is a low, broken rasp. "Mujhe zindagi bhar afsos rahega ki humara rishta kamil nahi ban paya. Sab jhooth tha, lekin mere kasmen nahi. Tumhe tadpaya hai, uski jo saza chaho de do, lekin yeh mat bolna ki mohabbat sirf tumne ki." [I will regret all my life that our relationship couldn't be complete. Everything was a lie, but not my vows. I’ve made you suffer; give me whatever punishment you want, but don't say that you were the only one who loved.]
He reaches out, his hand touching my feet in a gesture of absolute, soul-crushing submission. I flinch, my back hitting the cold iron railing of the balcony. The sight of him, this giant of a man, this lethal weapon, reduced to a beggar at my feet, makes my stomach turn.
"Ab kuch nahi hone wala," I say, my voice shaking so hard it’s barely a whisper. "Shayad main tumhe maaf kar doon, lekin mujhe uss sheher wapas nahi jana." [Nothing is going to happen now. Maybe I’ll forgive you, but I don’t want to go back to that city.]
He looks up at me. The lightning flashes, illuminating the distended vein on his forehead and his eyes, which are bloodshot with a mix of exhaustion and agony. "Tumhare lab se sunna chahta hoon ki mera pyaar jhootha nahi." [I want to hear from your lips that my love wasn't a lie.]
"Tum jaa sakti ho," he says, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Main nahi rokunga. Tumhare pichhe aaya tha kyun ki darr tha, apne sach se parda hatne ka. Lekin ab woh dar bhi nahi raha. Bharosa karta hoon tum par. Shayad main tumhari maafi ka haqdaar nahi. Lekin bas ek baar bol do ki..."
[You can go. I won't stop you. I came after you because I was afraid, afraid of the veil being lifted from my truth. But even that fear is gone now. I trust you. Perhaps I don't deserve your forgiveness. But just once, say that...]
He leaves the sentence hanging, a desperate plea for the only thing that can keep his soul intact. He doesn't want his freedom; he wants his love to be validated before I vanish into the Vancouver fog.
I look down at him, "Tumhara pyaar sach tha..." I say, the words tasting like rain and salt. "Magar poora nahi."
[Your love was true... but it wasn't complete.]
Because a love built on shadows can never be whole. It was real, it was fierce, but it was fractured from the very first day.
He simply nods, a sharp, jerky movement of his head. He accepts the verdict like a man accepting a sentence he knows he earned. He stands up slowly, his height returning, but his spirit staying behind on the floor.
"Kabhi main yaad aaun toh... aa jana."
[If you ever remember me... come back.]
He joins his hands in a final, quiet gesture of respect, a goodbye. Then, he looks away, his gaze fixing on the dark horizon, letting the rain wash over him as he prepares to write the report that will let me go.
✯
Vancouver doesn't have the suffocating heat of Karachi. It is a clean, biting cold that smells of salt and pine. For three years, I have lived a life that is finally, undeniably mine.
Sanyal evidently decided that a silent civilian in Canada was better than a martyr in Lyari. The report Jaskirat wrote must have been a masterpiece of manipulation, because I walked into this country with an Indian passport and the name from my birth certificate.
Then, three weeks ago, the nuke hit the global headlines. The D-Company mastermind, found dead in a secure location. Cause of death: Unknown. I sat in my small apartment, staring at the screen until the pixels blurred. I knew. I knew the "Wrath of God" had finally finished the job he started twenty years ago.
I reach the door to my apartment, my hands trembling as I fumble with my keys, only to find the bolt already turned. My heart hammers against my ribs, that old, familiar panic rising in my throat. I push the door open, my eyes scanning for a threat, but instead, I am hit with a scent that stops my breath.
It’s the earthy, savory aroma of mushrooms. I walk toward the kitchen, my sandals silent on the wooden floor. There, standing over the stove, is a man who looks like he has emerged from a decade of war.
His hair is longer, spilling over his shoulders in dark waves; his beard is thick, hiding the sharp jawline I used to trace in the dark. He’s wearing a simple sweater, his silhouette broader, more rugged.
He’s cooking them with curd. Just the way I liked.
He looks at me, and I see the toll the last three years have taken.
"Teen saal diye the apne aap ko dhoondhne ke liye... Mila kya?" [You gave yourself three years to find yourself... did you find anything?]
The softness in his voice is my undoing.
I step closer, the distance between us shrinking for the first time in years. "Jise dhoondhna chahti thi woh nahi mili, lekin meri asaliyat mil gayi hai. Mujhe achcha lagta hai yahan rehna." [I didn't find the person I was looking for, but I found my reality. I like living here.]
"Kisi ki kami mehsus nahi hoti?" [Do you not feel the absence of anyone?]
I look away, "Hoti hai, thodi bohot. Lekin mera bachpan se sapna tha, apna ghar ho jahan koi pareshani naa ho." [I do, a little bit. But it was my childhood dream to have a home where there’s no trouble.]
He nods, his gaze never leaving my face. "Tumne kaha tha na ki mera pyaar pura nahi hai? Aaj main pura hoon. Kya tum mere saath chalna chahogi?" [You said my love wasn't complete? Today, I am complete. Would you like to come with me?]
"Maine tumhe maaf nahi kiya." [I haven't forgiven you.]
"Koi baat nahi. Main zindagi bhar intezar karunga," he says, stepping into my space, his presence as overwhelming as ever. "Itna intezar kiya hai, ab thoda aur." [It's okay. I will wait a lifetime. I've waited this long, now just a little more.]
I look up at him, and the walls I built finally crumble. For the first time, I am the one who reaches out. I wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest, feeling the steady, thundering beat of his heart. He pulls me in, his touch firm and possessive, yet incredibly gentle. I have missed this, the safety of his arms, the scent of him, the way the world seems to stop when he’s near.
"Ab bhi jhoot bolte ho?" [Do you still tell lies?]
"Thoda kam bolta hoon." [I lie a little less.]
I pull back just enough to look at him, the reality of his presence finally sinking in. "Yahan kaise aaye?" [How did you get here?]
He gives me that look, the one that reminds me he was trained by the best shadows in the subcontinent. "Hotel staff surveillant hai, duplicate keys maang liye." [The hotel staff is under surveillance; I asked for duplicate keys.] Of course.
"Aur baat rahi Dhurandhar ki, toh mera mission poora ho chuka hai," he continues, his voice grounding me. "Abhi bhi R&AW ke under hoon, lekin informant hoon. Koi mission sign nahi kiye. Karne kaa irada bhi nahi." [And as for the 'Dhurandhar,' my mission is complete. I'm still under R&AW, but as an informant. I haven't signed any missions. And I have no intention to.]
I nod, absorbing the weight of his choice. "Toh kya irada hai?" [So, what is your intention?]
"Tumhe har khushi dena... Agar tum izazat do." [To give you every happiness... if you give me permission.] He holds me gently.
I look him dead in the eye. "Izazat hai... Lekin gustakhi ki, toh main tumhe iss imarat se fek dungi." [Permission granted... but if you commit any insolence, I’ll throw you off the building.]
He chuckles, a warm, genuine sound that vibrates through his chest. "Manzoor hai. Tumhe shaq ki gunjaish nahi hogi." [Accepted. You won't have any room for doubt.]
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar glint of gold. It’s the same ring. I notice, with a sharp pang in my chest, that he’s still wearing his. He doesn't ask; he just waits. I give him my hand, and he slips the ring back onto my finger. It fits perfectly, as if the last three years of distance never happened.
He brings my hand to his mouth, lingering there with a soft, lingering kiss on my knuckles. I scoff, trying to hide the fact that my heart is doing backflips inside my ribs.
When our lips meet, it isn’t the soft, tentative kiss of a reunion; it is an explosion of suppressed longing. I still feel the butterflies, that jagged, electric thrill I thought I had buried, and I feel his pulse quickening against my palms, a rapid-fire staccato that betrays his composure.
My fingers tighten on his shirt, the fabric stretching taut over the hard, familiar planes of his muscles. He is broader now, more solid, a man who has carried the weight of the world and finally found a place to set it down.
"Kitna bechain tha tumhare bina..." he rasps against my skin, his voice a low, primal vibration. [How restless I was without you...]
His teeth sink into the curve of my neck, a sharp, possessive claim that makes a whimper catch in my throat. I don't pull away. Instead, my hand threads through his long hair, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to the only truth I have left.
He pulls back just a fraction, his eyes dark with a hunger that is both terrifying and beautiful. I frown at the loss of contact, my breath hitching in the small space between us.
"Aage badh sakta hoon?" [Can I go further?]
I nod.
He picks me up, my feet leaving the floor as he lifts me onto the cool marble of the counter. The contrast of the cold stone against my skin and the furnace-heat of his body makes me gasp. His hands move with tactical precision, unzipping my dress, unclasping the constraints of my bra until I am as bare before him.
He parts my legs, settling between them with a heavy, grounded presence, and I instinctively lock my heels into his hips, pulling him into the epicenter of my world.
He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath mingling with my own.
[What brought me back to you is the intensity of my love.]
"Tumhare paas jisne mujhe lautaya, woh mere ishq ki SHIDDAT hai."
Can I please request a fic about Dad’s bsf Sanjay x Reader on a family vacation? like you know how the family and the family friends go on a vacation together. And they eventually start flirting and you know what 😝
TEMPTATIONS
Pairing: Sanjaya Baru x Reader
T.W: Nsfw, Minors do not interact, not meant to represent real individuals, based on Sanjaya Baru from the movie Accidental Prime Minister
The sea breeze drifts through the open balcony doors of the Goa villa as you step out for a cold drink, finding Sanjay leaning against the rail alone, smoking quietly. His dark linen shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, salt-kissed skin glinting in the moonlight. He turns when he hears your footsteps, a warm smile pulling at his lips.
"Why are you here? Isn't your dad and the others still inside playing uno ?"
He flicks ash into the tray, eyes dragging slow over your loose cotton dress.
You shift your weight on the cool tiled floor, your fingers twisting the edge of your dress slightly, cheeks warming under his gaze. The sound of laughter from inside the villa feels distant, like it’s happening in another world.
"Haan, woh 25+ cards mere haath me the so I got disqualified, and I got bored just sitting there, so I thought I’d get some fresh air."
You walk closer to the rail, the salt wind tangling your hair as you glance up at him through your lashes.
You lift your chin, eyes fixed on the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, and ask for one. His eyebrows shoot up a little, a faint amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He taps the pack against his palm before holding it out to you.
He chuckled, but still handed her a cigarette, His fingers brush yours when you take the cigarette, the contact sending a warm jolt up your arm.
He lights your cigarette for you, leaning in close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne mixed with sea salt. His knuckles brush your jaw as he holds the lighter steady, and his eyes darken slightly when you inhale.
"Good girl",he murmurs, so quiet only you can hear.
"Hmm never knew you smoked, let me guess you've been hiding this from your papa, am I right Y/N ?"
Your cheeks flush bright red, fingers tightening around the cigarette so hard the ash crumbles off. You look away quickly, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it over the waves.
"Haan… but bas kabhi-kabhi, Aur waise bhi oapa ko kyu pata hona chahiye in chizo ke baare me."
Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, and you can feel his warm gaze still burning into your shoulder.
He reaches out slowly, tucking a wind-tousled strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused palm brushing your cheek on the way down. The touch makes you shiver, and he notices immediately, a glint in his glasses clad eyes.
"Kuch aur chhupa rahi ho na tum mujhse?" he whispers, leaning in closer, his lips almost brushing your ear.
"That little crush you’ve had on me since we met… you think I haven’t noticed?"
Your breath catches in your throat, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning back into his touch. Your skin burns as his hand rests on your hip, every nerve ending singing.
"I… I don’t know what you’re talking about," you whisper, your voice shaking just a little as you finally dare to turn your head to look at him. His face is inches away, his lips pink and slightly parted.
He just raises his eyebrow, his expression telling that he doesn't buy he excuse.
Your heart thrums so hard it’s almost painful, the thrill of being caught making your knees go weak. You bite your lip, tipping your chin up to press your mouth to his before you can overthink it.
"Ok Haan fine, I’ve got a teeny tiny crush on you, So what?" You whisper the words against his lips, your hands fisting in the front of his unbuttoned shirt to keep him close.
He chuckles low against your mouth,
“What Im gonna do about it? Well give you exactly what you desire", Sanjaya said casually, despite knowing his words have an effect on her.
his hand wrapping around yours to tug you toward his open balcony door. The lights are off inside, only the moon casting silver over the messy sheets.
"Chalo, andar chalo. Yahaan pe koi dekh lega na, toh thoda problem ho jayega."
He pulls you inside and clicks the door shut behind you, locking it softly, his hands already going to your waist to press you back against the wood.
He laces his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles as he pulls you quietly across the cool balcony, stepping into his dark bedroom. The door clicks shut softly behind you, cutting off the noise from your parents’ room next door.
"Ab humein koi nahi distrub karega," he murmurs, pressing you back against the closed door and leaning in to kiss your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
He wraps his strong arm around your thigh, you involuntarily lift your legs to hook them around his waist, he presses you harder against the door. His mouth is messy against yours, tongue sliding past your lips.
"You know… I negotiate with the PM on policy every day," he growls against your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot under your ear.
"But you’re the only legislation I’ve been desperate to pass through this whole vacation."
You unwind your legs from his waist, pressing a finger to his warm mouth to cut off his political rambling.
Your palm presses against his solid chest, pushing him slowly back toward the unmade bed. He falls back against the pillows with a low, amused hum, eyes dark with want as he watches you climb over him.
"Ab aur nahi...Now I’ll do all the talking," you murmur, grinding your hips down against his. You reach for the button's his shirt, dragging it off his shoulders, and fumble open the drawer of the nightstand to find a condom.
Your fingers shake just a little as you unbuckle his leather belt, pulling the pin slowly through the loop. He just tilts his head back against the pillow, a lazy, amused smirk playing on his lips as he watches you, his wire frames discarded on the nightstand beside the bed. He lifts his hips to help you yank his trousers and boxers down, and one of his hands comes to rest lightly on your hip, squeezing gently.
"Take your time, honey. No one’s gonna rush us."
You roll the condom down his thick length slowly, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him once. He sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening on your hip, the smirk never leaving his face. You lift your hips, lining him up at your entrance, and sink down slowly, walls stretching around him.
He groans low, head tipping back against the pillow, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your inner thigh as you adjust.
"There we go...good girl."
You roll your hips slow, one hand bracing on his broad chest as you find a steady rhythm. He lets out a low groan, his fingers digging into your waist to guide you down harder against him.
“Kahan seekha yeh sab?" he breathes, glasses glinting on the nightstand in the moonlight.
You lean down, lips brushing his ear as you speed up your movements.
"Bas tumhe dekhke hi samajh aaya, Sanjaya" you murmur, and he shivers under you, thrusting up to meet you.
Just as you’re both getting close, his phone blares loudly from the bedside table, your dad’s name lighting up the screen. Sanjay doesn’t even pause, just one hand coming up to grab the phone while the other keeps holding your hip, thrusting up slow and deep.
"Haan, bol bhai" he answers, voice steady like he’s not buried inside you right now, his eyes locked on yours with a wicked glint.
He keeps thrusting up into you in slow, deep strokes, one hand clamped tight on your waist to keep you moving on him. He even hums along to whatever your dad is saying, like it’s just a normal casual chat.
"Haan haan, main kal subah nikal ke fishing ke liye ready rahunga. Bas abhi thoda rest le raha hoon"
he says, voice completely calm even when you clench down around him hard, biting your lip to muffle a moan. He grins up at you, and taps your hip to get you to speed up.
You gasp, your nails scratching down his chest as he shoves up into you harder after hanging up, the residual thrill of almost getting caught making your whole body buzz. He wraps both arms around your waist, holding you down against him as he sets a brutal pace, the headboard thumping softly against the wall.
"Now, where were we? You said you were gonna do all the talking, na?"
"Come on then, Love. Talk to me."
You can barely catch your breath, your body trembling on top of him as you feel the tight heat coiling low in your belly. You lean down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Ab… ab bas mujhe chup rehne do," you whimper, your climax crashing over you hard as he keeps thrusting, chasing his own finish right behind you.
He groans loud, holding you tight against him as he comes, the room finally going quiet except for both of your ragged breathing.
He softens his grip, brushing sweaty hair off your flushed face, and presses a slow, warm kiss to your forehead. You slump against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow back down under your ear.
"Kal raat ko, when everyone’s asleep, I’ll sneak to your room," he murmurs, tracing lazy circles down your back.
"Haan? Abhi ke liye, tum apne room jao, Warna tumhare papa ko shak ho jayega."
it was 3 in the afternoon, both you and tilak were scrolling reels, while laying on the bed.
it's been kind of a habit of his and yours after eating lunch.
your head was on his shoulder and arms around his body.
suddenly when tilak turned off his phone mid reel and looked at you, you got startled by the sudden movement as you asked,
"kya hua tilak"
"if you are free this time, will you come to tirupati with me?"
tilak had this thing, whenever he achieved something big or something big approached, he would go to tirupati to seek blessings.
you being a north indian, never had the chance to go to tirupati.
and because of your annoying workmates, you never had the chance to take more than 1 day holiday whenever tilak asked you to come with him.
you quickly opened your phone to see in your office calendar to see if anyone has taken any leaves in the upcoming days, it was empty.
you happily looked at him, and you said
"yeah i am free"
tilak broke into a smile as he said,
"finally, let's take you to tirupati"
you quickly jumped out of the bed as you went to get your laptop, you quickly sat down on the floor only and wrote an email to your boss about taking a 3 day holiday.
after posting it, you went back to the room and sat beside tilak
he was on a call with his manager telling him to book the tickets for tirupati.
as the call declined he looked at you happily as he said,
"tumhe kabse tirupati leke jaana chahta tha pata hai, i am so happy"
you looked at him as he said this, you presses a kiss on his cheeks as you giggled
as you kissed him you remembered something
you quickly got up and looked at him panicked and said
"tilak i need clothes for tirupati, remember you told me that we can only wear kurtis and sarees there? and i want to wear a south indian saree, like the half saree and all and i don't have any idea on which one to buy or how to wear one"
tilak looked at you calmly as he said
"don't worry prema, ask my mom she'll help you. once we reach tirupati we'll go straight to amma's house"
you looked at him thankfully as you started packing your other clothes.
tirupati felt nice, so nice.
even though you have just entered the airport, you can feel the energy, it was exciting for you as this was the first time you were visiting south.
"prema, if you feel anything off or bad just tell me at that time only okay dint hesitate", tilak said leaning down so you can hear him properly, because outside of the airport there was a crowd, a crowd full of tilak fans and journalists, chanting his name
and you had to cross them, just to sit in the car.
last time when you were leaving a spot with him , one of the fans tried to grab you and you remained silent so that tilak doesn't snap at him in public, which could have resulted in a negative headline of him.
when tilak saw a clip of it later, instead of being angry with you he apologized, saying that he couldn't take care of you properly and said to please tell him right away if anything like this happens ever again.
you remembering that moved closer to tilak,
tilak seeing that quickly interlaced your fingers with his and moved forward shielding you from the cameras and opening the door of the car with his other hand.
when suddenly you heard one of the journalists say,
"are we expecting to hear any wedding bells this year for you guys?"
and for some reason that made tilak freeze for a sec while you just ignored it and sat in the car.
"hi amma how are you?" said tilak hugging his mom tightly, while you stood beside him admiring their reunion.
"i am fine, and you, you are so much more pretty than the pictures" she said hugging you tightly and kissing the side of your head.
as you both stepped inside the house, the photo frames on the wall grabbed your attention, you slowly walked towards the photos and stood silently observing them.
when suddenly tilak wrapped his arms around your waist, and rested his chin on your head.
you both looked at the photos together feeling a sense of comfort and peace.
after eating dinner, tilak told his mom that you and him will be visiting the temple tomorrow and also asked her to help you with the saree in your behalf.
in the morning you woke up feeling excited and happy as you quickly bathed and went to his mother to take the help, you thought she'll go out with you to buy a new saree when she took you to her room
"agar tumhe pehena ho tabhi pehna haan mera man rakhne keliye nahi", she said taking out a saree
a beautiful white and yellow half saree
"yeh iske appa ne mujhe gift ki thi, iski pehli century par kehke ki mera bhi contribution hai, yeh saree bohot pasand hai isko, agar tumhe pehna ho toh batao"
"aunty agar aap ko koi dikkat na ho toh, bilkul aunty, yes bohot hi sundar saree"
she just smiled at you as she helped you to wear the saree and give you the matching accessories.
in the meantime, tilak woke up, bathed and got ready as it took him less time to get ready, he sat on the couch in the living area waiting.
he was about to call out for you when you came out of the room.
hearing the door open, he looked up and saw you.
his heart skipped a beat as he saw you in the half saree, its not that he hasn't seen you in saree before but this saree was special to him,
he looked at you without blinking as his mind went blank when suddenly his mother snapped him out of his dreams saying
"haan haan, teri hi girlfriend hai bas kar ab"
you hearing that blushed as tilak lowered his head smiling blushingly.
he cleared his throat as he said,
"you look really pretty prema, cala andaga undi"
you not knowing what he said quickly looked at his mom, who just shaked her head helplessly.
there was so much crowd again in front of the temple as they got to know that tilak is visiting.
tilak having the access to the vvip quickly grabbed your hand and entered the temple from the side gate which had better security.
you quickly entered as you guys had to wait in line even in the vvip section.
while waiting in the line, tilak was playing with your pallu or was annoying you by squeezing your face and tracing shapes at your exposed lower back.
as you and him slowly approached the statue, he got a little silent and just played with your fingers slightly.
when you and him reached the statue he quickly joined his hands and closed his eyes as you did the same and seek for blessings and presented your wishes to the statue
tilak was done before you and saw you still closing your eyes murmuring something, his eyes saw you with full of love and devotion.
you opened your eyes after a minute and you looked at tilak,
after seeking the blessings, you guys were told to wait in the waiting area as the prashad would be given there.
you and him both went to the waiting area,
you were a little hesitant to sit in the slightly dirty marble as you looked around to find a chair
when suddenly tilak sat down spreading his legs and asked you to sit on his lap
you were unsure whether to sit on him as you guys were in public when he grabbed your wrist and made you sit down on his lap
you were shocked by this and quickly grabbed his shoulder for support.
you shook your head in a no as you said,
"no tilak, everyone's watchi-"
"so let them, who cares"
you looked at him defeated as you rested your head on his shoulder and played with the collar of his kurti.
after 5-10 minutes the prashad was shared with everyone
both of you ate in the same prashad plate and left the temple to go back home.
during the sunset,
you guys were walking on the ground where tilak used to practice when he was small.
your hands interlaced
his jacket on you
after reaching the centre of the ground
tilak pointed out the sky saying,
"see, the sun looks so pretty"
hearing that you quickly looked at the sun, getting lost in its beauty
you turned to show tilak something,
but tilak wasn't there
he was kneeling in front of you, holding a beautiful diamond ring.
he looked at you with tears in his eyes as he said,
"you are the blessing i seek for when i pray to god prema, i can never have enough words to describe my love for you, in victories and in defeats all i want is you beside me, will you marry me?"
you felt a rush of happiness as you broke down in tears nodding continuously and hugged him tightly sitting down.
he hugged you back, as he pressed a kiss to your ear.
after a moment he puts his hands on the sides of your face as he pulls you off the embrace, he holds your left hand as he slides the ring on your ring finger.
tilakvarma9
liked by surya_14kumar and others.
tilakvarma9 The answer to all my prayers❤️
[prema is love in telugu and cala andaga undi is very pretty]
hiiiii, bhai 2 din mein boards hai i kid you not😭😭, btw happy valentine's day lovesss</3
T.W:Based on Tarun Saluja from Article 375, contains some smut
Part- ii
The bass was thumping, the music so loud the floor trembled with each beat. Bodies swayed under flashing lights, some dancing, some laughing too loud, others already stumbling through the crowd. It was a graduation party, and everyone was letting go after years of stress. You’d tried to stay grounded, sipping slowly on your drink, but one turned into two, then someone shoved a glittery pink cocktail into your hand with cheers ringing around you.
“Just one more!", Your best friend shouted over the music before pulling you into the middle of it all.
You laughed,really laughed, and danced until sweat stuck your shirt to your back and time blurred.
Then came that announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen… due to regulations on alcohol consumption after midnight on public holidays… we regretfully ask everyone to vacate peacefully."
Groans filled the club as bouncers started guiding people out. Cabs? None available till morning. Your house wasn’t far, just twenty minutes by car if traffic stayed light.
“I’ll drive myself”, you said aloud to no one in particular as you grabbed your bag from under a booth seat.
Your fingers tightened around your keys as you stepped out into the cool night air…
Red and blue lights flashed behind you like an angry pulse in the dark just five minutes down the road.
You sighed but pulled over without protest, rolling down your window as an officer approached.
“Madam” ,he asked flatly after explaining why they'd stopped, and added,
“Tumhi...piyun chalvat ahat gadi...?” (are you driving after drinking)
“nahi me-" (no, i-)
He nodded.
“Tari aplyala breathalyzer ni check karayla lagnar.” (we still need to check, using a breathalyzer)
The machine beeped twice before showing red numbers above legal limit, a tiny infraction for most cities but still enough for roadside detention protocol kicking in, temporary impound until sobriety clearance or authorized escort arrival within two hours otherwise station processing begins...
One phone call allowed per detainee during this window...
Inside dim roadside booth, not jail exactly more like holding cubicle made plastic chairs fluorescent light flickering overhead , you sat gripping phone hard enough knuckles white,
Thumb hovered over father's contact name the phone screen glowing bright,
But you imagined his face after seeing his daughter arrested drunk driving...the lecture would echo walls of the house for weeks maybe even months.
Then stoppped dead mid-scroll...
Tarun Saluja
Should you even call him?
Would he even answer?
And how do you even explain having his number without sounding like weird stalker child caught stealing secrets from dad’s case file???
Heart thudded louder than club beats ever did,
Your thumb hovered over his name...
And then pressed call,
It rang once… twice…
This low voice came through the phone, wrapped in sleepiness,
"Hello?"
Relief crashed through chest like tide breaking shore,
“Hey Tarun, It’s me,” You whispered fast heartbeat shaking voice
“Madgaonkar’s daughter, Y/N, know it's late but uhh I wouldn't be calling unless I really needed help…”
Silence, for half second longer than comfortable, but then quiet inhale answered instead dismissal,
“What happened?” His tone wasn’t annoyed, he sounded alert now fully awake regardless of the time.
“The police stopped me,”
Voice cracked slightly,
"I drank, a little, not much, I just wanted go home…”
Another pause, then he spoke up in his still calm voice,
“Stay exactly where u are.”
Click
Twenty-three minutes later headlights cut foggy night air outside.
Tarun's black Mercedes pulled up smoothly, hair slightly tousled from the wind, one hand still buttoning the dark blue shirt he must’ve thrown on in a hurry. He wasn’t wearing a tie. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms dusted with faint hair and a simple silver watch slipping down his wrist.
No coat. No briefcase. Just black pants, clean-cut but undeniably casual and shoes that looked more lived in than polished.
He stepped out of the car, in a bit of a hurry,
You saw him pause for just a second before walking into the police outpost, adjusting his phone in his pocket, running fingers once through his hair as if reminding himself, “Right. This is real."
When he came back outside with you moments later, after quiet words and a signature on some papers, the air between you felt different.
Warmer.
Less formal.
“Thanks”, you said again once you were standing beside his car, voice softer now that adrenaline was fading.
“I… didn’t know who else to call.”
He nodded slowly, eyes holding yours in that quiet way again, not judging, not lecturing.
“You could’ve called your dad.”
You winced slightly.
“Yeah… and get him mad and disappointed? In one go? No thanks.”
A small huff escaped him, almost laughter, but it died quickly into something gentler.
“Still”, he said softly,
“you drove after drinking.”
“I know,” you admitted quietly.
“I thought I was okay… It wasn’t much…”
“But it was enough.”, His voice wasn't harsh, it carried concern wrapped in calmness instead of judgment.
You looked down at your shoes scuffed from dancing earlier then back up at him under dim streetlight halo buzzing overhead
“That’s why I called you” ,you said slowly and maybe too honestly
"Because I knew you wouldn't yell... or tell my father immediately."
He held your gaze longer than necessary then let out an exhale through his nose, the closest thing to laughter since arriving
You slid into the passenger seat, the warmth of the car wrapping around you like a sigh. The scent, sandalwood and something faintly spicy, felt too intimate now that you were sitting in it, breathing it in.
The engine purred to life, but neither of you moved.
Outside, the world was quiet, just an empty road considering it was quite late, and the hum of night. Inside? Thick with something unspoken.
Then
He turned slightly toward you, one hand still on the wheel, eyes searching yours in that way that made your chest tighten.
“You saved my number,” he said quietly, not accusing. Not teasing. Just… curious. Like he’d been turning it over in his head since stepping out of his car.
You swallowed.
“Yeah…”
A beat passed.
Then he asked, voice low and honest,
“How did you even get it?”
That hit harder than expected.
Your breath caught, just slightly and your fingers curled against your knee as guilt flickered across your face before you could stop it.
“I…”, You hesitated.
Then exhaled sharply through your nose with a half-laugh that didn’t reach your eyes.
“Okay… this is going to sound reallyyy bad.”
He waited, as if giving space for truth to unfold at its own pace.
So you said it fast , like ripping off a bandage
“I saw it… in my father’s file.”
Silence fell
You quickly added,
"I wasn’t looking for anything! I swear! I went into his study because... I don't know why, I just did and then there was this file open...and I saw your name...and before I could think about what I was doing..."
Your voice softened
"...I saved your number."
Still nothing from him, Not judgment, Not surprise .
Just quiet thoughtfulness
Then , slowly,
“So let me get this straight,” he began , tone carefully neutral but not unkind
“you broke into Justice Madgaonkar’s private case file ...to steal my contact information?”
“Not broke!”, You winced .
“The door was open ! And ‘steal’ is such an ugly word, it’s not like I used it until tonight!”
A pause.
And then
The corner of his mouth twitched,a smile fighting its way out despite him controlling himself.
“You do realise how insane that sounds?” His voice dipped slightly warmer now laced dry humour rather than a reprimand.
“I do,” You admitted dropping gaze briefly only look back up daring spark returning
“But also …you answered. And here we are.”
Another beat passed, one where something shifted between them subtle yet unmistakable, mutual attraction,
Finally, he leaned back letting out soft exhale shaking head, his absolutely baffled on how he got himself into all of this,
“Yeah,” He murmured almost under breath watching her closely
“…here we are.”
You reached out, fingers trembling slightly as you found the GPS keypad on the console, tapping in your home address with a practiced ease.
His eyes followed your movements, but he said nothing, just watched as the map lit up with directions.
When you hit 'start' and the robotic voice began guiding you, he nodded once, more to himself than you before turning back to the road and pulling away from the police station lot, the tires crunching softly on gravel then purring smoothly on blacktop.
As the car moved down the empty roads, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the faint rustle of wind outside. You found yourself stealing glances at him, the way his hands gripped the wheel, the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his hair fell softly against his forehead.
His gaze remained firmly forward, but you weren't sure if it was because he was focused on driving or if it was because he was avoiding looking at you. Either way, the silence felt loaded somehow, as if a thousand unspoken words filled the space between you.
The GPS flashed with an update—“In 200 meters, turn right onto Main Street,” and you turned to watch the road ahead, but your mind was elsewhere.
His hand shifted gears, and your eyes followed the movement without thought, taking in the long fingers and the slight twitch in his bicep beneath the material of his shirt. You could faintly hear him breathing.
It would be so easy to reach out…
The thought of closing the gap between you was intoxicating, but the rational part of you—the voice that sounded a lot like your father's—urged you to keep control.
But then he spoke, voice soft but cutting through like a knife,
"If You keep looking at me like that, I might pull over."
You feel your cheeks heat up immediately, fingers twisting the hem of your dress hard. His eyes flick to you for a second from the rearview mirror before going back to the empty road, the corner of his mouth quirked up just a little.
"Arre, what? Don't stop now. Keep looking,"
he says, voice low and lazy,
"Mujhe koi problem nahi hai. Par phir jo hoga, uske liye main responsible nahi hoon."
Your heart pounds so loud you can hear it over the idle hum of the engine. You reach over and tap his forearm lightly, voice trembling but sure.
"Pull over here, Tarun."
He doesn't hesitate, pressing the brake and gliding onto the empty roadside, then cutting the engine.
He turns to you, one dark eyebrow raised. He leans in a little, breath warm against your ear, voice low.
"Get in the backseat, Meri jaan. Main abhi aata hoon."
You fumble with the seatbelt buckle, your fingers shaking so bad the click sounds too loud in the quiet car. You glance at him through your lashes, thighs pressing tight together.
"Okay... I'm going," you whisper, already pushing the door open.
He just nods, jaw tight as he watches you step out and walk around to the back door.
The backseat door clicks shut behind you, the leather cool under your palms as you shift to make space. The driver's side opens and closes, heavy footsteps slow and deliberate around the back of the car.
He pulls the door open and climbs in, the space shrinking instantly as he settles beside you.
He reaches over, fingers brushing your jaw as he tilts your face up to meet his.
"Ab bolo..what do you want from me, Y/N?" he murmurs, voice thick with unspoken want.
Your breath catches, your cheeks heating as you press closer, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a warm hug. Your voice is barely a whisper,
"Tumhe pata hai na main kya chahti hoon. Don't tease me, please."
He hums low, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, and you feel your whole body ache for him.
Before he can say more, you surge forward, pressing your lips hard against his, your palms cupping his face to hold him close.
He groans into your kiss, his hands flying to your hips as you swing a leg over and climb into his lap, your thighs bracketing his.
"I don't wanna wait any more.." you mumble against his lips, rolling your hips slow against his and making him curse under his breath.
Your fingers tremble as they slide down his chest, brushing the warm skin above his jeans before your hand closes around his belt buckle. Just as you start to pull it loose, his calloused hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you mid-movement. He tilts your chin up with his other hand.
"Ah ah, sabr karo...Let me take my time with you, yeah? You don't get to rush this."
_______________________________________________
You smooth down your wrinkled clothes, fingers still shaking from what just happened, as Tarun rounds the car and opens your door, holding his hand out to help you step out.
He pulls you close by your waist immediately, pressing a soft kiss to your lips that makes you melt.
"Tarun! Baba dekh lenge," you whisper frantically, pushing at his chest, but he just holds you tighter, smirking against your mouth.
"Toh dekhne do na, meri jaan. I don't mind."
You glance over his shoulder and freeze your dad is standing on the driveway in his usual kurta, arms crossed, staring straight at you two. Tarun follows your gaze, still grinning, and gives your dad a casual, unapologetic wink.
Your face goes bright red, and you yank yourself away from Tarun's chest, your hands nervously at your sides. Your dad's expression is unreadable, his jaw tight as he walks slowly toward the car.
"Tarun, this isn't funny," you whisper through clenched teeth, panic bubbling up your throat, but he just squeezes your hand, still calm.
"Aarey Justice Sahab! Kashe ahat tumi?" he says smoothly, still a slight smirk on his face as he greets your dad as if it normal to drop off his daughter at 2 in the night. (Oh! Justice Sahab, How are you?)
Your dad glares at Tarun for a long beat before shifting his gaze to you, his eyes softening just a fraction. He folds his arms again, voice deep and steady.
"Y/n, aat madhe ja. Mala zara tujhyashi bolaycha ahe." You nod, before leaving Tarun to enter the house. (Y/n go inside, I wanna talk to you.)
Tarun didn't drop that smug face tho even when your dad's glare snaps back to him.
"And you, Mr. Saluja" your dad says, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"I'll see you in court day after tomorrow. Don't think this little stunt changes anything."
You had only come to drop off lunch for your father,
The tiffin was still warm in your hands, and at this point, you were told lunch break would be at 1:00pm but you've already been waiting for an whole hour.
You shifted your weight slightly, glancing at the closed doors of Courtroom 3 again before checking your phone.
“Yaar...Kiti vel lavat ahet, tch...", you muttered under your breath, the impatience slipping out quietly. (Tch, they are taking so long)
A few seconds later, the doors opened.
People began stepping out in small groups, their conversations continuing from inside in low, controlled voices. You straightened instinctively, scanning the crowd for your father, he wasn’t among the first to exit.
Instead, someone slowed down near you.
“Excuse me.”
His voice was calm and direct, not loud, but enough to pull your attention.
You looked up. “Yes?”,you said, adjusting the tiffin slightly in your hands, your tone neutral but attentive.
He glanced briefly at what you were holding, then back at you.
“Are you waiting for someone?”,he asked, his expression steady, like he was confirming a simple fact.
“My father-”,you replied, shifting your grip on the tiffin.
“Name?”,he asked, without hesitation, as if it was the obvious next step.
“Justice Madgaonkar,” you said, watching him more closely this time.
There was a brief pause, you could tell he knows your father,
“He’s still inside,” he said, his tone unchanged.
You let out a small breath.
“Haan, woh toh dikh raha hai,”
you said lightly, your eyes flicking toward the courtroom doors again.
A short silence followed. He didn’t leave, and you didn’t immediately disengage either.
“Long hearing?” you asked after a second, more out of boredom than curiosity.
“Yes,” he replied, simply.
You looked at him properly then.
“Bas?” you said, a faint hint of amusement slipping in.
He seemed to consider that for a moment.
“It got complicated towards the end”
he added, the slight shift making his answer feel more deliberate.
You nodded slowly.
“Sounds like something went wrong” you said, studying him a little more now.
“Depends on which lens you're looking at the case with.” he replied, his tone even, quite composed.
You gave a small huff of amusement.
“That’s still a lawyer answer,” you pointed out, adjusting the tiffin again.
He acknowledged it without resistance.
“Occupational hazard i guess” he said, the faintest dryness in his voice.
That actually made you smile, just slightly.
Before you could say anything else, the courtroom doors opened again.
Your father steps out, straightning his robes
“Baba!” you called, trying to get his attentions
Justice Madgaonkar looked at you, mildly surprised.
“Tu ithe kay kartes?” he asked, his brows tightening slightly. (What are you doing here)
“Lunch anla ahe” you said, holding up the tiffin.(I've brought lunch)
He nodded and reached for it. “Theek ahe, mi nantar khain—” he began, already half-turning.(Ok, I'll eat it later-
“Nahi, aai ni sagitle ahe, atthach khaiche.” you insisted, pressing it into his hands before he could dismiss it. (No mother told me to, make you eat right now)
He took it, but his attention shifted almost immediately.
To the man standing beside you.
“Mr. Saluja.”
You glanced between them.
The name didn’t mean anything yet.
The tone did.
Tarun inclined his head slightly.
“Your Honour” ,he said, his voice exactly the same as before,calm, controlled.
Your father held Tarun's gaze.
“I trust today’s proceedings have made certain boundaries clear” ,he said, his tone measured but firm.
You didn’t fully understand what that meant, but it was clearly not casual.
“They have” ,Tarun replied, without hesitation.
“Ensure they remain clear”, your father added, the authority in his voice unmistakable.
“Of course”, Tarun said, just as evenly.
There was a brief pause before your father turned back to you.
“Chala” he said, already moving.(Come on)
You nodded and followed him, but as you walked away, you glanced back once.
Tarun had already stepped aside, moving on like the interaction hadn’t mattered.
_________________________________________________
A Few Minutes Later
You had just turned into another corridor after handing over the lunch when you walked straight into someone.
“Sorry—” you started, stepping back...
then stopped.
“Oh— you again” ,you said, a little embarrassed this time.
He looked at you, recognising you immediately.
“You’re done?” he asked, his tone neutral but attentive.
“Yeah”, you said, nodding once.
“Delivery successful.”
He glanced at his watch briefly.
“It’s past two”,he said, more like an observation than a comment.
You frowned slightly.
“Okay…?”,you replied, unsure what he meant.
“You brought food,”
he said, looking at you again,
“but you didn’t eat.”
You paused, caught off guard.
“I wasn’t planning to,” you admitted.
He held your gaze for a moment.
“You should,” he said, simply.
You crossed your arms lightly.
“Aur aapko kaise pata ki mujhe bhook lagi hai?”,you asked, a faint challenge in your tone.
“You’ve been waiting outside a courtroom for over an hour,” he replied.
“That usually covers it.”
You let out a small breath, almost amused.
“That’s a very calculated assumption,” you said.
“It’s not that complicated,” he said, like the conclusion was obvious.
A brief pause followed.
Then,
“The canteen’s open,” he added, more practically than anything else.
You raised a brow. “You’re inviting me to lunch?” you asked, still slightly unsure.
“Yes..” he said, without overexplaining.
You stared at him for a second.
There was no hidden tone. No awkwardness. No agenda you could read.
So you nodded.
“Fine let's go”
_________________________________________________
The canteen was louder than the corridor, more relaxed but still full of the same people. Lawyers sat in groups, eating, arguing, discussing cases in between bites. The space felt lived-in, like this was where the formal structure of the courtroom loosened just enough.
He walked in like he belonged there.
You sat across from him, looking around.
“Yahan ka khaana acha hota hai?” you asked.
“It’s decent,” he said, a more normal answer this time.
You nodded. “Good enough,” you murmured.
A waiter came by. He ordered quickly, then looked at you.
You added something simple.
A moment of quiet settled.
Then you leaned forward slightly.
“Waise… aap ho kaun?” you asked.
He looked at you directly.
“Advocate Tarun Saluja”
He shakes her hand as if talking to a client.
You nodded slowly. “Main—”
“I know” ,he said.
“You told me.”
You paused, then exhaled lightly. “Right.”
Around you, the noise of the canteen continued, but your table felt oddly still,
You picked up your glass, taking a small sip just to break the stillness.
“Saluja…”,you repeated faintly, like you were trying to place it somewhere.
He glanced up this time, not ignoring it.
“Haan” ,he said lightly, almost like confirming something obvious, before going back to his plate.
That small response shifted something, He wasn’t shutting the conversation down.
Just… not stretching it unnecessarily.
You watched him for a second.
“Aap kafi direct ho...”,you said, your tone casual, but your eyes still a little curious.
He looked up again, this time properly.
“Aur ye...Acchi cheez he ya buri?” he asked, the question coming easier than before, like he didn’t mind engaging now.
You smiled faintly.
“Depends” ,you said, echoing him from earlier without realising it.
That got the slightest reaction, a hint of amusement, barely visible but there.
“Fair enough,” he said, leaning back a little in his chair, more relaxed now.
You rested your elbow lightly on the table.
“Aap har baat itni carefully bolte ho?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.
He let out a short breath,almost a quiet laugh.
“Nahi,” he said, shaking his head once. “Bas aadat hai thoda filter rakhne ki.”
You nodded.
“Court ka effect?” you asked.
“Partly,” he said, then added after a second, “baaki logon ka bhi.”
You raised a brow. “Matlab?”
“Zyada bol do toh log yaad rakh lete hain,” he said, his tone casual, like it wasn’t a big statement, just something he’d noticed over time.
You considered that for a second, then nodded slowly. “That’s quite true, I must say”, you admitted.
A brief quiet settled again, but it wasn’t stiff this time.
You tapped your fingers lightly against the table.
“Toh aaj…ka hearing ‘complicated’ ho gaya tha kya?” you asked, bringing it back, but more lightly now.
He exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly.
“Hota rehta hai” ,he said, like it wasn’t worth overexplaining.
He glanced at you, a little amused now. “Aapko convincing answer chahiye ya honest?” ,he asked.
You paused.
“Honest,” you said after a second.
He nodded once.
“Thoda messy tha,” he admitted, his tone more open now, like he didn’t mind saying it plainly.
You leaned back slightly, satisfied with that.
“Better,” you said.
A waiter dropped the bill on the table.
You reached for it instinctively.
“Main—” you started.
He picked it up at the same time.
“Relax,” he said, a little more casual now, almost dismissing the formality.
You frowned slightly.
“Split kar lete hain,” you insisted.
He shook his head lightly. “Next time,” he said, without thinking too much about it.
You paused.
“Next time?” you repeated, raising a brow, a hint of a smile forming.
He seemed to realise what he’d said a second too late.
“Matlab… agar kabhi,” he corrected, but there was no real urgency in it, just a quiet adjustment.
You let out a soft laugh.
“Smooth,” you said.
He shook his head slightly, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You stood up, adjusting your bag.
“Still,” you said, looking at him,
“lunch acha tha.”
He stood as well, more relaxed than when you’d first met him.
“Haan, decent tha,” he said, like the rating hadn’t changed.
You took a step back.
“Thanks,” you added, meaning more than just the food.
He nodded once.
“Anytime,” he said,casual, unforced.
You paused at that.
You shook your head, still smiling, then turned to leave.
_________________________________________________
6:00pm, MADGAONKAR RESDIENCE, MUMBAI
You finally return home, it had been a long day, between the going to court in afternoon to attending college lectures.
You dropped your bag onto your bed and sat down, staring at the wall for a moment longer than necessary. The moment with Tarun should’ve ended when you walked out of court. It should’ve stayed small, just a visit, just another afternoon.
But it hadn’t.
Something about it had stayed with you. This Tarun guy was quite the interesting character, and there was just something appealing about the man.
You stood up abruptly, restless in a way you couldn’t quite explain, and stepped out of your room.
The house felt too still.
As you passed the living room, you saw your father, sitting with his phone pressed to his ear, his posture straight, his expression unreadable from a distance. His voice carried faintly, low and controlled, the kind of tone that meant he was choosing every word carefully.
You slowed down for half a second, instinctively listening, but the conversation was too measured to catch anything meaningful.
So you kept walking.
You didn’t plan to stop outside his study.
But you did...
The door wasn’t fully closed. Just slightly open, enough to show the edge of his desk, the neat stacks of files, the familiar stillness of a room that wasn’t meant for casual entry.
You stood there for a moment, your hand hovering near the door without touching it.
You knew better.
You’d always known better.
And yet,
you pushed it open.
The study felt different the moment you stepped in, as if the air itself carried a certain weight. The faint smell of paper and polished wood lingered, clean and controlled, just like everything else in the room. Nothing was out of place. Files were stacked in multiple drawers and shelfs, books aligned precisely, and the desk held only what was necessary, no clutter, no distractions.
“I’m just looking,” you murmured under your breath, more out of habit than belief, as if saying it made the act less deliberate.
Your eyes moved across the desk slowly, taking in the arrangement without really searching for anything specific.
Until something stood out.
A file on your father's desk,
It wasn’t misplaced, but it wasn’t fully put away either. It sat slightly apart from the others, its position suggesting it had been used recently and would be used again soon.
That alone was enough.
You stepped closer, your movements quieter now, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge before you picked it up.
The title confirmed what you already suspected.
This was the case, he was presiding over when she arrived to the court.
You opened it carefully, almost instinctively aware of not disturbing anything more than necessary.
Inside, the pages were dense with information, typed documents layered with handwritten annotations in your father’s sharp, precise script. Entire sections were underlined, arguments circled, notes added in the margins with clarity that came from years of habit.
You flipped through slowly, your eyes moving across the text without fully processing it, catching fragments instead, phrases, names, legal terms, even if you didn’t fully understand their implications
You leaned in slightly, adjusting your grip as your eyes scanned the layout, As you flipped the page you noticed,
There was this...formal document,
A listing of counsels.
Names arranged neatly, each paired with their roles, their details, their place within the case.
Your gaze moved down the page, unhurried at first
until it wasn’t.
Tarun Saluja.
Your eyes lingered there longer than necessary before shifting, almost automatically, to the right side of the page, to the Contact details.
And there It was...his number.
Printed clearly, without hesitation, part of a document that was never meant to leave this room.
You shouldn’t do this....
The thought came immediately, sharp and clear.
This wasn’t yours.
This wasn’t information you were meant to take.
But still... you didn’t close the file.
Your gaze stayed fixed on the number, tracing it once, then again, as if committing it to memory would somehow be different from writing it down.
It wasn’t, You knew that, but Your hand moved anyway.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone, the screen lighting up too brightly in the quiet of the room. For a brief second, you hesitated, your thumb hovering as if giving yourself one last chance to stop.
Then you unlocked it.
Carefully, deliberately, you typed the number exactly as it appeared.
Your thumb paused for a fraction of a second before moving again—
this time to save it.
Then you typed:
Tarun Saluja
For a moment, you just stood there, your phone still in your hand, the contact now sitting quietly among the others like it had always been there.
You locked your phone slowly and slipped it back into your pocket, the weight of it suddenly more noticeable than before.
Only then did you look back down at the file.
You closed it carefully, aligning the edges exactly the way they had been, placing it back in the same position with a level of precision you didn’t usually bother with.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing disturbed.
You stepped back, your eyes scanning the desk one last time to make sure everything looked exactly as it had when you walked in.
I just realised that there’s a Thriller series called “London Files” and our Daddy Arjun Rampal is the lead character. The series is so freaking interesting and so underrated???
OH MY GOD HE’S SO HANDSOME??!? He gives the energy of tired dilf 😍🫶🏻 and His character though being so depressed and dead, I think it’s so attractive and intimidating at the same time 😩
Pairing: Stalker! Major Iqbal x Rehmans Daughter! Reader.
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
Disclaimer: The themes explored in this story—including stalking, violence, perversion and extreme possessiveness—are purely for fictional and narrative purposes. These behaviors are dangerous and inexcusable in real-life relationships! I do not condone or romanticize these actions outside the realm of the "Dark Romance" genre.
Warnings: MINIMAL DHURANDHAR 2 SPOILERS! age gap, power dynamics, possessive, obsessive behaviour, mention of assault, mention of rape, guilt tripping, foul language.
Part 5 of ?
The morning sun in Karachi was relentless, a sharp, intrusive gold that bled through the heavy velvet curtains of your bedroom. For days, the room had been your sanctuary and your shroud. The scent of the Oud-al-Maliki had turned stale, replaced by the medicinal smell of the ointments the doctor had used on your wrists and the lingering, phantom odor of the warehouse—dust, salt, and terror.
You were sitting in the armchair by the window, your knees pulled to your chest, staring at the dust motes dancing in a single shaft of light. You hadn't spoken since the night the Major carried you over the threshold of the haveli. Your voice felt like a rusted instrument, buried under layers of psychological silt.
The house was unnervingly quiet. Usually, you could hear the distant clatter of breakfast being served or Rukhsaar’s muffled laughter, but today, the silence was heavy, almost respectful.
A soft, rhythmic knock sounded at your door. You didn't answer. You didn't have the strength to tell your mother you still weren't hungry, or to tell your father that the "talk of the town" didn't matter because you felt like you were already dead.
The door creaked open.
You expected the soft rustle of your mother’s lawn dupatta. Instead, the air in the room seemed to change instantly—displaced by a sudden, grounding weight. The scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco, laced with the faint, metallic edge of starch, filled the space.
You turned your head slowly.
Iqbal stood in the doorway. He wasn't in his tactical gear, nor was he in his formal gala uniform. He wore a dark kurta and matching trousers, the sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal the dark hair on his forearms and the silver watch that glinted like a weapon. He didn't wait for an invitation; he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft, final click.
Your heart, which had been beating in a slow, sluggish rhythm for days, gave a violent, panicked leap. Your father hadn't told you he was coming. To be alone in a room with a man—even the man who saved you—was a breach of every rule you had been raised with.
But as you looked at him, the terror of the warehouse flickered in your mind, and then vanished. You remembered his arms. You remembered the way he had stepped between you and the blade.
"Major Saab.." you whispered. Your voice was a dry crackle, barely audible.
He didn't move toward you immediately. He stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back, his obsidian eyes scanning your face with a terrifying, clinical intensity. He saw the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your lips, and the way you flinched when the floorboard creaked.
"You are awake," he said. His voice was low, a resonant hum that seemed to vibrate the very air in the room. "Maine suna hai ke tumne teen dinon se kuch nahi khaya.. Hmm?"
You looked down at your hands, ashamed. "I... I wasn't hungry.."
He walked further into the room, his movements fluid and silent, like a leopard navigating a familiar thicket. He stopped a few feet away from your chair. Up close, he was towering. He felt like a fortress made of flesh and bone.
"Thank you.." you said, the words catching in your throat. You forced yourself to look up at him. "For that night. For... for everything. I know you risked your life.."
Iqbal’s expression didn't change. He didn't smile with the false modesty of a politician. He simply watched you, his gaze tracing the faint, fading bruise on your jawline.
"I did not risk my life," he said calmly. "Jo mera hai, usay bachana mera farz hai."
The possessiveness of the statement went over your head, masked by the sheer relief of his presence. To you, he was the only person who knew exactly what had happened in that dark warehouse. He was the only one who didn't look at you with the suffocating pity your mother did.
"You must eat.." Iqbal said. He moved to the small tray on your nightstand, which held a bowl of fruit and a glass of juice, untouched. He picked up a piece of sliced apple, his movements deliberate. "Your mother is weeping in the kitchen. Your cousin, Rukhsaar... she is terrified that you will fade away into nothing. You are scaring them."
"I don't mean to.." you whispered, a tear finally escaping and rolling down your cheek. "I just... I feel like if I close my eyes, I’m back there. I can still hear them talking about... about what they wanted to do.."
Iqbal stepped closer. The heat radiating from his body was immense. He reached out—a slow, careful movement—and caught the tear with the pad of his thumb. His skin was rough, calloused by a lifetime of triggers and steel, but his touch was surprisingly light.
"Woh ab kabhi nahi bolain gay," he hissed, his voice dropping into a dark, jagged register. "Unki zubaanein ab mitti mein hain. Tumhe darrne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Jab tak main zinda hoon, koi tumhari taraf ankh utha kar bhi nahi dekh sakta."
You leaned into his touch, a treacherous sense of safety washing over you. You were a broken bird, and he was offering you a cage made of iron. You didn't realize that the bars were already being forged.
"My father told me what people are saying in the city.." you said, your voice trembling. "The gossip... they think I am... that I am not...pure anymore."
Iqbal’s eyes darkened, a flash of that cold, murderous fury you had seen in the warehouse flickering for a second. He pulled his hand back, but he didn't move away.
"Logon ki auqat nahi hai ke woh tumhare baare mein baat karein," he said, the Urdu sharp and authoritative. "Main unki khamoshi khareed loon ga... ya unki saansein rok doon ga. Tumhare naam par koi dhabba nahi lag sakta, kyunke tumhara naam ab kisi aur ke saath jurr gaya hai."
You looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
He didn't answer directly. He walked to the bed and sat on the edge of it, his weight making the mattress dip. He gestured to the space beside him. He didn't ask. He didn't plead. He commanded the space around him with the effortless gravity of a king.
The room felt smaller, the air thicker. You felt a strange, magnetic pull toward him—the man who had seen the worst of you and still stood there, unblinking and unshaken. You stood up on shaky legs, your knees weak, and moved toward the bed.
He watched you move, his gaze following the line of your throat, the way your hair fell over your shoulders. He looked like a man who had finally brought his most difficult quarry to ground.
When you reached the bed, you sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you. But Iqbal didn't allow the distance to remain. He shifted, turning his body toward yours, his presence overwhelming.
He reached out and took your hand. His grip was firm, not hurting, but letting you know that he wasn't going to let go. He looked into your eyes, his face a mask of intense, dark devotion.
"Yahan aao," he whispered, his voice a low command that felt like a caress. "Mere paas baitho."
The sunlight in the room seemed to lose its warmth, turning into a pale, clinical glare as you moved from the armchair to the bed. Every step felt like wading through deep water. You sat down where he had gestured, your weight barely registering on the mattress compared to the solid, unyielding presence of the man beside you.
Iqbal did not turn fully toward you yet. He looked out at the balcony, his profile silhouetted against the morning haze—a profile of sharp angles and old scars. The silence between you wasn't empty; it was heavy, vibrating with the unspoken memory of the blood he had shed to bring you back to this room.
When he finally spoke, his Urdu was a masterpiece of silver-tongued precision. It wasn't the bark of a commander or the rough growl of the warehouse; it was a low, melodic hum, laced with a false, terrifying empathy.
"Main jaanta hoon ke tum par kya guzri hai.." he began, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it filled every corner of the room. "Aur main yeh bhi jaanta hoon ke tum bilkul paak ho. Mere liye, tumhari izzat aaj bhi wahi hai jo pehle din thi."
He turned his head slowly, his obsidian eyes locking onto yours. There was no pity in them—only a dark, focused intensity that made you feel like a specimen under a microscope.
"Lekin dunya... dunya bohot zalim hai.." he continued, his tone shifting into a mournful, almost fatherly cadence. "Logon ki zubaanein zahreeli hain..Woh nahi jaantay ke tum kitni neik ho. Woh sirf tamasha dekhtay hain. Aur is tamashay mein, sab se zyada dukh tumhare baap ko ho raha hai."
You flinched at the mention of Rehman. The guilt, which had been a dull ache in your chest, suddenly sharpened into a knife.
"Maine Rehman-Bhai ko dekha hai.." Iqbal hissed softly, leaning in just an inch closer. "Woh andar se toot chukay hain. Unka sar jhuk gaya hai. Har taraf un par tanz kiye ja rahay hain. Tumhari Ammi, tumhari behen... sab is matti mein mil rahi izzat ko dekh kar ro rahay hain.."
He reached out, his hand hovering near yours but not touching—a calculated show of restraint that made you crave the contact.
"Kya tum chahti ho ke tumhara baap isi tarah har roz thora thora maray..?" He asked, his voice dripping with a manufactured sorrow. "Kya tum chahti ho ke tumhara bhai bahar nikalne se darray kyunke log usay tumhare naam ke taanay daitay hain?"
"Nahi..!" you gasped, your voice breaking. ,,I never wanted that. I didn't ask for any of this...!-"
"I know you didn't.." Iqbal murmured, his eyes softening into a look that felt like a trap closing. "Isi liye, maine socha hai ke ab main maamlaat apne haath mein le loon. Main is dunya ki zubaanein band kar sakta hoon. Main Rehman Bhai ka sar dobara fakhar se ooncha kar sakta hoon."
He paused, letting the weight of his "solution" hang in the air. He didn't tell you what the solution was. He didn't mention a wedding or a contract. He only offered the end of the pain.
"Lekin.." he whispered, the word sharp and chilling. "Main yeh tabhi karoon ga jab tum chaho gi.. Agar tumhein lagta hai ke tum khud sambhal sakti ho, toh main peeche hat jaata hoon. Main tum par koi bojh nahi banna chahta. Tum chaho toh main chala jaata hoon, aur tum is dunya se akeli larr lo."
It was the ultimate manipulation. He was offering you a choice that wasn't a choice at all.
He was painting a picture of your family’s ruin and then handing you the brush, asking if you wanted to finish the painting. The thought of being left alone—without his strength, without his shadow to hide behind—sent a jolt of pure, cold terror through your heart.
You looked at him, your eyes wide and brimming with tears. You saw the "hero" who had killed for you. You saw the only man in Pakistan who wasn't afraid of the gossip.
"Please.." you whispered, reaching out and clutching the sleeve of his kurta. "Don't leave us. Please... do whatever you think is best. I'll do anything. I just want the noise to stop. I want my father to be able to breathe again..!"
Iqbal didn't react with a smile. He didn't look triumphant. He remained perfectly, terrifyingly calm. He looked at your hand on his sleeve—your small, trembling fingers against the dark fabric—and the satisfaction in his eyes was so deep it looked like madness.
"Tum ek bohot achi beti ho.." he said, his voice returning to that silken, authoritative hum. "Eik farmabardar larki. Tumhe wahi karna chahiye jo tumhare baray tumhare liye behtar samajhtay hain. Unhone bohot soch samajh kar eik faisla kiya hai..Kya tum unka saath do gi?"
You didn't know what the decision was. You didn't know that your father had already handed your life over to the man sitting beside you. All you felt was the crushing weight of the guilt he had poured into your soul and the desperate need to make amends for a "shame" that wasn't even your fault.
"Haan..!" you said, your head bowing as if under a physical yoke. "I will do whatever they ask. I promise.."
The silence that followed was absolute. For a moment, even the birds outside seemed to stop singing. You had given him the only thing he didn't already have: your consent, wrapped in the chains of your own conscience.
Iqbal reached out then. He didn't take your hand; he placed his large, heavy palm on the top of your head, his fingers tangling slightly in your hair.
"Shabash.." he whispered, the word vibrating through your skull.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your forehead, his scent—sandalwood and steel—overwhelming your senses. "Ab.. tum fikar mat karo..hmm? Ab sab kuch main sambhal loon ga.. Tumhare raste ka har kanta main apne hathon se hataoon ga. Tumhe sirf meri hifazat mein rehna hai."
He stood up then, the bed creaking as his immense weight left it. He looked down at you—small, broken, and utterly submissive—and the wickedness that had been flickering in him for days finally settled into a cold, permanent glow.
"Eat your breakfast now." he commanded, though the tone was soft. "Your mother is coming up..Smile for her. Tell her you are feeling better."
He walked to the door, his movements sharp and military. He didn't look back as he opened it. He stepped out into the hallway, where your father was undoubtedly waiting, leaving you alone in the shaft of gold light.
You sat there, staring at the tray of fruit. You felt a strange, hollow relief. The noise was going to stop. The world was going to be silent.
You didn't realize that the silence wasn't peace. It was the quiet of a tomb, and Major Iqbal had just turned the key..
The door had barely clicked shut behind Major Iqbal when the silence of the room was shattered by a different kind of energy. It wasn't the heavy, predatory stillness of the Major, but a frantic, fluttery excitement.
Rukhsaar burst in.
She didn't creep in with the somber, funereal face she had worn for the last three days. Instead, her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with a sudden, pink heat. She looked like the girl she had been before the glass broke—before the screaming started. She rushed to the edge of the bed and threw herself down beside you, grabbing your cold, stiff hands in hers.
"You said yes!" she whispered, her voice a high-pitched trill of disbelief and relief. "Shukar hai, Allah ka shukar hai! Tune maan liya!"
You looked at her, your mind still clouded by the silver-tongued words the Major had just poured into your ears. You felt heavy, as if your limbs were made of wet clay. The guilt he had harvested in you was still throbbing.
"I said I would do what the elders want, Rukhsaar.." you said, your voice sounding like a stranger's. "I said I would make the noise stop for Baba."
Rukhsaar squeezed your fingers so hard her nails bit into your skin. She didn't notice. She was vibrating with a strange, secondhand triumph.
""Tu ne toh dunya ke munh par thappar mara hai! Sab ko chup karwa diya hai Major Saab ne..!"
You felt a cold shiver crawl down your spine. "What are you talking about?"
Rukhsaar laughed, a short, breathless sound. "Chacha ne abhi niche sab ko bataya. Major Saab ne unse tera hath maang liya hai. Aur Chacha ne haan kar di! Aglay hafte Nikkah hai!"
The word hit you like a physical blow to the solar plexus. Nikkah.
You already knew. Deep down, in that dark, instinctive part of your soul that you had been trying to suppress, you had known since he sat on the edge of your bed. You had known when he spoke of your name being "joined" to someone else’s. You had known when he looked at you not as a victim to be saved, but as a territory to be occupied.
But hearing it out loud—hearing it from Rukhsaar’s smiling lips—made the walls of the room feel like they were closing in.
"Next week?" you gasped. "Itni jaldi?-"
"Zaroori hai na~!" Rukhsaar insisted, her eyes wide. "Logon ki zubaanein tabhi band hongi jab woh dekhein gay ke Pakistan ka sab se taqatwar mard tere liye kharra hai. Jab tu uski Begum ban kar bahar niklay gi, toh kiski jurrat hogi ke woh purani baatein yaad karay? Woh sab darrain gay, jaan!"
She began to babble about the preparations, her words a chaotic blur of dreses, jewelry, and guest lists. She talked about how your mother was finally eating, how your father’s chest was out again, how the "stain" was being washed away by the Major’s rank.
You listened, but the sound of her voice began to fade into a dull hum. You looked at your hands. The zip-tie marks on your wrists were still faint pink lines. You thought of the Major’s hand on your head—the way he had said "Shabash." He hadn't been comforting a girl. He had been praising a bride to be.
"Rukhsaar.." you interrupted, your voice trembling. "Kya yeh... kya yeh sahi hai? Woh mujhse itne baray hain..Aur woh... unhone un logon ko mara hai..!"
Rukhsaar’s smile faltered for a micro-second, a shadow of the night flickering in her eyes, but she pushed it away with a violent internal shove. She was too desperate for the "safety" he offered to look at the cost.
"Wohi toh khoobsurti hai!" she hissed, her voice low and intense. "Woh mard hai..Asli mard..! Usne khoon bahaya hai teri izzat ke liye. Kaunsa dusra mard aisa karta? Sab toh sirf baatein kartay hain. Major Saab ne kar ke dikhaya. Woh tujhse mohabbat kartay hain, jaan. Unki aankhon mein dekh, unhein tera junoon hai."
Junoon. The word felt heavy and oily.
"Aur rahi baat umar ki.." Rukhsaar continued, waving her hand dismissively, "Toh baray mard hi hifazat karna jaantay hain. Larkay toh sirf darrtay hain...! Soch, tu unke ghar ki malka hogi. Pure mulk mein teri izzat hogi..!"
She was guilt-tripping you again, using the same silver-threaded needle the Major had used. Every word was designed to remind you that your freedom was the price of your family’s dignity.
"I promised him.." you whispered, more to yourself than to her. "I told him I would do what was best for the elders.."
"Toh bas!" Rukhsaar stood up, pulling you with her, forcing you to stand on your weak, shaky legs. "Ab rona dhona khatam..Ab humein taiyari karni hai. Kal Major Saab ne kapray aur zewar bhijwanay hain. Unhone kaha hai ke sab kuch unki pasand ka hoga."
Of his choice. The realization sank in. From the color of your bridal dress to the locks on your doors, everything was now "of his choice." You were being moved from the dark warehouse of the Pashtuns to the gilded fortress of the Major.
Rukhsaar led you toward the bathroom, talking about hair masks and glowing skin. She didn't see the way you looked at the door—the door the Major had closed so softly. You felt like a prisoner who had just been told their execution was actually a coronation.
You looked in the mirror. You didn't recognize the girl staring back. Her eyes were hollow, her spirit a flickering candle in a storm.
"Tu bohot khush-naseeb hai..!~" Rukhsaar whispered from behind you, resting her chin on your shoulder as she looked at your shared reflection.
"Haan.." you lied, your voice a ghost. "Very lucky.."
Downstairs, you could hear the low, booming laughter of your father and the steady, authoritative cadence of the Major. They were making plans. They were discussing the future. Your future.
A few days after the Majors visit, The haveli, which only a week ago had been a tomb of shattered glass and stifled sobs, had been resurrected into a palace of frenetic, golden energy. The air was no longer thick with the scent of antiseptic; it was heavy with the fragrance of crushed jasmine, expensive silks, and the rich, spice-laden steam of the kitchen.
Major Iqbal had not just saved your life; he had restored the House of Rehman to a status even higher than before. The gossip that had threatened to drown your father had been vaporized by a single announcement. Now, the phones didn't stop ringing with congratulations, and the courtyard was perpetually clogged with delivery trucks bearing the Major's crest.
Rehman walked through the halls with his shoulders back, his chest out, a man reborn. The Gangster had become the father of a future General’s wife. He stood in the drawing room, watching the servants polish the silver, his face glowing with a satisfaction that bordered on the divine.
Ulfat, your mother, was in a state of ecstatic delirium. The trauma of the attack had been pushed into a dark corner of her mind, replaced by the ancient, rhythmic joy of wedding preparations. She sat on the floor of your bedroom, surrounded by mountains of scarlet and gold fabric, her fingers flying over the embroidery.
"Mera khwab pura ho raha hai.." Ulfat said, looking at you with eyes that were finally bright again. "Har maa chahti hai ke uski beti ka ghar aisa ho jahan koi dukh na pahunch sakay. Iqbal ek farishta hai, beti. Usne tumhe maut ke munh se nikala hai."
Even young Faizal was transformed. He no longer woke up screaming from nightmares of the knife at his throat. Instead, he spent his afternoons following the Major’s security detail around, mesmerized by their discipline and their gleaming black rifles. To him, Iqbal was a superhero from a comic book come to life.
And then, there was you.
You sat in the center of this whirlwind, a silent, painted doll. You let the tailors measure your waist; you let the jewelers drape heavy emeralds around your throat; you let your mother paint your hands with intricate patterns of henna. Deep down, in the silent basement of your soul, a cold, persistent dread remained—a small, shivering voice that whispered that this "safety" felt very much like a cage. You remembered the way the Major looked when he killed. You remembered the mechanical, soulless precision of his violence, you remembered the day you met, his inappropriate words, and you remembered the twitch in his hands on the way back to your Home, after he could not finish what he started to these boys that walked after you in the streets, or so you thought. It was violent- it was inhumane, and the thought of these hands holding your own..scared you.
But then, you would look at your father’s smiling face. You would see your mother’s hands, no longer trembling. You would remember the warehouse, the filth, and the absolute certainty that you were going to die—and how he had walked through the dark to save you.
Gratitude is a powerful sedative. It dulled the "bad vibes" until they were nothing but a faint hum in the background. You told yourself that your fear was just the lingering ghost of the trauma. You told yourself that you owed him your life, your family's honor, and your future in return for his actions.
Every evening, like a celestial body returning to its orbit, Major Iqbal arrived at the haveli. He didn't come with the chaos of a suitor; he came with the steady, quiet authority of a master checking on his prize.
He would find you on the terrace or in the small garden, always ensuring you were comfortable, always bringing a gift that was far too expensive to be mere affection. A diamond-encrusted watch. A rare, first-edition book. A shawl of the finest pashmina.
He walked toward you now, the sunset casting long, dramatic shadows across his face. He looked at you with an intensity that made the air feel thin. He reached out, his hand—larger and warmer than anyone else's—gently taking yours.
"Aaj tumhari tabiyat kaisi hai?" he asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum.
"I am better, Major Saab.." you whispered, lowering your eyes. "The bruises are almost gone."
He stepped closer, his presence obliterating the rest of the world. He lifted your chin with one finger, forcing you to look into those obsidian eyes. There was no warmth in them—only a dark, possessive satisfaction.
"Maine suna hai ke tumne aaj naya joda pasand kiya hai," he said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Laal rang tum par bohot khilta hai..." It was a fabric and color of his choice, not yours. You felt a shiver, a mixture of respect and a strange, breathless fear.
"Thank you..you are very kind to us. My father... he is very happy because of you."
Iqbal’s thumb traced the line of your jaw, a slow, deliberate motion that felt like he was marking a boundary.
"Main sirf tumhare baap ki khushi ke liye yahan nahi aata..hmm?" he hissed softly, the words sounding like a secret oath. "Main tumhare liye aata hoon. Tumhe khush dekhna meri sab se barri zaroorat hai."
He leaned in, his scent—sandalwood and the cold ozone of a storm—filling your lungs. It was an intoxicating, suffocating smell.
"Kya tum khush ho?" he asked.
It was the question he asked every single day. It wasn't a question, really. It was a calibration. He was checking to see if the walls of the cage were comfortable enough yet.
You looked at his face—the man who had shed blood for you, the man who had bought your father’s silence and your mother’s joy. You thought of the alternative: the warehouse, the shame, the loneliness.
You sniled at him, nodding slowly.
"Ji, main khush hoon," you whispered.
Iqbal’s grip on your chin tightened, just for a fraction of a second—a flash of the hunter’s grip before it relaxed back into the "gentleman’s" touch.
"Shabash.." he murmured, his breath hot against your forehead. "Tumhe khush hona chahiye. Kyunke ab se, tumhare raste mein koi kaanta nahi aaye ga. Main har dukh ko tumse pehle khud jheel loon ga.."
He let go of your chin and offered his arm, a silent command to walk with him through the garden. You placed your hand on his sleeve, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath the fabric.
As you walked, he talked about a house somewhere far, He talked about the mountains, the solitude, and the life he had planned for you.
You listened, and for a moment, the idea of being hidden away—far from the whispering aunties and the judgmental eyes of Karachi—sounded like heaven..
You felt a deep, profound gratitude. You felt that you were the luckiest girl in the world to have earned the obsession of such a powerful man.
And yet, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the shadows stretched across the grass, you felt a sudden, sharp chill. You looked at the hand resting on his arm, and for a fleeting second, it didn't look like your hand. It looked like the hand of a ghost.
"Chalo, andar chaltay hain.." Iqbal said, his voice bringing you back from the brink of the thought. "Tumhare baap hamara intezar kar rahay hain. Aaj humein Nikkah ki aakhri tareekh taye karni hai.."
You nodded, walking beside him toward the brightly lit windows of the house. Inside, you could hear your mother singing a wedding folk song, her voice cracking with joy.
You were going to be a bride. You were going to be safe.
You walked into the house, into the light, and into the arms of the man who had saved you, never realizing that the savior and the shadow were the exact same person..
Only hours later, Major Iqbal sat in a high-backed leather chair, his posture as rigid as a blade. Across from him, framed by a massive bay window that looked out over a dead garden, sat the man who had authored his nightmares.
Brigadier Jahangir was a skeletal ruin of a human being, anchored to a wheelchair. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched tight over a skull that seemed too large for his shrunken frame. A thick wool blanket was draped over his useless legs, but his eyes—milky with cataracts yet burning with a prehistoric, predatory malice—were wide awake.
He was a man who had built a career on the desecration of others. In the wars of '65 and '71, he hadn't just been a soldier; he had been a butcher whose name was whispered in the dark corners of the border. He had treated the women of East Bengal and the villages of India as spoils of war, and he had treated his own family with the same chilling lack of humanity.
"Baloch.." the old man spat. The word came out like a piece of rotted meat. "Ek Baloch kutti ko mere ghar ki bahu banao gay?"
Iqbal didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He sat with his hands resting on his knees, his face a mask of absolute, frozen discipline.
"Hamare waqt mein.." Jahangir wheezed, his voice a jagged saw cutting through the silence of the room, "aisi auraton ko hum galiyon mein phenk detay thay. Izzat nahi di jati thi unhein. Sirf istemal kiya jata tha!"
The Brigadier began to laugh—a wet, rattling sound that ended in a violent coughing fit. He leaned forward, his shaking hand gripping the armrest of his wheelchair.
"Tum naram dil ho gaye ho, Iqbal!" he hissed, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure arrogance. "Pehle wali biwi ko bhi tum ne sar par charha rakha tha. Aur ab yeh? Ek tawaif ki tarah bazaar mein ghisatne wali larki ko tum 'Begum' kaho gay?!"
Iqbal’s jaw tightened until the bone threatened to snap through his skin. The mention of his first wife—a woman the Brigadier had broken with psychological cruelty until she had simply faded into nothing—was the only thing that could still strike a spark in the Major's frozen heart.
But he said nothing. He had learned long ago that to speak to Jahangir was to give him a target.
"Tumhare khoon mein hi khot hai.." the old man barked, his voice rising in an ugly, shrill crescendo. "Maine tumhe mard banane ki koshish ki, lekin tum sirf ek rakhaid ke ghulaam ban kar reh gaye ho..! Hamare zamane mein, hum dushman ki betiyon ko utha letay thay..Unki cheekhein hamara nasha hoti thi..! Aur tum? Tum usay phool de rahay ho? Usay shaadi ka jora pehna rahay ho?!"
The Brigadier began to brag, his chest swelling with the grotesque pride of a war criminal. He spoke of 1971, of villages where the smoke of burning homes was the only thing thicker than the smell of rape. He spoke of "cleansing" the land of those he deemed inferior. He viewed the Baloch, the Sindhis, the Indians—anyone not of his specific, warped lineage—as sub-human cattle.
"Woh larki... " Jahangir spat, a string of saliva hanging from his lip. "Uske saath wahi hona chahiye tha jo un gunday mawaaliyon ne socha tha. Unhein karne daitay apna kaam. Phir usay kisi koothay par baich daitay..! Mere ghar mein uski jagah nahi hai!"
Iqbal’s gaze remained fixed on a point just above his father’s head. He despised this man. He loathed the very marrow in Jahangir’s bones. The Major’s own brand of evil was cold, calculated, and obsessive—it was a desire for order and possession. But Jahangir’s evil was chaotic, loud, and filthy. It was the evil of a man who broke things just to see them bleed.
"She is not coming to this house." Iqbal said. His voice was low, devoid of emotion, yet it carried a subterranean power that momentarily silenced the old man’s ranting.
"Kyun? Darr lagta hai ke main usay maar doon ga?" Jahangir mocked, a twisted grin revealing yellowed teeth. "Ya shayad darr hai ke main usay bata doon ga ke uska shohar kis baap ki aulaad hai? Ke hum ne kaisay un auraton ki izzat looti thi jinhein tum aaj 'Mohtarma' kehtay ho?"
Iqbal stood up. He moved with a terrifyingly slow grace, walking toward the wheelchair. He didn't stop until his polished boots were inches from the Brigadier’s withered feet. He leaned down, his face a few inches from his father's.
"Woh mere ghar jaye gi," Iqbal whispered. The words were no longer respectful; they were a death sentence. "Aur wahan na aapka saaya pahunch sakay ga, na aapki aawaz. Aap yahan is kachray mein sarrtay rahain gay, aur main usay apni malkiyat banaoon ga."
The Brigadier tried to strike out, his skeletal hand clawing at Iqbal’s chest, but the Major caught his wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the strength in his grip was enough to make the old man gasp.
"Aap mardangi ki baat kartay hain?" Iqbal hissed, his eyes burning with a dark, concentrated loathing. "Aap ne auraton ko tabaah kiya kyunke aap unhein jeet nahi saktay thay. Maine usay jeeta hai. Maine uske baap ko khareeda hai, uske darr ko khatam kiya hai, aur uske wajood ko apne naam kar liya hai. Woh mujhse mohabbat nahi karti, woh meri parastish karti hai. Woh meri hifazat ko apni jannat samajhti hai."
He leaned in closer, his breath cold on the old man’s skin. "Woh meri hai. Aur mere qabzay se usay koi nahi nikaal sakta. Aap ki dunya khatam ho chuki hai, Brigadier. Ab meri dunya hai."
Iqbal let go of the wrist. The Brigadier fell back into his cushions, panting, his face a mask of impotent fury.
"Tu pachtaye ga, Iqbal!" the old man screamed as the Major turned toward the door. "Woh Baloch khoon hai! Woh tumhe dhoka de gi! Woh kisi din tumhe kaat khaye gi!"
Iqbal didn't look back. He walked out of the room, the heavy oak doors thudding shut behind him, cutting off the Brigadier’s shrieks.
He stepped out into the hallway, where his orderly was waiting. Iqbal adjusted his collar, his face returning to its mask of stoic, military calm. He felt a deep, oily satisfaction. His father called him "soft" because he married the prey instead of discarding it. But Iqbal knew the truth.
To discard the prey was easy. To make the prey love the hunter—to make her walk into the cage willingly and thank him for the privilege—that was the ultimate victory.
He walked out into the cool evening air, his mind already shifting back to the haveli, back to the preperations and back to you. The Brigadier was a ghost of the past, a relic of a loud, messy evil. Iqbal was the future. He was the silent, inescapable darkness that didn't just break a woman’s body, but colonized her very soul.
As he climbed into his car, he checked his watch. The Nikkah was only forty-eight hours away..
The city of Karachi began to dissolve in the rearview mirror, its frantic neon pulse and choked arteries of traffic replaced by the long, sweeping shadows of the outskirts. Major Iqbal drove himself. He didn't want the intrusion of a driver or the idle chatter of an orderly. He wanted the silence of the cockpit, the rhythmic hum of the engine, and the absolute clarity of his own thoughts.
He was leaving the shriveled, poisonous ghost of his father behind in the Cantonment. Brigadier Jahangir could rot in his wheelchair, screaming at the walls about wars fought fifty years ago. Iqbal was a man of the present, and the present required a new stage—a theater where he was the only director, the only spectator, and the only god.
The new house was located in a stretch of land where the desert air met the salt of the sea, far enough from the city that the sirens and the gossip couldn't reach it, yet close enough that his authority still cast a shadow over the port.
As the iron gates swung open—operated by a silent guard who snapped a sharp salute—Iqbal felt a surge of cold, visceral satisfaction.
The house was not a modern monstrosity of glass and chrome. It was an estate of old-world gravity: thick, cream-colored stone walls, high arched windows, and sprawling verandas that wrapped around the structure like a protective shroud. It looked like a colonial officer’s residence, modernized with the brutal efficiency of a military bunker.
He parked the SUV and stepped out. The silence here was physical. There was no sound of rickshaws, no distant call to prayer from a dozen competing minarets. Only the low whistle of the wind through the neem trees and the rhythmic thud-thud of his own boots against the gravel.
He walked up the steps, his eyes scanning the perimeter. The walls were topped with discreet electrified wiring; the cameras were tucked into the eaves of the roof, invisible to the untrained eye.
"Behtareen.." he whispered to the empty air.
He entered the foyer. The floors were a dark, polished marble that reflected the dim light like a black lake. The furniture was heavy, dark wood—mahogany and teak—upholstered in deep forest greens and charcoals. There was a scent of beeswax, cedar, and the faint, lingering smell of a house that had been scrubbed clean of any previous life.
He walked through the drawing room. It was vast, yet suffocatingly quiet. He imagined you sitting there, small and fragile against the massive scale of the room. He imagined the way your voice would struggle to fill the high ceilings, only to be swallowed by the heavy velvet curtains. The idea was so amusing to him that he couldn't help but smile as he continued to roam the halls.
Iqbal climbed the stairs to the master suite. This was the heart of the house. The bedroom was enormous, dominated by a four-poster bed that looked more like a throne. The windows looked out over the back gardens, which were enclosed by a ten-foot stone wall. Beyond that, there was nothing but the scrubland and the horizon.
He stood on the balcony, his hands gripping the stone railing.
"Yahan koi tumhe nahi dhund paye ga.." he murmured, his voice a low, dark caress. "Yahan dunya ka shor khatam ho jata hai. Sirf meri hawa hogi, aur mera waqt.."
He had already staffed the house. Six servants, all of them retired military families who owed their livelihoods—and their silence—to him. They wouldn't talk to the neighbors. They wouldn't answer the door to anyone without his express command. They were extensions of his own will.
He walked back inside and opened the door to a smaller room connected to the master suite. He had designed it as your "study." It was filled with books, a beautiful writing desk, and a window that offered a view of the sunset. On the surface, it was a gesture of profound kindness—a space for you to continue the studies he had promised your father you would finish.
But Iqbal looked at the door. He checked the hinges. He looked at the lock. It was a room designed to keep a bird happy, so that it would never notice it had forgotten how to fly.
He went back downstairs to the kitchen. His head housekeeper, a stern woman named Sofia whose husband had served under Iqbal in the North, was already organizing the pantry. She stood at attention when he entered.
"Major Saab, sab kuch taiyar hai," she said, her voice devoid of curiosity. "Kamre saaf hain. Khana aapki hidayat ke mutabiq taye kiya gaya hai."
Iqbal nodded. "Shabash, Sofia... Yaad rakhna, Mohtarma ko kisi cheez ki kami nahi honi chahiye. Lekin unhein bahar jane ki ijazat tabhi hogi jab main saath hoon ga. Suraksha meri zimmedari hai."
"Ji, Saab."
He walked back out to the veranda, lighting a cigarette as the sky turned a bruised, royal purple. He thought of your father, Rehman, who was probably at home right now, boasting to his friends about the "safety" his daughter would enjoy. He thought of your mother, Ulfat, packing your trunks with silks and memories.
They thought they were sending you to a home. They didn't realize they were giving you to a man that did not want to save, but own their daughter.
Iqbal took a deep drag, the smoke curling around his face like a veil. He felt a sense of peace he hadn't known in years. For his entire life, he had been surrounded by the noise of his father’s failures and the chaos of war. But here, in this house, he had created a vacuum.
He would bring you here after the Nikkah. He would carry you over the threshold, and the iron gates would close behind you. You would be grateful at first. You would thank him for the silence. You would thank him for the way the gossip couldn't reach this far.
And by the time you realized that the silence was a wall—that the protection was a prison—it would be too late. You would already belong to the house. You would already belong to him.
"Bahut jald, jaan.." he whispered, looking toward the distant lights of the city he was about to leave behind. "Bahut jald tum mere is naye jahan ki malka bano gi. Aur yahan... yahan sirf mera hukm chalay ga.."
He finished his cigarette and crushed it under his boot, the same way he had crushed the fingers of the man in the warehouse. The house stood behind him, dark and beautiful and utterly inescapable.
The stage was set. The butcher had built his sanctuary. And tomorrow, the lamb would be brought home..
The night before the Nikkah was a kaleidoscope of gold leaf, orange marigolds, and the rhythmic, hollow thrum of the dholak.
The air in the haveli’s inner courtyard was thick—suffocatingly so—with the scent of high-grade incense, crushed rose petals, and the heavy, sweet musk of motia garlands.
To any observer, it was the picture of a perfect Pakistani wedding. The Mayun was in full swing. Bright yellow and lime-green drapes hung from the balconies like silk waterfalls. The women of the family, dressed in their finest lawn and chiffon, sat on large floor cushions, their laughter ringing out against the ancient stone walls.
You sat in the center of it all, perched on a small wooden takht draped in marigolds. You were the angel of the house. Your face was devoid of makeup, as per tradition, and your hair was braided with silver thread. Your yellow dress felt heavy, as if the fabric itself was made of lead.
Rukhsaar was at your feet, her eyes sparkling with a feverish, vicarious joy. She held the dholak between her knees, her palms striking the taut skin in a rapid, celebratory beat.
They danced in circles around you, their colorful dupattas fluttering like the wings of trapped butterflies. They teased you about the Major, whispering scandalous jokes about "the soldier’s strength" and how you would be "conquered" by the end of the week. Every time his name was mentioned, a cheer went up, a collective sigh of envy and admiration.
You forced your lips into a smile. You practiced the modest downward tilt of your head. You even managed a small, soft laugh when your aunties smeared the yellow ubtan paste onto your cheeks, the cool turmeric staining your skin.
"Dekho kitni pyaari lag rahi hai...!" your mother, Ulfat, whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of pure, uncomplicated happiness. "Iqbal Saab ne sahi kaha tha... hamari beti ab khushiyon ke saaye mein rahay gi."
But inside, you felt a chilling dissonance.
The music felt too loud, the lights too bright. Every time the dholak gave a particularly sharp crack, your mind flickered—just for a microsecond—to the sound of the glass shattering. To the sound of the Major’s suppressed gun. Phut. Phut. Phut. You looked at the girls dancing. They saw a wedding. You felt a funeral for the girl you used to be. The girl who wanted to study in London, the girl who used to argue with her father about politics—she was being buried under layers of turmeric and silk.
Rukhsaar leaned in, her face inches from yours, her breath smelling of cardamom sweets. "Tu kyun itni khamosh hai?" she whispered, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Aaj toh rone ka din nahi hai. Aaj toh jeet ka din hai!"
"I'm just tired, Rukhsaar.." you lied, your voice a brittle thread. "Bas thora darr lag raha hai.."
"Darr kaisa?" Rukhsaar scoffed, her hands returning to the drum. "Major Saab jaisa mard milay toh darr nahi, fakhar hona chahiye. Woh tujhe malka bana kar rakhay ga. Tu dekhna, kal ke baad teri dunya badal jaye gi."
Your world will change. The words echoed in your skull. You looked toward the heavy iron gates of the haveli. You knew that outside, stationed in the shadows of the street, were the Major's men. They were there to "protect" you. But as the singing grew louder and the girls began to pull you up to join the dance, you felt like they were guards outside a cell.
"Chalo, dulhan! Thora sa thumka lagao!"
You stood up, your legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. You allowed them to wrap a yellow dupatta around your waist. You moved your arms in time with the music, your bangles clinking—a metallic, rhythmic sound that reminded you of the zip-ties on your wrists.
You looked at your mother. She was clapping, her face radiant, the wrinkles of worry finally smoothed away by the promise of the Major’s protection. You looked at your father, standing in the doorway, watching the scene with a smug, peaceful satisfaction.
For them, this was the ultimate resolution. The scandal was dead. The house was safe. The daughter was provided for.
You realized then that you couldn't tell them. You couldn't tell them about the coldness you felt when the Major touched your chin. You couldn't tell them that his "protection" felt like a heavy, airless shroud. To speak your fear would be to shatter their peace, to bring the "shame" back into the house.
So you danced.
You spun in circles until the gold embroidery of the room became a blur. You laughed when they fed you sweets that tasted like ash in your mouth. You let them sing songs about a "brave groom" and a "lucky bride."
"Mubarak ho, mubarak ho!"
The night wore on. The older women eventually retired, leaving you with the younger girls. The fire in the center of the courtyard died down to glowing embers. One by one, the girls fell asleep on the floor cushions, exhausted by their own joy.
Only you remained awake, sitting back on the wooden takht, the smell of the ubtan drying on your skin.
You looked up at the moon, visible through the opening in the courtyard roof. Somewhere, on the outskirts of the city, in a house made of cream-colored stone and silence, Major Iqbal was waiting. He was probably sitting in his dark study, looking at his watch, counting the minutes until you became his legal property.
You touched the sapphire pendant he had given you—the one you were forced to wear even tonight. It felt cold against your skin. You remembered his words: "Shabash. Tumhe wahi karna chahiye jo tumhare baray tumhare liye behtar samajhtay hain." A single tear, hot and silent, traced a path through the yellow paste on your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, terrified that even the walls might report your sorrow to him.
Tomorrow, you would say "Qubool hai."
Tomorrow, the "Hero" would take his prize home.
You closed your eyes and tried to pray, but the only image that came to your mind wasn't of God. It was of the Major, standing over the bodies in the warehouse, his hands stained with blood, looking at you with a hunger that no amount of wedding songs could ever disguise.
"Allah Hafiz.. " you whispered to the girl you used to be.
The morning was coming. And with it, the end of the world that you knew..
The morning of the Nikkah did not break with the soft, golden light of a new beginning; it arrived with a stark, blinding glare that seemed to strip the haveli of its shadows. By 8:00 AM, the house was a fever dream of activity. The scent of frying parathas and sweet halwa mingled with the cloying, heavy fragrance of several hundred pounds of fresh red roses that Major Iqbal’s men had delivered at dawn.
You sat in front of the vanity mirror, a hollow vessel for the tradition being poured into you. Your mother and Rukhsaar worked with a frantic, joyful energy, draping you into your weddingdress—a masterpiece of traditional deep red silk, so heavily encrusted with gold zardozi work that it weighed nearly twenty pounds. The fabric felt like armor. Or a shroud..
"Kitni haseen lag rahi hai meri beti," Ulfat whispered, pinning the massive, translucent red dupatta to your hair with trembling fingers. "Bilkul ek malka..!"
You looked at your reflection. The deep crimson against your skin made you look as if you were bleeding from the inside out. The heavy gold jhumar on your temple pulled at your skin, and the nath felt like a hook. You were being prepared for the altar, and every pin felt like a nail.
As you were led downstairs toward the partitioned area of the drawing room, you passed the outer courtyard. The Major’s security detail stood like statues, their black fatigues a jarring contrast to the marigolds.
Standing near the fountain was Hamza.
Hamza had been your father’s right-hand man for a long while, He was the one who saved your father from the SP, the one who knew every secret of the Rehman family. He had married only a month ago—a love match that had filled the haveli with genuine laughter. Usually, Hamza was the first to crack a joke, the first to offer a celebratory Mubarak.
But today, Hamza looked like a man standing at a funeral..
As you walked past him, supported by Rukhsaar, your eyes met his for a fleeting second. Hamza didn't smile. His face was tight, his brow furrowed in a look of profound, silent agony. He looked at the Major, who was standing by the entrance talking to your father, and then he looked back at you.
In his eyes, you saw it. He didn't see a hero. He didn't see a savior. Hamza, who understood the mechanics of power better than anyone, for some reason, saw the Major for exactly what he was: a wolf who had convinced the sheep to open the gate. He looked at you—filled with a deep, grieving empathy. He looked as if he wanted to scream, to grab you and run, but he was pinned by the same "gratitude" that had paralyzed your father. You didn't know yet, but just nights prior, in a dark room of Rehmans home, Hamza had tried to talk your Father out of this idea. However, his pleas were not being heard.
He looked away quickly, his jaw clenched, his hand white-knuckled as he gripped a stack of papers. The sight of his fear sent a fresh jolt of ice through your veins. If the man who handled your father’s darkest business was afraid of your groom, what hope did you have?
The drawing room had been divided by a heavy, ornate silk curtain—the Parda. On one side sat the men: the Qazi, your father, your brothers, and the Major. On your side, the women crowded around you, their whispers a chaotic hiss of excitement.
You were seated on a low cushion, your head bowed so low that all you could see was the intricate henna on your hands and the polished marble floor. The scent of burning agarbatti was so thick it made your head swim.
Through the silk curtain, you heard the Qazi’s voice—deep, rhythmic, and terrifyingly final. He began the recitation, the Arabic verses flowing over you like a tide you couldn't swim against.
Then, the silence fell. It was the kind of silence that precedes a gunshot.
"Bibi..." the Qazi’s voice came from the other side, addressing you by name. He began the formal declaration. He stated the Mehr—a staggering sum of money and property that Iqbal had insisted upon—and the name of the groom: Major Iqbal Jahangir.
"Kya aap ko yeh Nikkah qubool hai?"
The room seemed to shrink. You felt your mother’s hand press firmly against your back, a silent, desperate command to speak. You felt Rukhsaar’s bated breath beside you.
Across the curtain, you could sense him. You didn't need to see him to know exactly where he was sitting. You could feel the Major’s gaze piercing through the silk, pinning you to the floor. He wasn't waiting for an answer; he was waiting for his property to acknowledge its owner.
You thought of the warehouse. You thought of the "Shabash." You thought of your father’s restored pride. You felt the weight of the red silk, the weight of the gold, and the weight of a thousand years of "good daughters" who had sat exactly where you were sitting.
"Qubool hai.." you whispered.
The women around you let out a collective, soft sigh of relief. But the Qazi wasn't finished. Law and tradition demanded the triad.
"Bibi, kya aap ko yeh Nikkah qubool hai?" the Qazi asked a second time, his voice louder, more official.
You felt a tear escape the corner of your eye, tracing a hot, wet path through the heavy bridal makeup. It felt like your soul was being signed away in ink made of blood. You thought of the quiet house in the outskirts, the one with the high walls and the silent servants. You thought of the "protection" that would never let you go.
"Ji... qubool hai.." you said, your voice a little stronger, forced by the sheer momentum of the tragedy.
A few women began to giggle quietly, the tension breaking into the first flickers of celebration. Your mother started to sob softly—tears of joy, she would say later.
But then came the third time. The final nail. The moment where the law of man and the law of God would lock the door and throw away the key.
The Qazi cleared his throat. The men on the other side of the curtain shifted. You heard the distinct, metallic clink of the Major’s medals as he sat up straighter, his presence expanding until it seemed to fill the entire haveli. He was waiting. He was savoring this.
"Bibi..." the Qazi’s voice was solemn now, the gravity of the finality settling over the room. "Akhri baar puchta hoon. Kya aap ko Major Iqbal Jahangir se yeh Nikkah... qubool hai?"
You looked up slightly, your gaze catching a gap in the silk curtain. For a split second, you saw him. He wasn't looking at the Qazi. He was looking directly at the spot where you sat, a dark, triumphant glint in his eyes that promised a lifetime of silence.
You took a breath. It felt like the last breath of a free woman. You opened your lips, the red lipstick feeling like a seal.
Can I please request a fic about Dad’s bsf Sanjay x Reader on a family vacation? like you know how the family and the family friends go on a vacation together. And they eventually start flirting and you know what 😝
TEMPTATIONS
Pairing: Sanjaya Baru x Reader
T.W: Nsfw, Minors do not interact, not meant to represent real individuals, based on Sanjaya Baru from the movie Accidental Prime Minister
The sea breeze drifts through the open balcony doors of the Goa villa as you step out for a cold drink, finding Sanjay leaning against the rail alone, smoking quietly. His dark linen shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, salt-kissed skin glinting in the moonlight. He turns when he hears your footsteps, a warm smile pulling at his lips.
"Why are you here? Isn't your dad and the others still inside playing uno ?"
He flicks ash into the tray, eyes dragging slow over your loose cotton dress.
You shift your weight on the cool tiled floor, your fingers twisting the edge of your dress slightly, cheeks warming under his gaze. The sound of laughter from inside the villa feels distant, like it’s happening in another world.
"Haan, woh 25+ cards mere haath me the so I got disqualified, and I got bored just sitting there, so I thought I’d get some fresh air."
You walk closer to the rail, the salt wind tangling your hair as you glance up at him through your lashes.
You lift your chin, eyes fixed on the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, and ask for one. His eyebrows shoot up a little, a faint amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He taps the pack against his palm before holding it out to you.
He chuckled, but still handed her a cigarette, His fingers brush yours when you take the cigarette, the contact sending a warm jolt up your arm.
He lights your cigarette for you, leaning in close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne mixed with sea salt. His knuckles brush your jaw as he holds the lighter steady, and his eyes darken slightly when you inhale.
"Good girl",he murmurs, so quiet only you can hear.
"Hmm never knew you smoked, let me guess you've been hiding this from your papa, am I right Y/N ?"
Your cheeks flush bright red, fingers tightening around the cigarette so hard the ash crumbles off. You look away quickly, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it over the waves.
"Haan… but bas kabhi-kabhi, Aur waise bhi oapa ko kyu pata hona chahiye in chizo ke baare me."
Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, and you can feel his warm gaze still burning into your shoulder.
He reaches out slowly, tucking a wind-tousled strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused palm brushing your cheek on the way down. The touch makes you shiver, and he notices immediately, a glint in his glasses clad eyes.
"Kuch aur chhupa rahi ho na tum mujhse?" he whispers, leaning in closer, his lips almost brushing your ear.
"That little crush you’ve had on me since we met… you think I haven’t noticed?"
Your breath catches in your throat, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning back into his touch. Your skin burns as his hand rests on your hip, every nerve ending singing.
"I… I don’t know what you’re talking about," you whisper, your voice shaking just a little as you finally dare to turn your head to look at him. His face is inches away, his lips pink and slightly parted.
He just raises his eyebrow, his expression telling that he doesn't buy he excuse.
Your heart thrums so hard it’s almost painful, the thrill of being caught making your knees go weak. You bite your lip, tipping your chin up to press your mouth to his before you can overthink it.
"Ok Haan fine, I’ve got a teeny tiny crush on you, So what?" You whisper the words against his lips, your hands fisting in the front of his unbuttoned shirt to keep him close.
He chuckles low against your mouth,
“What Im gonna do about it? Well give you exactly what you desire", Sanjaya said casually, despite knowing his words have an effect on her.
his hand wrapping around yours to tug you toward his open balcony door. The lights are off inside, only the moon casting silver over the messy sheets.
"Chalo, andar chalo. Yahaan pe koi dekh lega na, toh thoda problem ho jayega."
He pulls you inside and clicks the door shut behind you, locking it softly, his hands already going to your waist to press you back against the wood.
He laces his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles as he pulls you quietly across the cool balcony, stepping into his dark bedroom. The door clicks shut softly behind you, cutting off the noise from your parents’ room next door.
"Ab humein koi nahi distrub karega," he murmurs, pressing you back against the closed door and leaning in to kiss your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
He wraps his strong arm around your thigh, you involuntarily lift your legs to hook them around his waist, he presses you harder against the door. His mouth is messy against yours, tongue sliding past your lips.
"You know… I negotiate with the PM on policy every day," he growls against your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot under your ear.
"But you’re the only legislation I’ve been desperate to pass through this whole vacation."
You unwind your legs from his waist, pressing a finger to his warm mouth to cut off his political rambling.
Your palm presses against his solid chest, pushing him slowly back toward the unmade bed. He falls back against the pillows with a low, amused hum, eyes dark with want as he watches you climb over him.
"Ab aur nahi...Now I’ll do all the talking," you murmur, grinding your hips down against his. You reach for the button's his shirt, dragging it off his shoulders, and fumble open the drawer of the nightstand to find a condom.
Your fingers shake just a little as you unbuckle his leather belt, pulling the pin slowly through the loop. He just tilts his head back against the pillow, a lazy, amused smirk playing on his lips as he watches you, his wire frames discarded on the nightstand beside the bed. He lifts his hips to help you yank his trousers and boxers down, and one of his hands comes to rest lightly on your hip, squeezing gently.
"Take your time, honey. No one’s gonna rush us."
You roll the condom down his thick length slowly, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him once. He sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening on your hip, the smirk never leaving his face. You lift your hips, lining him up at your entrance, and sink down slowly, walls stretching around him.
He groans low, head tipping back against the pillow, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your inner thigh as you adjust.
"There we go...good girl."
You roll your hips slow, one hand bracing on his broad chest as you find a steady rhythm. He lets out a low groan, his fingers digging into your waist to guide you down harder against him.
“Kahan seekha yeh sab?" he breathes, glasses glinting on the nightstand in the moonlight.
You lean down, lips brushing his ear as you speed up your movements.
"Bas tumhe dekhke hi samajh aaya, Sanjaya" you murmur, and he shivers under you, thrusting up to meet you.
Just as you’re both getting close, his phone blares loudly from the bedside table, your dad’s name lighting up the screen. Sanjay doesn’t even pause, just one hand coming up to grab the phone while the other keeps holding your hip, thrusting up slow and deep.
"Haan, bol bhai" he answers, voice steady like he’s not buried inside you right now, his eyes locked on yours with a wicked glint.
He keeps thrusting up into you in slow, deep strokes, one hand clamped tight on your waist to keep you moving on him. He even hums along to whatever your dad is saying, like it’s just a normal casual chat.
"Haan haan, main kal subah nikal ke fishing ke liye ready rahunga. Bas abhi thoda rest le raha hoon"
he says, voice completely calm even when you clench down around him hard, biting your lip to muffle a moan. He grins up at you, and taps your hip to get you to speed up.
You gasp, your nails scratching down his chest as he shoves up into you harder after hanging up, the residual thrill of almost getting caught making your whole body buzz. He wraps both arms around your waist, holding you down against him as he sets a brutal pace, the headboard thumping softly against the wall.
"Now, where were we? You said you were gonna do all the talking, na?"
"Come on then, Love. Talk to me."
You can barely catch your breath, your body trembling on top of him as you feel the tight heat coiling low in your belly. You lean down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Ab… ab bas mujhe chup rehne do," you whimper, your climax crashing over you hard as he keeps thrusting, chasing his own finish right behind you.
He groans loud, holding you tight against him as he comes, the room finally going quiet except for both of your ragged breathing.
He softens his grip, brushing sweaty hair off your flushed face, and presses a slow, warm kiss to your forehead. You slump against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow back down under your ear.
"Kal raat ko, when everyone’s asleep, I’ll sneak to your room," he murmurs, tracing lazy circles down your back.
"Haan? Abhi ke liye, tum apne room jao, Warna tumhare papa ko shak ho jayega."
Pairing: Alauddin Khilji x Southern Princess!Reader
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
A/N: Hi~ when i tell you guys that i love this- writing this and the character. Oh boy, i hope you guys arent ovulating and having a thing for evil men~ enjoyy<3
Warnings: Agegap, predatory hunger, dark romance, possessive obsessive behaviour, Alauddin being the menace we know.(And love) , forced marriage, surrender, primal hunger, Khilji being utterly obsessed, degeneration (kinda) seduction (kinda) mention of blood, biting, steamy at the end~
Part 3 of ?
The morning of the Nikkah did not begin with the sun; it began with a gasp.
In the imperial bedchamber, Alauddin Khilji bolted upright from a dream of fire and silk.
His skin was slick with sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. In his dream, he had been chasing a golden deer through a forest of sandalwood, and when he had finally caught it, the deer had turned into a woman with eyes of cooling basalt and a dagger made of moonlight.
He didn't wake in terror. He woke in a state of wicked, jagged ecstasy.
He sat on the edge of his massive bed, the furs sliding off his muscular shoulders. He looked at his hands—the hands that had strangled kings and torn down city gates—and he laughed. A low, vibrating sound that rumbled in the quiet of the dawn.
"Aaj..!" he whispered, his voice thick with the remnants of sleep and the sharp edge of hunger. "Aaj wo meri hogi.."
He beckoned to his servants, who had been standing in the shadows like ghosts, waiting for the lion to stir. Within seconds, the room was a whirlwind of motion. Rosewater was poured into silver basins; oils from Samarkand were uncorked, filling the air with a scent so heavy it felt like a physical weight.
Alauddin stood naked in the center of the room, allowing his servants to scrub his skin until it glowed. He was a man possessed. He didn't just want to be a groom; he wanted to be an icon. He wanted to be the only thing she saw when the veil was finally lifted.
"More kohl!" he barked, leaning into a mirror of polished bronze. "Make my eyes look like the night that is about to swallow her.. And the scent—I want the heavy musk. I want her to feel my presence before I even touch the silk of her garment."
He was vibrating with a restless, predatory energy. To him, this morning was the culmination of a thousand miles of dust and a lifetime of wanting. He wasn't thinking of the politics of the North or the unrest in the South. He was thinking of the moment the Qazi would utter the third Qabool, and the law of man and God would finally grant him what his soul had already stolen.
A mile away, in the hushed, suffocating luxury of the Khas Mahal, the atmosphere was a chilling mirror to the Sultan's madness.
You sat on a low stool, your body as rigid as the marble pillars surrounding you. The morning light filtered through the jali screens, casting intricate, cage-like shadows across the floor.
The air was thick with the scent of the oils the Delhi maids had brought, but beneath the musk, you could still smell the faint, lingering salt of your own fear.
Meena knelt at your feet, her hands trembling as she adjusted the heavy gold anklets. She looked up at you, her eyes swimming with a grief she dared not voice in front of the Sultan's guards.
"Ilavarasi.." she whispered, using the soft, melodic title of your home— "Aapki aankhein... unmein woh aag kahan gayi?"
You looked at her, and for a fleeting second, the mask of the stoic Queen slipped. You were eighteen, and you were being dressed for a funeral where you were the only guest of honor.
"The fire is still there, Meena, don't worry.." you replied, your voice a ghostly thread of its former self. "But I must hide it. If he sees the flame, he will try to blow it out. I must become the ash until the moment I can burn him."
The maids moved around you with a terrifying, silent efficiency. They draped you in the Sultan's wealth the forgein maids had brought for you—the bruised purple silk, the pearls that felt like cold teeth against your skin, the diamonds that weighed down your throat like a collar. Each piece of jewelry was a link in a chain.
You felt the braveness within you shrinking, retreating into the deepest corners of your soul. Here, in this room, you were being overwritten. You were being translated into a language of conquest.
Alauddin was now being draped in his wedding regalia. He rejected the first three tunics, throwing them across the room in a fit of joyous, manic perfectionism.
"Too dull! Too heavy! I want to look like a sun that has just conquered the darkness!"
Finally, he settled on a garment of white and gold, the fabric so stiff with embroidery that he looked like a statue brought to life. He snatched a string of black pearls—a trophy from a previous war—and wound them around his wrist.
He walked to the balcony of his chambers, looking out over the courtyard where his soldiers were already beginning the rhythmic chant of the song they had sung with him in the nights in the southern Jungle. He could hear the drums—the tablas and dhols—starting their deep, resonant throb. He felt the vibration in the soles of his boots, and it fueled the wicked excitement in his gut.
"Kafur!" he shouted, not looking back. "Is the hall ready? Is the screen in place?"
"Everything is as you commanded, Sultan..!" Malik Kafur replied, his voice a shadow behind the light. "The city is draped in your banners. The people are shouting your name."
Alauddin gripped the marble railing, his knuckles white. "Let them shout. But tell them to be quiet when she enters. I want to hear the sound of her silks. I want to hear the moment her heart realizes it belongs to me."
He was a man intoxicated by the theater of his own power. He believed that by making the world loud enough, he could drown out the fact that the woman he was about to marry had once considered jumping of the Roof of a Palace to escape him..
The final touch was the veil.
As the gold tissue was lowered over your face, the Khas Mahal disappeared. The world was reduced to a shimmering, amber haze. You stood up, the sheer weight of the gold and silk nearly dragging you back down. You felt like a statue of a goddess being prepared for a parade, hollowed out and filled with the Sultan's expectations.
"Ilavarasi.." the maids whispered in a chorus of sorrow as they formed a circle around you.
You didn't answer. You couldn't. The Ilavarasi who had played in the Tapti river was gone. The Ilavarasi who had studied the Vedas was a memory.
You walked toward the door, each step accompanied by the lonely, metallic chime of your anklets. You could hear the drums outside—a heavy, predatory thud that matched the frantic racing of your pulse.
You weren't going to a wedding, but an execution.
Across the palace, Alauddin Khilji stepped out of his chambers, his cape snapping behind him, his laughter echoing through the corridors like a warning. He was walking toward the Great Hall with the stride of a man who had already won.
And in the silence of your veiled world, you walked toward him with the stride of a woman who had already lost everything—and therefore had nothing left to fear.
The drums reached a crescendo. The doors of the Great Hall swung open.
The morning of innocence was over. The Nikkah of the Sultan and the Sun was about to begin.
The Great Hall of the Fort was a cavern of shimmering hostility and suffocating opulence.
To the left, behind a massive partition of carved sandalwood and interlaced ivory, sat the women of the Delhi court—a sea of rustling silks and whispered scandals, their eyes peering through the lattice like caged birds. To the right, the men of the empire stood in a phalanx of steel and velvet, their hands on their sword hilts, their breath visible in the cool morning air.
In the center, dividing the world in two, was the Parda—a curtain of translucent Persian silk, embroidered with verses of the Quran in gold thread.
You were led to the female side of the screen, a golden ghost surrounded by your ten maids. You sat on a low, velvet-covered masnad, the weight of your jewelry pinning you to the earth. Through the haze of your amber veil and the thin silk of the partition, you could see the jagged, dark silhouette of Alauddin Khilji. He was not sitting; he was vibrating. Even as a shadow, his hunger was a physical force that pushed against the screen.
The High Qazi of Delhi stepped forward, his voice a deep, resonant drone that commanded the silence of the room. He held the Nikkahnama—the sacred contract—in hands that trembled slightly.
"Sultan Alauddin Khilji..!" the Qazi began, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "The daughter of the South has come to your gates. Before the Almighty and these witnesses, state the Mehr and the conditions of this union..!"
The hall fell into a silence so absolute you could hear the flickering of the torches. Then, the Sultan’s voice tore through the air. It was not the voice of a supplicant; it was the voice of a man carving his will into history.
"I, Alauddin Khilji, Sultan of the Hind, declare the Mehr!" his voice boomed, vibrating through the silk screen and into your very chest. "As a gift for her hand, I grant her the title of Sultana-e-Dehli. Not as a consort, not as a second, but as the rightful and only Queen of this throne. I decree the construction of a palace of white marble in her name—the Aasakti Mahal—where the sun of the South shall never set."
A gasp rippled through the men’s section. To grant such a title was to displace every bloodline currently in the fort. But Alauddin was not finished. He stepped closer to the screen, his shadow looming over you.
"And hear this!" he roared, his voice dropping into a dark, protective rasp. "The Kingdom of the South, her birthplace, is now a sanctuary. It is a land no man shall touch. No tax shall be levied that she does not sign; no sword shall be drawn across its borders. Even I, the Sultan, shall treat her father’s soil as holy ground. In her palace, a temple shall be raised to her gods, and her maids—her loyal servants—shall have their own chambers, answering to no one but her."
The terms were staggering. He was offering you a kingdom within a kingdom, a gilded cage built of your own demands. He was buying your presence with the sovereignty of your people.
The Qazi turned toward your side of the screen. Two male witnesses—uncles of the Khilji line—stood by the partition to hear your voice.
"Princess of the South.." the Qazi intoned. "You have heard the Sultan’s vow. He offers his protection, his wealth, and the sanctity of your home. Do you, of your own free will, accept Alauddin Khilji as your husband? Qabool hai?"
You sat perfectly still. The diamonds around your neck felt like a noose. You thought of the Tapti river, now safe. You thought of the temple fires in your home, which would stay lit because of the words you were about to speak. You were the price of peace.
"Qabool hai." you whispered.
The word was a soft chime, but to the men on the other side, it was a victory gong. You heard the Sultan let out a sharp, jagged breath—a sound of pure, predatory relief.
"The second time!" the Qazi pressed, his voice more urgent. "By the laws of the Quran and the witness of the court, do you accept this union and the Sultan as your protector? Qabool hai?"
You looked at Meena, who was weeping silently at your feet. You realized that her Ilavarasi died here, in this hall, beneath the weight of Delhi’s gold. The woman who remained would have to be something much more dangerous than a princess.
"Qabool hai." you said, louder this time, your voice steady and cold as a winter stream.
The air in the hall grew electric. You could see Alauddin’s shadow move; he had placed his hand against the silk screen, his fingers spread wide, as if trying to reach through the fabric to touch your silhouette. He was humming—that low, terrifying Persian melody from the march—underneath the Qazi’s prayers.
"And for the third and final time.." the Qazi’s voice rose to a crescendo, "before God and the Empire, do you bind your fate to his? Do you accept the title and the man? Qabool hai?"
You felt the Sultan’s heat through the silk. You felt the eyes of Mehrunissa, perhaps watching from some hidden gallery, and the eyes of a thousand soldiers waiting to roar. You closed your eyes.
"Qabool hai."
The final word left your lips, and the world exploded.
The drums outside the hall shattered the silence with a deafening roar. The soldiers began to clash their swords against their shields, the rhythmic frantic congratulations overwhelming your senses.
The Nikkah was complete. The contract was signed in gold and sealed with the blood of your autonomy. You were no longer the Fire of the South; you were the Sultana of Delhi, and the man behind the screen was no longer a nightmare, a distant shadow or an suitor.
He was your Husband.
The Great Hall exploded into a cacophony of silver trumpets and rhythmic drumming the moment the third Qabool left your lips. It was a sound that signaled the birth of a Queen and the death of a girl.
As the Parda—the silk partition—was swept aside, you were not met by the Sultan’s touch, but by a tidal wave of women. The men were ushered toward the outer courtyards to feast on roasted meats and wine, but the inner sanctum belonged to the Zenana.
You were swept up in a whirlwind of heavy silks, the scent of jasmine, and the high-pitched chatter of a hundred noblewomen who had been waiting to dissect the "Southern Miracle."
"The Sultana! Long live the Sultana!" they cried, their voices a shrill, beautiful chorus that felt like a swarm of bees around your head.
You were led through the labyrinthine corridors of the Siri Fort, a golden idol carried by a sea of devotees. You didn't walk so much as you were drifted along. Your ten maids, led by Meena, tried to stay close, but they were pushed to the periphery by the Delhi court ladies—women with sharp eyes and painted smiles, dressed in colors so bright they hurt the eyes.
They brought you to a private garden courtyard, where a feast of fruits, honeyed cakes, and sherbets chilled with Himalayan snow awaited. Musicians sat in the shadows of pomegranate trees, their lutes weaving a delicate, frantic web of sound.
"Look at her skin..!" whispered one lady, fanning herself with an ivory fan. "Like burnished copper...! No wonder the Sultan burned a path across the Vindhyas."
"And the jewels!" another exclaimed, reaching out to touch the emeralds on your sleeve before Meena hissed and swatted her hand away. "The Khilji treasury has been emptied for a single neck..~"
You sat on a raised dais of white marble, surrounded by your new subjects. These were the wives of generals, the daughters of vazirs, and the elite servants of the Khas Mahal. They brought you gifts—golden caskets filled with pearls, silk scrolls of poetry, and birds in silver cages. They danced for you, their feet striking the marble in a rhythmic celebration of your arrival.
You were kind. You nodded when they spoke; you offered small, regal smiles when they praised your beauty; you tasted the pomegranate seeds they offered on silver spoons. You were every bit the Ilavarasi your father had raised—poised, gracious, and immovable.
But inside, you were screaming for the silence of a tomb.
Every laugh felt like a needle prick. Every song felt like a chain. You looked at the vibrant, chaotic joy of the courtyard and felt a profound, aching envy for Mehrunissa. At this very moment, she was likely sitting in her small, shadowed room near the Old Mosque. There would be no trumpets there. No women reaching out to touch her hair. No Sultan pacing the halls in a fever of expectation. She had the one thing the Khilji empire couldn't buy with all its gold: loneliness.
"Malika..!" a tall, elderly woman with a face carved from granite stepped forward. She was the Darogha, the head of your new household. Behind her stood fifty girls, all dressed in the purple and gold of your new house. "These are your personal attendants. They have been trained in the arts of the North—they know how to blend your perfumes, how to thread your silks, and how to guard your sleep."
You looked at the rows of bowed heads. They were beautiful, efficient, and utterly loyal to the crown. To anyone else, this would be the pinnacle of power. To you, it was an army of spies.
"I thank you.." you said, your voice steady despite the hollowness in your chest. "But my own maids—my sisters from the South—will remain my inner circle. Let your girls manage the palace; mine will manage my heart."
The Darogha bowed, a flicker of surprise crossing her stern features. The court ladies whispered behind their fans. You were already setting boundaries, already building a fortress within a fortress.
As the afternoon stretched on, the celebration grew more intense. More women arrived, more dancers swirled, and the heat of the Delhi sun began to bake the scent of roses into a cloying, suffocating fog.
"Are you not happy, Sultana?" asked a young girl, perhaps no older than fourteen, who sat at your feet. She looked at you with wide, adoring eyes. "You have the heart of the most powerful man in the world. You have a palace being built in your name. You are the envy of every woman from Samarkand to the sea..!"
You looked down at her, seeing the innocence you had lost in the dust of the Deccan. You reached out and touched her cheek, your hand heavy with rings.
"Happiness is a different thing in a palace than it is in a home, Thangachi." you said softly, your eyes genuinely kind as you called her your younger sister. "The Sultan has given me the world. But the world is a very heavy thing to carry on one's shoulders.."
The girl looked confused, perhaps because of your words, or because she didn't understand the term you just called her, but the older women went silent. They knew. They had lived in the shadow of the Khilji sword long enough to know that the Sultan’s love was a beautiful, gilded cage.
You longed to tear off the pearls. You longed to scrub the musk from your skin and walk into the Tapti river until the water reached your chin. You wanted to be Ilavarasi again—the girl who could run through the temple corridors without a thousand bells announcing her arrival.
You looked toward the high walls of the fort, where the guards stood like statues. Somewhere beyond those walls, the Sultan was preparing. The celebration here was merely the prologue. The women were dressing the doll; soon, the owner would come to claim it.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised violet and burning gold, the mood of the celebration shifted. The laughter grew hushed. The dancers slowed their movements.
The Darogha stepped forward again. "The sun sets, Malika.. The Sultan has called for the feast to end. He wishes for the palace to be cleared."
A shiver ran down your spine. The loneliness you had craved was coming, but it was not the peaceful loneliness of Mehrunissa. It was the predatory silence of a room where only two people remained.
The court ladies began to stand, offering their final bows. They looked at you with a mixture of awe and pity. They were leaving for their own homes, for their own beds, leaving you in the center of the Khas Mahal to face the storm alone.
"Mubarak, Sultana." they whispered, one by one, as they filed out of the courtyard.
Soon, only your ten Southern maids remained. Meena came to your side, her face pale in the twilight. "They are gone, Ilavarasi. The halls are empty.."
You stood up, the weight of the bruised purple silk pulling at your frame. You looked at the empty courtyard, the scattered flower petals, and the half-eaten fruits. It was beautiful, opulent, and utterly desolate.
"The silence has come, Meena.." you whispered, looking toward the heavy doors that led to your private chambers. "But it is not the silence I wanted.."
You walked toward your joined chambers, the bells at your ankles echoing in the vast, empty corridor. Every step was a countdown. You knew that in the main courtyard, the Sultan had already dismissed his generals. You knew he was walking toward you, his heart a drumbeat of "Qabool... Qabool... Qabool."
You entered the Khas Mahal, the doors thudding shut behind you.
You were the Sultana of Delhi. You were the most powerful woman in the Hind. And you were the loneliest creature in the universe.
The sound of heavy, frantic boots began to echo from the hallway. The Sultan was coming..
The celebration in the outer courtyards of the Siri Fort was not a wedding feast; it was a riot of victory.
While the women in the Zenana moved with the grace of silk and the scent of jasmine, the world of the men was one of scorched earth, roasting meat, and the metallic tang of unsheathed steel.
Alauddin Khilji did not sit upon his throne. He paced the length of the great courtyard like a caged leopard finally granted the keys to the jungle. His white and gold tunic was already unbuttoned at the throat, his chest heaving with a restless, agonizing heat that no Himalayan snow-cooled wine could quench.
Around him, ten thousand warriors—the scarred veterans of the Mongol wars and the conquerors of the South—were lost in a primal delirium. They sat around massive fire pits where whole oxen turned on spits, the fat dripping into the flames with a hiss that sounded like the applause of the damned.
"Sultan Zindabad!" they roared, their voices a jagged thunder that shook the very foundations of Delhi.
Alauddin grabbed a golden goblet from a passing servant, drained it in a single, desperate gulp, and hurled the vessel against a stone pillar. The ring of the metal was lost in the sudden, rhythmic pounding of a thousand fists against wooden tables.
The chant began. It started as a low hum from the senior generals, then spread like a wildfire through the ranks of the common soldiers until the air itself seemed to vibrate with the words:
“Khooni Ishq ka Naach aaj raat,
Mere seene pe rakh teri baarat!”
Alauddin closed his eyes, his head snapping back as he drank in the sound. He began to chant with them, his voice a raw, sandpaper rasp that carried the weight of his obsession.
His mind was no longer in the courtyard. It was miles away, yet only a few walls apart. He was imagining the Khas Mahal.
He was imagining you.
Every time the men roared the words, Alauddin felt a jolt of lightning strike his spine. He pictured the purple silk he had chosen for you, the way it would cling to your skin, the way the gold thread would scratch against your shoulders. He thought of the diamonds he had fastened around your neck, and he felt a surge of wicked, territorial pride. He had collared the sun. He had put his mark upon the miracle.
"Sultan..!" Malik Kafur murmured, leaning into his periphery. "The generals wish to toast to the new province of the South."
Alauddin turned on him, his eyes bloodshot and gleaming with a terrifying, lustful brilliance. "The South?" he spat, a jagged laugh escaping his lips. "The South is dust, Kafur! I do not care for the soil! I care for the flower that grows within it. I have spent twenty days smelling her scent on the wind. Twenty days watching that cursed veil flutter in the breeze. My patience is not a virtue—it is a scorched ruin!"
He grabbed another goblet, but he didn't drink. He poured the red wine slowly onto the ground, watching it seep into the cracks of the marble.
"Tonight.." he hissed, his voice dropping so low it was almost a growl. "Tonight, there is no Sultan. There is only the hunter. I am going to rip that gold tissue from her face. I am going to see those eyes look at me—not with the coldness of a Princess, but with the realization that she is consumed. I want to see the moment the Princess shatters and the Sultana is born in my arms.."
The music shifted. The Persian lutes were replaced by the heavy, tribal drums of the Afghan highlands. The soldiers stood up, forming a massive, swirling circle around the central fire. They began the Attan, a dance of war and brotherhood, their long hair flying, their swords flashing in the firelight.
Alauddin stepped into the center of the circle. He began to move with them, a frantic, unhinged energy radiating from his limbs. He wasn't dancing for his men; he was dancing for the woman behind the stone walls. Every stomp of his boot was a message: I am coming. The road is over. The cage is locked.
He felt intoxicated. Not by the wine, but by the sheer, agonizing proximity of his desire. He could almost feel the vibration of your bells through the stone floor.
He imagined your fear—that delicious, sharp Southern pride that he intended to melt with the sheer heat of his presence.
The moon reached its zenith, hanging over Delhi like a silver sickle. Alauddin stopped mid-motion. The dancers faltered, the drums died down to a low, expectant thrum.
The Sultan stood in the center of the courtyard, his chest bare beneath his open tunic, his skin glistening with sweat and firelight. He looked toward the high, darkened windows of the Zenana. The laughter of the generals, the smell of the roasted meat, the adulation of his army—it all turned to grey ash in his mouth.
He didn't want the empire tonight. He wanted the woman.
"Enough!" he barked, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. "The feast is over! Leave me! Clear the courtyards! I want no one between these walls and the Khas Mahal..!"
The soldiers scrambled, the fear of their Sultan instantly overriding their drunken joy. Within minutes, the great courtyard began to empty. The fires were left to smolder, the shadows lengthening as the torches were extinguished one by one.
Alauddin didn't wait for his servants to lead the way. He snatched a handful of red roses from a silver vase near the entrance—petals he had ordered to be brought from the gardens of Shiraz—and began to walk.
His walk was not the steady pace of a monarch; it was the heavy, frantic stride of a man possessed.
His boots rang against the marble of the inner corridors, a rhythmic, terrifying sound that signaled the end of the world for anyone in his path.
He passed the guards at the Zenana gates, who bowed so low their foreheads touched the floor. He didn't see them. He only saw the heavy, sandalwood doors at the end of the hall.
As he reached the entrance to the Khas Mahal, he slowed down for a single heartbeat. He looked at the roses in his hand, then at the door. He could hear the faint, crystalline chime of anklets from within.
His breath hitched. The lust, the obsession, the twenty days of waiting—it all converged into a single, volcanic pressure in his throat. He felt like he was about to die of his own heartbeats.
"Shehzadi....." he breathed, the word a jagged caress. "Meri Sultana.."
He didn't knock. He placed his hand on the heavy brass handle, his knuckles white, his eyes burning with a light that was neither holy nor kind.
He pushed the door open.
The heavy sandalwood doors of the Khas Mahal didn’t just open; they surrendered. The groan of the hinges was the last sound of the world you knew, swallowed instantly by the heavy, rhythmic thud of the Sultan’s boots against the marble.
You sat on the edge of the vast, velvet-draped bed, a silhouette of gold and bruised purple. In a final act of silent defiance, you had ordered your ten maids to blow out every flickering wick in the chamber before they retreated into the shadows of the anteroom.
The room was a tomb of cooling incense and thick, obsidian silk. You wanted him to find nothing but the dark. You wanted him to stumble.
But Alauddin Khilji did not stumble.
He stepped into the room, the moonlight from the hallway casting a long, jagged shadow that stretched across the floor until it touched the hem of your sari. He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the scent of the Shiraz roses in his hand clashing with the heavy musk of his skin.
Then, a sound broke the silence. A low, gravelly chuckle.
It wasn't the laugh of a man who was offended. It was the laugh of a predator who found his prey’s hiding spot adorable. He could see you—even in the pitch black, his eyes, adjusted to a lifetime of midnight raids and desert scouting, found the shimmer of your gold embroidery.
"Toh... ye hai dakkhan ki khamoshi?~" he murmured, his voice a vibrating bass that seemed to rattle the jewelry against your skin.
He didn't move toward you. Instead, he turned away, his boots clicking with agonizing patience as he walked toward the first silver candelabra near the door.
"Tumne socha thha ke andhera mujhe rok lega, Sultana..?" He struck a flint, the spark a sudden, violent orange in the gloom. He lit the first candle, the flame dancing in his dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. "Nahi.. Aaj raat mujhe har ek kona roshan chahiye. Main nahi chahta ke tumhari khoobsurti ki chamak mein meri aankhein chaundhiya jayein.. Main har ek pal... har ek lakeer... apni rooh mein utarna chahta hoon."
He moved with a slow, terrifying grace to the next candle. One by one, the room began to breathe again. The golden silk wallpaper flickered into life; the mother-of-pearl inlays on the pillars began to gleam like watching eyes.
He was circling you. He didn't come close enough to touch, but he walked the perimeter of the bed, the roses in his hand shedding petals like drops of blood on the white marble. Each candle he lit brought more of your vulnerability into the light.
"Dekho~" he whispered, lighting a wall sconce behind you. "Ab ye kamra bilkul waisa hi lag raha hai jaisa maine sapne mein dekha thha. Ek qaid-khana... magar sirf mere liye."
He finally lit the last grand candelabra at the foot of the bed. The room was now a blaze of amber light, reflecting off the thousands of pearls sewn into your gown. You sat like a statue of salt, your hands folded in your lap, your veil a golden wall between your terror and his triumph.
He stopped directly in front of you. He didn't reach for the veil. Instead, he let out a short, sharp laugh—a sound of pure, wicked delight—and began to pace again, his shadow dancing wildly against the walls.
"Kitni hoshiyar ho tum..!~" he said, shaking his head. "Andhera karke tumne mujhe ye jataya ke tum mujhse nafrat karti ho. Magar Sultana, tum bhool gayi... nafrat toh mohabbat ki pehli seedhi hai. Agar tum mujhse mutasir nahi hoti, toh tum ye diye na bujhati..~"
He walked back toward the door, his movements fluid and unpredictable. He paused, his hand on the brass latch, looking back at your silent, veiled form. His expression shifted—the Sultan vanished, and in his place was a boyish, chillingly playful evil.
He leaned against the doorframe, his white tunic open to the waist, looking at you with a tilted head as if you were a puzzle he was in no hurry to solve.
Then, he began to hum.
It was the same melody that had haunted the thousand miles of the march. The same tune his men had chanted as they circled your tent in the dust of the South.
He hummed it with a soft, melodic cruelty, his fingers drumming a rhythmic beat against the wood of the door.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of a heart. The sound of a drum. The sound of your doom.
"Waise..." he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, "Sultana ko thoda lihaz seekhna chahiye.. Jab Sultan kamre mein aaye, toh unhe sar jhuka kar swagat karna chahiye. Parda gira kar baithna... ye toh gustakhi hai."
He pulled the door open, the light from the hallway spilling back in. He looked at you one last time, his smile wide and jagged, his eyes burning with the thrill of the game.
"Main ek kaam karta hoon, meri jaan," he chuckled, his voice dripping with a mocking, boyish charm. "Main bahar jata hoon. Aur main dobara andar aaoonga. Aur is baar... main umeed karta hoon ke meri Sultana apne Sultan ko wo izzat degi, jiski wo haqdaar hai. Kya kehti ho?~"
He didn't wait for an answer. He stepped back into the hallway, his laughter echoing through the empty corridor as he pulled the doors shut.
Click.
The silence that followed was louder than the drums. You sat in the center of the blazing, candle-lit room, trapped in the amber light he had forced upon you. You heard his boots stop outside. You heard him take a long, deep breath.
And then, the handle began to turn again.
The silence following the click of the door was a physical weight, heavier than the gold crusted upon your shoulders. You sat in the center of the blazing, candle-lit arena he had created, your heart hammering against your ribs like a dying bird. The air was thick with the scent of the Shiraz roses he had scattered—a funeral pyre of petals.
You loathed him. You loathed the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he had turned your very existence into a game of cat and mouse. But as the brass handle began to turn for the second time, a cold, hard realization settled in your gut.
To fight him now, in this moment, was to invite a storm that would swallow your maids in the next room.
As the doors swung open, you gave in.
You didn't look up. You collapsed into the role he demanded, bowing your head so low that your thick, black Southern curls spilled over your shoulders, a silken curtain of mourning that hid your face from his burning gaze. You stared at the white marble between your feet, tracing the veins in the stone as if they were maps to a life you no longer possessed.
Alauddin stepped over the threshold, and the sound that escaped him was a sharp, delighted bark of laughter.
"Dekho!~" he cried out, his voice echoing with a terrifying, boyish glee. He didn't just walk; he strutted, the gold embroidery of his tunic catching the candlelight. He actually clapped his hands together, the sound like a whip-crack in the silent room. "Meri Sultana ne seekh liya! Dekho ye adaa... ye jhuki hui gardan! Kamaal hai!"
He began to pace around you again, his boots clicking in a slow, celebratory rhythm. He was praising you as if you were a prized stallion he had finally broken to the bit.
"Shabash.." he whispered, his shadow passing over you like a predatory bird. "Yahi toh izzat hai. Yahi toh mera naseeb hai."
He circled you once, twice, the air around him vibrating with a manic energy. You kept your head down, your breath shallow, your hands trembling in your lap. You thought the game would continue. You thought he would spend the hour mocking your submission.
You were wrong.
Suddenly, the playful rhythm of his footsteps broke. There were three aggressive, thunderous stomps—
Thud, thud, thud!
—as he lunged forward. The marble seemed to groan under the violence of his movement.
Before you could gasp, his hand—rough, calloused, and smelling of roses and musk—shot into the mass of your black curls. He didn't gently lift your chin; he grabbed a fistful of your hair at the nape of your neck and wrenched your head back with a brutal, sudden force.
A small, broken whimper escaped your throat as your neck craned painfully. Your eyes, wide and shimmering with unshed tears, were forced upward to meet his.
For the first time, the veil was irrelevant. He was looking through the gold tissue, his face inches from yours. And to his dark, twisted arousal, he saw it: the flinch. He felt the tremor in your scalp, saw the way your features contorted in a mask of fear and genuine hurt.
He didn't pull away. He leaned closer, his chest heaving against your knees, his eyes dark, bottomless pits of kohl and madness. A sound tore from his throat—not a laugh, not a word, but a deep, guttural groan.
"Ahhh..."
It was a sound of agonizing relief, a low vibration that started in his chest and seemed to rattle your very bones. It was the sound of a man who had been starving for a thousand years finally seeing the feast. He looked at your face—the curve of your trembling lips, the sharp, aristocratic line of your nose, and the fear in your eyes..and he went still.
He looked insane. Truly, terrifyingly insane. His pupils were blown wide, devouring the sight of you.
"Khuda..." he groaned again, the word a ragged rasp of breath against your lips.
His free hand moved. He didn't fumble. His fingers found the gold chain of your nath, the bridal nose ring that tethered you to your ear. With a slow, deliberate pressure, he pulled the ring out, the small sting of it making your eyes water. He tossed the gold jewel onto the floor without a second thought, his eyes never leaving yours.
Then, his hand moved to your chin. He gripped your jaw so tightly his thumb left a smudge of kohl on your skin, pinning your head in place. He stared at you with an intensity so fierce it felt like it could stop your heart. He wasn't just looking at you; he was trying to inhale your very soul.
"Bohot... haseen.. Tum haram ho.." he rasped.
Another groan, deeper this time, a sound of pure, unadulterated longing that bordered on physical pain. He leaned in until the tip of his nose brushed against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the Shiraz wine and the desert wind.
He tilted your head further back, his grip on your hair tightening until you were forced to arch your back. The light from the hundreds of candles reflected in his eyes, making them look like twin fires. He wasn't just a husband; he was a conqueror standing on the ruins of a city he had spent his whole life trying to find.
He didn't kiss you, didn't lift the sheer veil, He just stayed there, suspended in the heat of his own obsession, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip with a pressure that was both a caress and a threat.
"Meri..." he groaned, the word vibrating against your skin. "Sirf... meri."
The room felt as if it were shrinking, the amber light turning into a thick, suffocating gold. You were trapped between his hands and his hunger, the Princess finally, utterly cornered by the man who had turned the world to ash just to see her flinch.
The air in the Khas Mahal had thickened into something viscous, a soup of heavy musk.
He didn't use his hands to unveil you. That would have been too human, too mundane for a man who believed he had just captured the sun.
Alauddin leaned in, his face so close that the heat radiating from his skin felt like a physical brand against your cheek. You could feel the rhythmic, hot puff of his breath—short, jagged gasps of a man who was drowning in his own adrenaline. He lowered his head, his dark, kohl-rimmed eyes never leaving yours, and you saw the flash of his teeth.
He caught the edge of the gold-tissue veil in his mouth.
With a slow, predatory growl that vibrated against your jaw, he began to pull. The fabric groaned, the delicate gold threads snapping with tiny, crystalline pops that sounded like bone breaking in the silence. He didn't just remove it; he tore it away with his teeth, his head whipping back with a sudden, violent jerk that sent the gossamer sheet fluttering to the marble floor like a dead wing.
The sudden exposure felt like a cold blade against your skin. For the first time, there was nothing between you. No silk, no gold, no God. Just the Sultan and the prize he had burned the world to reach.
But as the veil fell, the violent tug of his earlier movements—the way he had ripped the nath from your nose—finally took its toll. A thin, hot trickle of crimson began to seep from the puncture in your nostril. It crawled slowly down your lip, a bright, startling red against your skin.
Alauddin froze. His eyes fixed on the blood, and for a second, the madness in them shifted into something even more terrifying. A low, guttural groan started in his diaphragm.
"Khoon..." he rasped, the word a wet, dark caress.
Before you could pull away, he leaned forward. He didn't wipe it. He didn't offer a cloth. He pressed his tongue against your skin, licking the blood from your lip with a slow, deliberate stroke. It was an act of such primal, possessive desecration that your entire body recoiled. A shudder of pure, unadulterated disgust and terror racked your frame, and you tried to wrench your face away, a sob of "Nahi..." catching in your throat.
But the Sultan was faster.
His hand shot out, his fingers splaying across your cheeks, squeezing your face so tightly that your lips were forced into a bruised pout and your jaw felt as if it might crack. He pinned you against the velvet headboard, his body a wall of iron and heat that crushed the air from your lungs.
"Nazar niche nahi!" he roared, his voice dropping into a terrifying, vibrating whisper that made the candles flicker. "Mujhe dekho! Apne Sultan ko dekho!"
He forced your face back to center, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of your chin with agonizing pressure. He was so close that your breaths mingled, a frantic, uneven exchange of oxygen. You could see the golden flecks in his dark irises, the manic, flickering light of a man who had stepped off the edge of sanity.
"Maine tumhare liye duniya ko aag lagayi hai.." he groaned, his voice a sandpaper rasp against your ear. "Maine laashon ke dher par khade hokar tumhara naam pukara hai.. Aur tum... tum mujhse darr kar chehra chupati ho?"
He leaned in until his forehead pressed against yours, his grip on your face never loosening. He wanted your surrender.
"Gulooband..." he murmured, his eyes dropping to the diamonds at your throat, then snapping back to yours. "Is taj ka, is mahal ka, is Sultan ka... swagat karo. Greet your Sultan properly, Sultana. Tell me who I am to you."
He eased the pressure on your jaw just enough for you to speak, but his fingers remained threaded through your hair, ready to tighten at the slightest hint of defiance.
He was trembling—a fine, violent vibration that told you he was at the absolute limit of his restraint. He was a tiger who had cornered the moon, and he was waiting for the moon to acknowledge its master.
"Kaho..." he urged, his voice a deep, longing ache that vibrated through your skull. "Kaho ke tum meri ho..Kaho ke Delhi ka takht sirf ek bahana thha... tumhe paane ka."
The room felt as if it were shrinking, the amber light turning into a thick, suffocating gold. The scent of him—musk, iron, and the faint, sweet smell of the blood he had just tasted—swirled around you, intoxicating and repulsive all at once. You were trapped in the gravity of a man who didn't know how to love without destroying.
He waited, his eyes burning into yours, his hand still squeezing your face with a possessive, terrifying tenderness.
"Bolo." he groaned, his lips brushing against yours, the heat of his breath a final, inescapable command.
His grip on your jaw remained a vise of bruising silk, his eyes two charcoals burning with a light that wasn't holy, but hungry. You realized then that to fight this storm with wind was to be uprooted. You had to fight it with the weight of the earth.
Slowly, with a trembling deliberation that made the gold embroidery on your sleeves hiss against the velvet, you lowered your gaze. You didn't pull away from his touch; instead, you leaned into the pain of his grip. Your hand, small against the sun-darkened iron of his skin, rose through the amber light. You reached for the hand that was squeezing your face, your fingers fluttering over his knuckles like trapped moths.
You intended to take his hand—the hand of the man who had butchered your peace—and bring it to your eyes in the traditional gesture of absolute, soul-crushing submission.
But the moment your fingers brushed his, a jagged, sharp laugh tore from his throat.
It wasn't a laugh of joy. It was the laugh of a boy who had just pulled the wings off a butterfly and found the twitching beautiful.
"Nahi..." he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your own. He caught your wrist in a grip that made your bones ache, snapping your hand away from his face. "Aise nahi. Itni asaani se nahi, Sultana..~"
He released your jaw, but the ghost of his pressure remained, a stinging brand on your skin. He stood up, his massive silhouette blotting out the light of half the candles in the room. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his white tunic discarded on the floor, leaving him bare to the waist—a titan of scarred bronze and gold.
He beckoned with a slow, mocking curl of his finger.
"Khadi ho jao!~" he commanded, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp that Broke the silence like a whip. "Agar tumhe apne Sultan ka swagat karna hai... toh ghutnon par baith kar nahi. Mere barabar khadi ho kar dikhao ke maine kis shairni ko paala hai..~"
He had fun in this. You could see it in the way his lips curved—a jagged, predatory smile that showed the edge of his teeth. He wanted the theater of your surrender. He didn't just want your body; he wanted to watch the very architecture of your pride collapse, brick by gilded brick.
You stood.
The weight of the bruised purple silk and the ten thousand pearls nearly anchored you to the bed, but you forced your spine to become a column of marble. The bells at your ankles chimed—a lonely, crystalline sound that seemed to mock the gravity of the room. You stood before him, your head still bowed, your curls a dark waterfall hiding the tracks of your fear.
Alauddin stepped closer, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. He was so close that the gold tassels of his waist-belt brushed against your silks. He didn't touch you yet. He just hovered, inhaling the scent of your terror and your perfume as if it were the finest wine of Shiraz.
"Ab..." he whispered, his voice a deep, longing ache. "Ab meri Sultana mujhse baat karegi. Mujhe wo izzat degi jo Dilli ke Sultan ko milni chahiye."
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your collarbone, just above the heavy diamond necklace. He was waiting. He was savoring the friction of your hatred rubbing against the silk of your duty. He wanted you to look at him, to acknowledge the chain he had forged, and to call him your master with the same mouth he had just tasted your blood from.
He leaned down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a dark, wicked promise.
"Bolo, Sultana..~" he groaned. "Bolo ke tumhari har saans... meri amanat hai."
The hundreds of candles Alauddin had lit flickered in the sudden, sharp draft of his breathing, casting his monstrous shadow across the purple silks of the bed behind you.
You stood before him, the Ilavarasi of a fallen sun, now the Sultana of a rising moon. Your knees trembled under the weight of the pearls.
Slowly, with a grace that felt like a funeral rite, you reached out. Your fingers, cold and slender, slid beneath his massive, sun-darkened hand. You didn't flinch at the heat of his skin or the faint, lingering scent of your own blood on his knuckles. You took his hand—the hand that had signed the death warrants of your kin—and brought it to your face.
First, you pressed the back of his hand against your right eye, the heavy gold of your jewelry clinking softly against his skin. Then, the left. It was a gesture of absolute, total recognition. You were acknowledging that your vision, your world, and your very light now belonged to the man standing over you.
Then, you leaned down. Your dark curls spilled over his wrist as you pressed your lips to the center of his palm.
It was a soft, feather-light touch, yet the reaction from the Sultan was instantaneous.
Alauddin’s entire body jerked as if he had been struck by a lightning bolt. A sharp, jagged hitch caught in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. For all his bravado, for all his conquering, he was a man who had never known the softness of a woman who wasn't terrified into a stupor. The warmth of your lips against his calloused skin seemed to undo him more than any blade ever could.
"Sultan..." you whispered, your voice a low, melodic thread of silk that seemed to vibrate against his palm. "Mere Khawind. Mere Majazi Khuda.. Delhi ke takht aur mere naseeb ke malik... aapka swagat hai..."
The words were perfect. They were the etiquette of a thousand years, delivered with the precision of a scholar and the hollowness of a ghost.
Alauddin didn't move. He stood frozen, his chest bare and gleaming in the candlelight, his eyes blown wide and dark as a winter midnight. He looked down at his own hand as if you had branded him with a hot iron.
Then, the predatory stillness broke.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he groaned—a low, agonizing sound that vibrated from the very soles of his boots. His hand moved from your eyes to your lips, his thumb tracing the shape of your mouth with a frantic, desperate intensity. He looked as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your soul through the skin of your face.
"Dobara..." he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, longing ache.
He leaned in until his forehead was nearly touching yours, his heat enveloping you like a furnace. A slow, wicked smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth—a look of pure, agonizing triumph. He loved the words. He loved the lie. He loved the way you were forced to shape your tongue around his glory.
"Kaho..." he urged, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Phir se kaho. Mujhe sunna hai ke tum kiske naseeb mein likhi gayi ho." L
He wasn't satisfied with a greeting. He wanted a liturgy of his own greatness.
His hand moved, his fingers gripping your chin with a terrifying tenderness, forcing you to look directly into the fire of his eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that made the blood roar in your ears, his index finger began to slide. He didn't just touch your lips; he pushed his finger slowly into your mouth, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that felt like a physical violation.
It was an act of raw, primal possession. The taste of him—salt, iron, and the musk of the desert—flooded your senses. You felt the sharp, jagged edge of his ring against your teeth.
"Bolo..." he groaned, his voice a vibrating thread of silk and steel. "Mere naam ka kalma padho, Sultana. Batao ke tumhari har saans... kiski amānat hai?"
He was forcing the words from you, his finger a physical barrier between you and your pride. He wanted to feel the vibration of your voice against his skin. He wanted to feel your lips move around the name of the man who had ruined you.
The tension in the room grew so thick it felt as if the very air might ignite. The hundreds of candles seemed to burn brighter, hotter, as the Sultan of Delhi leaned into your space, his bare chest inches from your gold-crusted silks. He was waiting for the surrender he had marched a thousand miles for.
"Mera... naam..." he whispered, his eyes dropping to your mouth, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a pressure that was both a caress and a threat.
You were trapped in the gravity of his obsession, the gold and the darkness and the heat of his body turning the room into a crucible. The Princess was screaming in the silence of your mind, but the Sultana—the woman he had forged in the fires of his own madness—looked back at him, her eyes dark and unreadable.
You felt the moisture of your own mouth on his finger, a secret, intimate bond formed in the heart of your hatred. He was trembling now—a fine, violent vibration of a man who was at the absolute edge of his restraint.
"Alauddin..." he prompted, his voice a deep, longing moan.
He waited, his finger still inside your mouth, his eyes devouring yours, waiting for you to repeat the words that would finally, utterly, and erotically seal your fate to his.
You looked up at him, your eyes met his.
They were not the eyes of a broken bird. They were twin obsidian blades, sharp and cold, flickering with a primal, ancient hatred that scorched the very air between you.
You didn't speak his name. You didn't recite the creed of his glory.
Instead, with a slow, deliberate movement that made the bells on your nath—the one he had discarded—chime against the marble floor, you sank your teeth into the pad of his finger.
You bit him.
You bit him with a ferocity that drew blood instantly, the metallic tang of the Sultan of Delhi filling your mouth. You expected a roar of pain. You expected the back of his hand to strike you across the room. You expected the tiger to snap your neck.
But Alauddin Khilji didn't pull back.
He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
A sound tore from his throat that made your skin crawl—a long, agonizingly slow groan of such profound, erotic satisfaction that it vibrated through his finger and into your jaw. His eyes, already blown wide with kohl-rimmed madness, seemed to ignite. He leaned further into your space, his bare, scarred chest pressing against the stiff, gold-crusted silk of your bodice until the seed pearls bit into your skin.
"Haan...!" he rasped, his voice a sandpaper caress against your ear. "Kha jao mujhe. Chaba dalo is gosht ko... if that is the only way you will taste me, then let me bleed for you."
He actually pushed his finger deeper against the bite, forcing your jaw wider, his eyes devouring the sight of your defiance. He loved it. He was a man who had been bored by a thousand "Qabools," by a thousand bowed heads and trembling sighs. But this? This sharp, stinging rebellion? It was the finest wine he had ever tasted.
"Dekho..." he whispered, his breath a hot, frantic storm against your cheek. "Yahi toh aag hai jise dhoondne main Dakkhan gaya thha.. You think you are hurting me? You are feeding me, Sultana..~"
He leaned down, his forehead grinding against yours, his grip on your hair tightening until your scalp burned. The tension was no longer a thread; it was a heavy, iron chain, pulling you both into a void where only the two of you existed.
"Aur kaato..!" he urged, his voice dropping into a dark, longing moan. "Kaat kar nishaan chhod do. Taaki jab main takht par baithoon, toh mujhe yaad rahe ke meri Sultana ne mujhe apna nishaan diya hai."
He reached out with his free hand, his thumb tracing the line of your throat, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of your pulse. He followed the line of your collarbone, his touch a brand of heat that seemed to melt the very gold you were wearing.
He looked at you with a hunger that was truly, terrifyingly insane. It wasn't just lust; it was a desire to be consumed by you, to be ruined by the very sun he had captured.
"Tumhari nafrat..." he groaned, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth while you still held his finger between your teeth. "Tumhari nafrat meri mohabbat se zyada haseen hai.."
He pulled his hand back suddenly, not to retreat, but to seize your face with both hands, his bloody finger leaving a dark, crimson smudge across your cheek. He squeezed your face, forcing your lips into a pout again, his eyes fixated on your mouth with a terrifying focus.
"Ab..." he whispered, his voice a vibrating thread of silk and steel. "Ab main tumhe dikhaunga ke Sultan ka 'ishq' kya hota hai.."
The room felt as if it were shrinking, the amber light turning into a thick, suffocating gold. He leaned in, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours, the scent of blood, musk, and roses swirling around you in a dizzying, erotic fog.
"Tumne mujhe kaata..." he breathed, his voice a deep, wicked promise. "Ab meri baari hai."
He didn't wait for your fear. He didn't wait for your surrender. He simply descended, his mouth seeking yours with the violence of a conqueror and the desperation of a drowning man.
He didn't seek permission. He didn't wait for your lips to soften. He simply devoured.
The taste of your own blood, mixed with the iron of his bitten finger, flooded your senses as he forced his tongue past your teeth with a desperate, starving urgency. It was a kiss of salt and fire, of conquest and a terrifying, unhinged longing.
You felt the air leave your lungs in a jagged, broken gasp, but Alauddin did not grant you the mercy of a breath. He drank the very oxygen from your throat, his mouth a furnace that seemed to melt the gold tissue of the world around you.
You were pinned between the unyielding marble of his chest and the suffocating velvet of the bed. Your hands came up, instinctively pushing against his shoulders—shoulders that felt like sun-baked boulders—but it was like trying to hold back the tide with a silk fan. He only groaned, a deep, vibrating sound of pure, masculine agony, and pressed closer, his weight a crushing, erotic reality that made the pearls on your bodice dig into your skin.
Every time you tried to turn your face, to find a sliver of air, his hand—still tangled in your black curls—wrenched your head back into center. He wanted you breathless. He wanted you dizzy. He wanted the only thing keeping you alive to be his own lungs.
"Sultan...!" you tried to gasp, the word a shattered fragment against his lips.
"Khamosh.." he hissed, the command vibrating through your very teeth as he pulled back just an inch, his eyes twin voids of kohl and madness.
He didn't want your titles. He didn't want your words. He wanted the raw, animal sound of your surrender.
With a sudden, violent movement, his free hand moved to your throat. He didn't choke you, but he gripped the heavy, tiered necklace of diamonds—the gift that had felt like a collar all morning.
With a single, brutal twist of his wrist, the silk thread snapped. The diamonds scattered across the floor like frozen tears, the sound of their impact a sharp, rhythmic clatter against the marble.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
He didn't stop there. He was a man tearing down a temple to reach the idol. His fingers, stained with the blood you had drawn, caught the gold embroidery at your neckline. He didn't unfasten it. He ripped it. The sound of the bruised purple silk tearing was like a scream in the quiet room.
The cool night air hit your skin for a heartbeat before his heat replaced it.
"Mere nishaan..." he groaned, his voice a sandpaper rasp as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "Poori duniya ne tumhe dekha, Sultana... magar aaj raat, main tumhe mita doonga. Main tumhe naya janam doonga.."
His touch was not a caress; it was a brand. His hands moved over your skin with a predatory familiarity, mapping the curves of your body as if he were claiming a map of the South.
He found the armlets shaped like serpents and tore them away, hurling the gold into the shadows. He wanted no barriers. No jewelry. No reminders of the Princess you had been.
You felt your dignity being stripped away along with the silks, leaving only the raw, electric friction of his skin against yours. You tried to speak again, a plea or a curse, but he silenced it sharply, his mouth slamming back onto yours with a force that made your head spin...and your stomach flip.
He bit your lower lip, not with the cruelty of a wound, but with the possessive hunger of a man who wanted to make sure you felt every second of his existence. He was eating you up, as if he could absorb your fire into his own dark soul, as if he could finally become whole by consuming the sun.
The tension in the room had long since surpassed the point of endurance. It was a thick, sweltering fog that made your heart gallop against your ribs.
You felt the scratch of his beard against your cheek, the heat of his bare chest against your breasts, and the overwhelming scent of musk and ancient, dusty wars.
He moved his hand to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hips, anchoring you to him with a strength that was both terrifying and intoxicating. He pulled you flush against him, and for the first time, you felt the full, undeniable reality of his desire—a hard, volcanic pressure that made the world tilt on its axis.
"Bolo..." he gasped against your skin, his voice a deep, longing moan that seemed to come from the very earth itself. "Bolo ke tum meri ho.."
"Nahi..." you whispered, your last shred of defiance flickering like a dying candle.
He laughed—a low, wicked sound—and bit the skin of your collarbone, his hand moving to the silk of your waist-tie.
"Tumhare lab 'nahi' kehte hain..~" he groaned, his eyes burning into yours with a triumph that was as sharp as a sword. "Magar tumhara dil... tumhara dil meri doli utha raha hai.."
He was right. In the madness of the amber light, in the heat of his breath and the violence of his touch, the girl was being burned away, replaced by a creature of fire and blood who finally understood the gravity of the man who had ruined her.
He lunged back into the kiss, his teeth grazing yours, his hands finally discarding the last of your silk. The silence of the Khas Mahal was dead. There was only the sound of his breathing, the chime of your remaining anklets, and the roar of a fire that was about to consume everything the South had ever loved..
Pairing: Alauddin Khilji x Southern Princess!Reader
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
A/N: You guys have no idea how obsessed iam with this fic it might become my favorite! I wrote for two days straight! Omg omg okay, enjoy and let me know how you like it!<3
Warnings: Agegap, predatory hunger, dark romance, possessive obsessive behaviour, Alauddin being the menace we know.(And love) , mention of war, death, forced marriage.
Part 2 of ?
The air in the Sultan’s camp no longer smelled of the exotic, humid promise of the South. It smelled of rot, scorched earth, and the sour, lingering tang of a siege that had turned from a tactical maneuver into a personal vendetta.
Inside the imperial tent, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke a man. Alauddin Khilji did not sit on his throne; he paced the perimeter of the silk walls like a caged beast, his shadow elongated by the flickering oil lamps until it looked like a monstrous crow draped over the world. He had not slept in three days. His eyes, rimmed with thick, jagged kohl, were bloodshot and hollow, burning with a light that bordered on the divine and the demented.
The "advantage" the Southern kingdom had seized on that first night—the poisoned wells, the ghost-archers in the treeline—had been a brilliant strike. It had bled his vanguard. it had forced a retreat. But it had not broken him.
It had only made him stubborn.
Alauddin stopped at the center of the tent, where a low table held the only things that mattered to him: a map of the Emerald Palace, a silver bowl of melting ice, and the lock of your hair, now pinned beneath a heavy, blood-stained dagger.
"Nothing?" he whispered, the word a low, vibrating growl.
Malik Kafur stood at the entrance, his face etched with the exhaustion of a man fighting a war on the most dangerous front, his Sultan’s unraveling sanity.
"The messengers have been sent, My Lord. Every morning at dawn, and every evening at dusk. We offer them life in exchange for the Princess. We offer them a ceasefire in exchange for a single word from her."
"And?"
"And they send back only the heads of our messengers," Kafur said quietly. "Or they send nothing at all. The King has boarded up the gates. They are starving, but they are silent."
Alauddin’s hand flew to the table, his fingers spasming as he gripped the edge. He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. The silence from the palace was a slap in the face—a defiance that he found both infuriating and intoxicating. He had expected her to break. He had expected the princess to see the smoke from the burning villages on the horizon and come crawling to him to beg for mercy.
Instead, she had gone quiet. She had retreated into the stone heart of her kingdom, leaving him outside in the mud and the heat.
"Zidd..." he murmured, his voice thick with a twisted admiration. "Kitni hoshiyar hai wo. Wo jaanti hai ke uski khamoshi mujhe paagal kar rahi.."
He reached out and picked up the lock of your hair, winding it around his finger until the blood-flow stopped. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure the scent of vetiver and sandalwood through the stench of the camp.
"She thinks she is protecting them." Alauddin said, his voice rising in a sudden, violent crescendo. "She thinks that by denying me her face, she is saving her people! Does she not see the sky? Does she not see that I am turning her 'Emerald Coast' into a graveyard of ash?!"
He turned to the map, his dagger coming down with a sickening thud, piercing the center of the palace courtyard.
"Kill the prisoners.." he commanded, his voice flat and devoid of any human heat. "Every Southern soldier we took yesterday. Line them up on the ridge where the palace guards can see. Cut their throats slowly. Let the sound of their screaming be the music she wakes up to. If she will not speak to me in words, I will make her listen to the silence of her dead."
"Sultan-" Kafur hesitated, "the men are weary. The fever is spreading in the ranks. If we do not breach the walls soon—"
Alauddin was across the tent in a heartbeat, his hand closing around Kafur’s throat with a strength fueled by mania. His face was inches from his servants, his teeth bared in a snarl.
"Main tab tak nahi hatunga, jab tak wo mere kadmon mein na ho!" he hissed, his breath smelling of raw onions and wine. "Chahe mujhe is puri dharti ko kabristan banana pade. Wo meri hai. Wo lock-of-hair jo usne diya tha... wo ek nikah tha. Usne mujhe apna hissa diya hai, aur main baaki ka jism lene aaya hoon."
He flung Kafur away and turned back to the tent opening, looking out toward the distant, darkened silhouette of the palace. The Southern advantage was gone. Their walls were crumbling under the weight of his trebuchets; their water was foul; their people were dying in the streets. He knew they were getting weaker. He knew the woman was likely sitting in her dark chambers, watching the fires he had set.
But he was no longer a Sultan fighting for territory. He was a man possessed by the memory of a plum-colored veil and a lower lip that filled his senses with twisted imaginations.
"She is waiting for the night.." Alauddin whispered to the wind, a dark, jagged smile spreading across his face. "She told me the sun is most beautiful when it is setting. She doesn't realize... for her, the sun has already gone down. There is only the moon now. And the moon belongs to the wolf."
He sat back down on his bolsters, picking up a handful of grapes and crushing them in his fist, the dark juice staining his hands like old blood. He stared at the palace, waiting. Every muscle in his body was coiled, every thought directed at the stone walls that kept him from his prize.
He didn't want the gold. He didn't want the spice ports. He wanted the moment the gates would groan open and she would step out, broken but beautiful, realizing that her bravery had only served to make his victory sweeter.
"Bring me the poet.." he roared into the night. "I want to hear the verse again. I want to remember exactly what I am going to destroy to make her mine."
Outside, the first of the executions began. The sound of a thousand men wailing rose from the ridge, a discordant, horrific symphony. Alauddin sat in the center of it all, his eyes fixed on the palace, his heart a drumbeat of obsession. He was the Sultan, he was the Tyrant, and he was the lover who would walk through a lake of blood just to touch the hem of her sari.
He would wait. He would kill. He would burn.
Because in the dark, suffocating heat of the South, Alauddin Khilji had found the only thing in the world that was as stubborn as he was.
The twentieth day did not bring a sunrise; it brought a shroud. A thick, suffocating haze of smoke and the copper tang of dried blood hung over the Emerald Palace, stilled by a heat so oppressive it felt as though the heavens themselves were trying to crush the life out of the South.
From the high ramparts, the view was no longer of a kingdom, but of a slaughterhouse.
Alauddin Khilji had moved his throne. It was no longer tucked away in the silken safety of his tent; it sat upon a raised platform of scorched earth and bone, directly facing the Great Gates of the palace. He sat there like a dark god of the apocalypse, draped in heavy silks that were stained with the dust of a dozen executions. Below him, the horror was systematic. He had gathered the women and children of the outlying villages—thousands of them—herding them into the mud like cattle.
The air was filled with a sound that could drive a sane man to the edge: the low, rhythmic wailing of mothers and the terrified, high-pitched cries of infants. It was a symphony Alauddin seemed to savor. Every few minutes, at a casual wave of his ring-clad hand, a row of captives was brought forward. The glint of the sun on his soldiers' curved talwars was the only warning before the soil drank more Southern blood.
"Look at them, King!" Alauddin’s voice boomed through a brass speaking-trumpet, amplified by the silence of the dying city. "Dekho apni riyaaya ko! Dekho un masoomon ko jo tumhari zidd ki keemat chuka rahe hain!"
He stood up, his boots crunching on the dry earth. He walked to the edge of the platform, gesturing to the massive clay vats of arsenic and hemlock positioned above the city's main aqueduct.
"Ek ishaara... sirf ek ishaara! " he roared, his eyes fixed on the palace balcony where he knew you were watching. "Aur tumhari nadiyaan zeher ugalengi Tumhare khet banjar ho jayenge. Tumhare jaanwar pyaas se tadap kar marenge. Main is harayali ko kabristan bana doonga!"
Inside the Great Hall, the air was stagnant. Your father, the King, was a ghost of the man who had sat at breakfast twenty days ago. His crown sat crooked on a head heavy with grief.
"We do not surrender.." your father whispered, his voice cracking. "The South has never bowed. If we give him you, we give him our soul. We will die in the dust before we let that monster touch a hair on your head."
"And the children, Father?" your voice cut through the gloom, cold and sharp as a winter moon.
You stood by the heavy oak doors, your form draped in a simple, grey sari. You hadn't slept; the dark circles beneath your eyes were the only testament to your suffering. "The women in the mud? The babies whose throats he toys with while he waits for me? Are they not our soul too?"
"They are the price of honor!" your brother shouted, his hand trembling on his sword.
"Honor is a luxury for the living," you snapped. You couldn't take it anymore. Every scream from outside felt like a lash against your own skin. The girl who had bought time with tea and poetry was gone; in her place was a woman who had seen the limit of human cruelty and realized that only one sacrifice remained.
You turned and began to climb the winding stone stairs to the Royal Balcony—the one that overlooked the killing fields.
"Princess, no!" the guards cried, but you brushed past them, your movements fueled by a desperate, frigid clarity.
You stepped out onto the marble ledge. The heat hit you like a physical blow, carrying the scent of burning thatch and death. Below, the Khilji army let out a roar that shook the very foundations of the palace. Ten thousand men slammed their spears against their shields in a rhythmic, terrifying thud.
In the center of the chaos, Alauddin froze.
He looked up. Even from this distance, you could feel the weight of his gaze—the manic, obsessive heat of it. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. He simply stared at the figure on the balcony, veiled in a heavy, dark dupatta that hid everything but the defiant arch of your shoulders.
You gripped the cold stone railing, your knuckles white. You looked down at the captives, at the children trembling in the dirt, and then you looked directly at the man on the throne.
"Sultan!" you screamed, your voice carrying over the wind, fueled by a rage that burned hotter than the fires he had set.
The army went silent. Even the wind seemed to die.
"Bahut ho gaya ye khoon-kharaba!" you shouted, your voice trembling with a raw, bleeding emotion. "Tumne kaha tha ke tum karz lene aaye ho. Toh lo! Dekho mujhe! Main yahan hoon!"
Alauddin stepped forward, his face upturned, a slow, terrifying smile of triumph spreading across his lips. It was the look of a predator who had finally cornered the moon.
"Shehzadi..." he whispered, the name carrying across the distance like a caress. "Maine kaha tha na... main wapas aaunga..~"
You leaned over the railing, your voice a whip-crack of authority that ignored the pleas of your father behind you. You didn't show him your face; the veil stayed firmly in place, a final bastion of your dignity.
"Apne sipahiyon ko roko!" you commanded. "In masoomon ko chhod do. Humare kuon mein zeher mat dalo. Is sar-zameen ko bakhsh do!"
Alauddin laughed—a short, jagged sound of pure, unadulterated victory. He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the devastation he had wrought.
"Sab kuch ruk jayega!" he promised, his voice thick with a dark, suffocating intimacy. "Sirf ek shart par. Tum meri ho. Abhi. Hamesha ke liye."
You looked at the mothers in the mud. You looked at the swords held at the throats of your people. You felt the soul of the South weeping beneath your feet. You knew there was no more time to buy. The tea had been drunk, the poetry had been read, and the blood had been spilled.
You stood tall, your silhouette a dark, tragic pillar against the smoke-stained sky. You didn't look back at your family. You looked only at the tyrant who had dismantled your world just to stand in your shadow.
"Band karo ye tamasha, Sultan!" you cried out, your voice echoing with the weight of a thousand years of grief.
You took a deep breath, the smoke filling your lungs as you asked the question that would end your life as a free woman and begin your life as his captive.
"Is junoon ko khatam karne ke liye, Sultan kya maangta hai?!"
Below, Alauddin Khilji didn't answer with words. He slowly raised his hand and signaled his men to sheath their swords. The executions stopped. The soldiers stepped back from the wells. The silence that followed was more terrifying than the screaming, for it was the silence of a cage door finally swinging shut.
He looked up at you, his eyes burning with a light that promised a love as destructive as his war.
"Tumhe," he whispered to the wind.
The heat of the balcony was nothing compared to the fire of the betrayal your own family felt behind you. As the words of surrender left your lips, the Great Hall erupted. Your father’s hand, gnarled and trembling, gripped your shoulder, trying to pull you back into the shadows of the stone.
"No!" the King roared, his voice cracking with a shame that would outlive his crown. "We will die in the flames before we hand the heart of the South to a barbarian! Guards, take her! Lock the inner sanctum!"
"Touch me," you hissed, spinning around with a ferocity that stopped the soldiers in their tracks, "and you sign the death warrant of every child currently kneeling in the mud outside. Is your pride worth the extinction of our blood?!"
You pushed them back, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. You turned back to the marble railing, looking down at the man who sat on a throne of dust. Alauddin had not moved. He was watching the struggle on the balcony with the clinical interest of a scientist watching a moth beat its wings against a glass jar.
You stood tall, the wind whipping your dark, charcoal-grey sari around your legs. You raised your voice, projecting it over the silence of the killing fields.
"Sultan! Suno meri shartein!" you cried out, your voice a whip-crack that silenced the murmurs of his generals.
Alauddin leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes narrowed with a predatory fascination. He gestured with a single, ring-clad finger for you to continue.
"Pehli shart." you shouted, the words tasting of smoke. "Mere saath mere das sevikaein jayengi. Unhe wahi izzat milegi jo ek shehzadi ki saheliyon ko milti hai. Unpar kisi sipahi ki nazar nahi padegi."
Alauddin’s lips curved into a dark, slow smile. He looked at Malik Kafur, then back to you. "Your women shall be as sacred as the Quran in my camp, Princess. Manzoor hai!"
"Doosri shart," you continued, your knuckles white against the stone. "Dilli pahunchne tak... tum mujhse door rahoge. Koi parchaayi bhi mujhe nahi chuyegi. Humare beech faasla rahega."
The Sultan’s eyes flashed with a flicker of manic impatience, a momentary flare of the wolf within. He wanted you now. He wanted to feel the pulse in your throat. But he saw the steel in your stance. He saw that you were a woman who would jump from that balcony if pushed.
"The road is long..and my hunger is great..!" Alauddin called back, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. "...But for the prize at the end.. I can master my own shadow..~ Manzoor hai."
"Teesri shart," your voice grew steadier, fueled by the desperation to save the earth beneath your feet. "Tumhari fauj abhi isi waqt Dilli ki taraf laut jayegi. Koi sipahi peeche nahi rahega. Mere pita ka rajya surakshit rahega, aur tum yahan se kabhi khiraaj nahi mangoge!"
The generals around Alauddin began to murmur. To leave a conquered land without a garrison, without a tax? It was madness. But Alauddin didn't care for gold. He cared for the weight of your soul in his hand.
"The South is yours to rule in my name, Princess!" he shouted, his eyes burning. "I take only the jewel; I leave the mine. Manzoor hai!"
"Chauthi shart," you said, and this time your voice carried a weight of sacred defiance. "Tum mujhse mere riti-riwaazon se nikaah karoge. Tumhe mere devtaon ke aage sar jhukana hoga. Humara rishta mere dharam ki agni ke saamne bandhega!"
A collective gasp went up from the Khilji ranks. The Sultan of Delhi, bowing to the "idols" of the South? It was heresy. It was a humiliation. But Alauddin simply threw back his head and laughed—a jagged, terrifying sound of triumph.
"I will bow to the sun, the moon, or the stones themselves if they are the gods that birthed a woman like you!" he roared. "I will walk through your fire, Princess..! Manzoor hai."
You paused. The final term was not for the kingdom. it was for the poet. It was for the man whose words had turned your beauty into a death sentence.
"Aakhri shart..!" you hissed, the hatred in your voice making the air turn cold. "Wo shayar... jisne mere naam ki ghazal gaayi... jisne tumhe yahan bulaya. Jaise hi main in deewaron se bahar kadam rakhoon, tum uska sar kalam karoge. Wo zinda nahi rehna chahiye." You hissed, basically spat, watching expectingly.
In the back of the Khilji ranks, a man in tattered silk paled, his eyes widening with horror. He tried to scramble back, but two of Alauddin’s personal guards instantly blocked his path, their hands falling on his shoulders like talons.
Alauddin looked back at the trembling poet. He didn't feel pity. He felt a twisted sense of gratitude that the man’s task was over. The map was drawn; the destination was reached. The poet was now a witness he no longer required.
"His words brought me to you." Alauddin said, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate purr. "And for that, he was blessed. But his eyes have seen what only I am meant to possess. He has outlived his purpose.."
Alauddin stood up from his throne, his crimson robes billowing in the hot wind. He gestured to his executioners.
"Lao usse!" he commanded.
The poet was dragged forward, screaming, his knees scraping against the dry earth. He was forced down into the mud directly in front of the palace gates—a blood offering for the gates to open. The guards pushed his head down onto a wooden block, the sunlight glinting off the heavy axe that was raised above him.
Alauddin turned his face back to the balcony. His expression was a horrifying blend of devotion and madness. He was the wolf waiting for the moon to fall into his jaws.
"Shartein puri hui, Shehzadi~" he called out, his voice echoing with a chilling, absolute authority.
He spread his arms wide, the dust of the killing fields swirling around him like a shroud.
"Ab neeche aao!~" he whispered, the command carrying through the silence of the dying city. "Tumhara nikaah intezar kar raha hai.. Tumhara Sultan intezar kar raha hai..~ In deewaron ko chhod do... aur meri duniya mein kadam rakho."
You stood on the balcony, looking down at the poet’s bared neck, at the thousand soldiers waiting to march, and at the man who had destroyed your world just to own you. You felt the weight of the veil against your face—the last thing that was truly yours.
You turned away from your weeping mother, away from your broken father, and began the long walk down the stone stairs. Each step sounded like the tolling of a funeral bell.
The Princess was dead. The captive was being born..
The walk from the balcony to the Royal Chambers was the longest journey of your eighteen years. The stone corridors, once familiar and warm with the scent of sandalwood, now felt like the throat of a tomb. Behind you, the frantic, weeping protests of your parents were a discordant noise you had to tune out. Your father’s hand clutched at your silk sleeve, his voice a broken rasp of "No, my child, not this sacrifice!" but you did not turn.
If you turned, you would see the King of the South reduced to a beggar. If you turned, you would lose the iron in your spine.
"Meena..!" you called out, your voice cutting through the hysterical air of the Zenana.
Your head maid, her eyes red-rimmed and her hands shaking so violently she had to tuck them into her waistband, stepped forward. Around her, the other servants were huddled like frightened birds.
"Gather the others.." you commanded, stepping into your bedchamber. The sunlight through the jali screens cast patterns of light on the floor that looked like the bars of a cage. "I need ten. Only those who are brave, only those who can look a wolf in the eye without flinching. We leave within the hour."
Meena choked back a sob. "Princess, you cannot... he is a monster. He will—"
"He will leave this kingdom," you interrupted, your voice a flat, dead calm. "Wo jaayega. Mere saath, wo yahan se chala jaayega.."
You moved to your heavy cedar chest, pulling out the ancestral jewelry of your line—not for the gold, but for the weight of it. You needed to feel heavy. You needed to feel grounded. You picked out the girls one by one, meeting their eyes. You saw their terror, but you also saw their fierce, quiet loyalty. They knew that staying meant starvation or worse; going meant being the shield for their families.
"Pack only what can be carried on a single horse.." you told them. "No luxuries. Only steel under your silks and the memories of your homes."
As the maids scrambled to gather their meager belongings, the sounds from outside the palace began to change. The rhythmic chanting of the Khilji army had ceased, replaced by a singular, piercing sound that sliced through the thick noon air.
It was the poet.
He was screaming—a high, jagged sound of pure, unadulterated cowardice. He was begging for his life in a mixture of Persian and Hindi, his voice cracking as he realized the Sultan he had served had traded his head for a single woman’s footsteps.
"Reham, Sultan! Reham!"
The sound echoed off the stone walls of your room. You stood perfectly still as Meena draped a fresh, heavy veil of deep crimson over your head. The fabric felt like a shroud. Each scream from the poet was a confirmation of your power and your doom. You had ordered a death before you had even stepped out of your house. You were already becoming the creature Alauddin wanted you to be—a Queen of blood and iron.
"Is everything ready?" you asked, looking at the ten women standing behind you.
"Yes, Princess.." Meena whispered.
You walked out of the room, leaving behind the dolls of your childhood and the silks of your girlhood. You walked past the portraits of your ancestors, their painted eyes seeming to weep as you passed. Your mother fell to her knees in the hallway, clutching your ankles, her tears wetting the hem of your sari.
"Meri bacchi... mat jao.. Wo tujhe mita dega..!" she wailed.
You reached down, gently uncoupling her fingers from your ankles. You didn't speak. There were no words left that could bridge the gap between a mother’s love and a daughter’s sacrifice.
You descended the Great Staircase. The royal guards stood at attention, their heads bowed in shame. They were the defenders of the South, yet they were standing by as their heart was carried away to the North. You could feel their silent apology in every breath they took.
The screams of the poet reached a fever pitch, then suddenly, with a sickening thud and a spray of silence, they stopped.
The silence that followed was even more terrifying. It was the silence of a debt being paid.
You reached the Great Gates—the massive, brass-studded doors that had protected your line for three hundred years. They were closed, locked with three heavy iron bars. Behind them, you knew he was waiting. You could almost feel his heat through the wood, the vibration of his horse’s hooves, the manic intensity of his gaze fixed on the very spot where you stood.
The ten maids huddled behind you, their breath hitching. Meena’s hand found yours, her fingers icy.
"Dar lag raha hai, shehzadi..?" Meena whispered, her voice barely audible.
You didn't answer immediately. Your heart was a drum in your chest, a frantic, wild thing that wanted to scream just as the poet had. You looked at the heavy iron bars. Once they were lifted, there was no turning back. You would be the property of the North. You would be the obsession of a man who destroyed empires for a glimpse of a face.
A single tear—hot, salt-heavy, and born of a terrifying, primal fear—escaped your eye. It rolled down your cheek, hidden beneath the crimson silk of your veil. You didn't wipe it away immediately. You let it track its path, a final tribute to the girl who had lived eighteen years in the sun.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement of your hand, you reached beneath the veil and wiped the moisture away. Your skin felt cold. Your eyes turned back to stone.
"Darr ko andar rakho, Meena.." you said, your voice no longer trembling. "Aaj se, hum sirf ek maut se dusri maut tak jee rahe hain."
You raised your hand and signaled to the gatekeepers.
"Open the door!," you commanded.
The guards stepped forward, their muscles straining as they heaved the iron bars upward. The sound of metal grinding on metal echoed like a scream.
The heavy doors began to groan, the wood shrieking as it was pulled apart. A sliver of blinding, white-hot sunlight cut through the darkness of the hall, landing directly on your feet.
You stood there, the crimson veil shimmering in the light, waiting for the world to open up and swallow you whole. You knew what was on the other side. You knew the wolf was there, waiting to see if the prize was worth the blood he had spilled.
The doors swung wider, and the roar of ten thousand soldiers hit you like a wave of fire.
You took a breath, centered your soul in the middle of the storm, and prepared to step out into the ruin of your life.
You stepped out.
The roar of ten thousand men was a physical wall of sound, a guttural, masculine thunder that shook the very air in your lungs. It was the sound of a predator that had finally cornered the moon. But as your foot touched the dust of the courtyard, a sudden, unnatural silence rippled through the Khilji ranks, starting from the front and spreading back like a shadow.
They were seeing the price of their war.
You walked with a rigid, haunting grace, your charcoal-grey sari trailing in the dirt that was still damp with the blood of your people. Behind you, the ten maids followed like a funeral procession, their heads bowed, their hands linked in a chain of silent terror. Meena walked closest to you, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
You did not look at the army. You did not look at the scorched earth. You kept your eyes fixed on the horizon, where the dust of the North met the blue of the South.
Then, you reached the poet.
He lay in a heap of tattered silk and broken dreams directly in your path. The soil beneath him was a dark, muddy crimson. His head had rolled a few feet away, his sightless eyes still wide with the shock of his own betrayal. To the soldiers, he was a traitor; to Alauddin, he was a spent tool. To you, he was the man who had turned your face into a curse.
You didn't flinch. You didn't swerve. You stepped over the pool of his blood, the hem of your sari dragging through the edge of it, staining the silk a permanent, rusted brown. It was your first act as a captive: walking through the carnage you had commanded.
A few yards away, seated upon his throne of earth, Alauddin Khilji watched you.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He sat with his hands gripping the carved lion-heads of his chair, his body leaning forward as if pulled by an invisible tide. The triumph on his face was not the loud, boisterous joy of a general; it was the quiet, terrifying ecstasy of a madman who had finally touched the sun. His eyes, burning through the thick kohl, tracked every movement of your hips, every chime of the bells at your ankles.
"Dekho..." he whispered, the word lost to all but the wind. "Meri jannat chal kar aa rahi hai..!"
As you passed him, the heat of his gaze felt like a brand on your skin. He stood up slowly, his crimson robes shimmering. He didn't approach you—he remembered your terms—but the way he watched you was a violation in itself. He was memorizing the way you moved, the way the wind caught your veil, the way you didn't bow as you passed his seat of power.
"Tumhare kadmon ki aahat mere dil ki dhadkan hai, Shehzadi!~" he called out, his voice echoing over the silent ranks. "Yaad rakhna, har qadam jo tum yahan se dilli tak rakhogi, wo mere naam ka hoga..!"
You reached the carriage. It was a massive, iron-bound palanquin draped in heavy black silk, guarded by twenty of his elite "ghost" soldiers. It looked less like a carriage and more like a mobile fortress.
The head guard stepped forward, bowing low, and opened the door.
You turned for one final moment. You looked back at the Emerald Palace, at the high balcony where your mother stood like a ghost, at the walls that had been your entire world for eighteen years. Then, you looked at Alauddin.
He was standing at the edge of his platform, his hand over his heart in a mocking, yet deeply sincere gesture of devotion. He was smiling—a jagged, triumphant expression that told you he knew exactly what he had broken to get you.
"Manzoor hai na, Sultan?" you shouted, your voice cold and clear, referring to the terms he had sworn to.
Alauddin’s smile widened. He raised his hand, signaling his generals. "Mera har vaada patthar ki lakeer hai..!" he roared. "Fauj ko kooch ka hukum do! Hum dilli jaa rahe hain!"
You stepped into the carriage. Meena and the others scrambled in after you, their faces pale in the dim, silk-shrouded interior. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud, and the iron bolts were thrown home.
The darkness inside was absolute, broken only by the thin slivers of light through the carved screens. You sat on the plush, velvet cushions, feeling the carriage lurch as the massive bullocks began to pull.
Outside, the horns of the Khilji army began to wail—a deep, terrifying sound that signaled the beginning of the long march North. Ten thousand horses began to move, their hooves creating a rhythmic, suffocating thunder that vibrated through the floor of the carriage.
You were moving. Away from the jasmine, away from the salt air, away from the father who couldn't save you.
Meena collapsed at your feet, burying her face in your lap and sobbing quietly. You reached down and stroked her hair, but your eyes remained fixed on the small screen. Through the slats, you saw the silhouette of Alauddin Khilji on his black stallion, riding alongside your carriage. He wasn't looking at the road. He was looking at the black silk curtains, his face a mask of predatory longing.
The princess" of the South was now a passenger in the wolf’s caravan.
The dust began to rise, thick and choking, obscuring the view of the palace until it was nothing more than a grey smudge against the horizon. You leaned back into the shadows, the smell of the Sultan’s musk already beginning to permeate the silk of the carriage.
You had saved your kingdom. You had saved the wells. But as the carriage hit the first bump of the long road to Delhi, you realized that you had entered a prison that had no walls—only the unyielding, manic will of a man who would never let you go.
The march to the North had started, and for the first time in your life, you were heading toward a sun that didn't bring light, but a consuming, eternal fire to consume you..
The twentieth night had been a fever of ritual and cold, biting reality. In the center of the Khilji camp, a circle of sacred ground had been cleared, far from the stench of the horse lines and the remains of the poet. There, under the watchful, hungry eyes of the Sultan and the terrified gaze of your ten maids, you had wed the storm.
The marriage had been a ghost of the celebration you had once dreamed of. There were no flower-strewn canopies, only the black silk of a desert tent. There were no songs of joy, only the rhythmic, low chanting of the priests you had forced him to spare. You had sat before the sacred fire, the heat of the flames licking at your face, while Alauddin sat beside you—a mountain of crimson velvet and predatory intent. He had bowed his head when the priests commanded, his neck corded with the effort of a prideful man submitting to a foreign god, but his eyes had never left your veiled silhouette. When he tied the mangal-sutra around your neck, his fingers had brushed your skin like a brand, a silent promise that the "distance" you demanded was a temporary mercy.
Now, the first grey light of the twenty-first morning broke over the jagged horizon.
The camp was a hive of controlled violence. The Khilji army did not wake; it materialized. Ten thousand men dismantled the city of silk in a symphony of snapping canvas and shouting. The fires were kicked out, the horses saddled, and the dust began to rise, thick and choking, before the sun had even cleared the trees.
You stood at the entrance of your private tent, dressed in the heavy, gold-encrusted silks of a bride—and a captive. The weight of the jewelry felt like armor. Meena stood behind you, her hands trembling as she adjusted the heavy crimson dupatta that now signified you were a married woman. You were no longer the daughter of the South. You were the Sultana of the North, a title that felt like a noose.
"The carriage is ready, Begum.." a voice rasped.
You looked up. Malik Kafur stood a few paces away, his expression unreadable. He looked at you with a mixture of professional respect and the wariness one accords a beautiful, cornered leopard.
"The Sultan has already taken his place at the vanguard." Kafur continued, gesturing toward the front of the massive caravan. "He honors your term. He will not seek your company until the sun sets on the walls of Delhi. But he has left his personal guard to circle your palanquin. Not a bird will fly near you without his knowledge."
You didn't answer. You stepped out into the morning chill, your eyes scanning the horizon. To the South, the Emerald Palace was a tiny, shimmering mirage against the green. To the North, the road stretched out like a dusty ribbon into a wasteland of unknown terrors.
As you walked toward the iron-bound carriage, the soldiers fell back, creating a path of silent, wide-eyed awe. They looked at the way you carried yourself—the spine of a queen, the gaze of a goddess. They whispered in the ranks, words like "Aatish" and "Hoor" their voices hushed as if speaking too loud would draw the Sultan’s wrath.
You reached the carriage, the ten maids scrambling in before you. Just as you were about to step up, a thunder of hooves approached from the front of the line.
Alauddin rode his black stallion, the beast lathered in sweat, its eyes as wild as its master's. He didn't stop near you; he circled the carriage at a gallop, a display of raw, masculine power that sent the dust swirling into a vortex. He reigned the horse in sharply, the animal rearing up, its hooves pawing at the air just yards from where you stood.
Alauddin looked down at you from his height, his chest heaving under his leather breastplate. He was dressed for the march, his face smeared with the soot of the morning fires, looking every bit the warlord who had broken your world.
"Subah bakhair, meri Sultana~" he called out, his voice a low, jagged rumble that carried over the wind.
He leaned over the neck of his horse, his eyes burning with a manic, triumphant light. He looked at the marriage thread around your neck, and a slow, dark smile spread across his lips.
"Raat ki aag thandi ho chuki hai, magar mera junoon abhi sirf jaaga hai.." he whispered, loud enough only for you to hear.
"Yaad rakhna... rasta lamba hai.. Har pahaad, har nadi, har mitti ka zarra tumhe batayega ke tum ab meri ho.. Dilli bahut door hai, magar meri nazar hamesha tumpar rahegi.."
You didn't bow. You didn't blink. You met his gaze through the sheer fabric of your veil, your eyes two cold, dark stars.
"Rasta lamba hai..Sultan." you replied, your voice steady and melodic. "Dekhte hain ke Dilli tak kaun pahunchta hai—ek fateh..ya ek mita hua mard."
Alauddin threw back his head and laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that chilled the blood of everyone who heard it. He loved the defiance. He thrived on the edge of your hatred.
"Shabaash!~" he roared, striking his horse’s flank. "Kooch ka hukum do! Dilli ki taraf!"
He galloped away to the head of the line, his red cape flapping like a blood-stained wing.
You stepped into the carriage, and the heavy door was slammed shut. The interior was dim, smelling of the fresh rose petals the maids had strewn over the cushions. You sat in the center, the ten women huddled around you like a human shield.
The lurch of the carriage was sudden and violent. The iron-rimmed wheels began to grind against the stone and dirt, a rhythmic, soul-crushing sound.
Thud-clack. Thud-clack.
Behind you, the South was fading. The temples, the salt-wind, the laughter of your brothers—all of it was being swallowed by the dust kicked up by ten thousand hooves. You were moving into the heart of the North, into the lion’s den, bound by a marriage of fire and a debt of blood.
You felt the mangal-sutra heavy against your throat. It wasn't jewelry; it was a collar. But as you felt the small, sharp dagger hidden in the folds of your bridal silk, you realized that while he had claimed your land and your hand, he had yet to claim the woman inside.
The caravan moved. A mile-long snake of steel and silk, crawling away from the ruins of your life.
The night was a vast, velvet throat that had swallowed the South whole. Outside the silk walls of the royal pavilion, the horizon was punctuated by a thousand watchfires, but the heart of the camp belonged to a single, roaring conflagration.
Inside your tent, the air was heavy with the scent of vetiver and the salt of unshed tears. You sat on a low divan, your wedding silks a shimmering weight of gold and charcoal. Your ten maids were huddled around you, their shadows elongated by a single, flickering oil lamp.
"Suno.." Meena whispered, her voice trembling as she looked toward the tent flap. "Unhone jashn shuru kar diya hai.."
But this was no ordinary celebration. The distant thud of tablas grew rhythmic and heavy, like a heartbeat. Then came the sound of boots—thousands of them—marching in a slow, predatory circle around your quarters. It wasn't just the army; it was him.
A low, guttural chant began to rise from the darkness outside, a thousand voices joining the Sultan’s rasping baritone as he led them in a circle around your silk walls..
“Tera naam japu jaise farmaan ho,
Mere sar pe rakha tera toofaan ho…
Tere kadam jahan paden, mitti jal jaye,
Main woh khaak banoon, jo tera qurban ho.”
The maids whimpered, clutching each other as the shadows of the soldiers passed over the tent fabric, illuminated by the torches they carried. It felt like being trapped in a cage while the lions sang of their hunger.
A mile away, in the Imperial Pavilion, the atmosphere was one of glorious, violent ecstasy. Alauddin Khilji sat upon a pile of tiger skins, his crimson robes discarded, his white silk tunic open to the waist. He held a golden goblet of Shiraz wine aloft, the red liquid sloshing over his knuckles like fresh blood. He was laughing—a jagged, melodic sound.
"Dekho!" he roared to his generals. "Aaj dilli ki qismat badal gayi hai! Maine sirf ek rajya nahi jeeta... maine qudrat ka sabse haseen maujiza chheen liya hai!"
He stood up, his boots crushing the flower petals his servants had strewn across the rugs. He began to dance—not a dance of joy, but a slow, manic movement of possession. He began to sing, his voice booming across the camp, carried by the wind straight to your ears.
“Khooni Ishq ka Naach aaj raat,
Mere seene pe rakh teri baarat!
Jalti saanson ki yeh manhoos dawat,
Tu meri Qayaamat, main teri Aasakti !”
You closed your eyes as the words hit you, you felt yourself get uneasy.
"Wo humein ek khilona samajhta hai.." you said, your voice a cool anchor in the sea of your maids' fear. You reached out and took Meena’s hand, feeling her pulse racing.
Outside, the chant dropped to a terrifying whisper. You could hear the rustle of the Sultan’s robes as he stopped just inches from your tent flap. You could almost feel his breath through the silk as he hissed, joined by his army.
The maids shrieked as a shadow hand brushed against the tent wall, tracing the silhouette of your head. You gripped the small, sharp dagger hidden beneath your pillow, your knuckles white.
Alauddin stepped back from your tent, his arms spread wide to the stars. He was electrified. He snapped a string of pearls, watching them scatter like teeth, and joined his men in the final, roaring climax of their chant.
“Tera zikr… tera zeher… ek hi baat!
Har sajda mujhe kheenche tere saath!
Agar yeh gunaah hai, toh gunaahgar main,
Agar tu jahan hai, toh khatm ho jahan!”
"Hum yahan akele nahi hain.." you murmured to your girls, even as the chant reached a fever pitch outside.
The sound of his distant revelry finally began to fade as the night grew old. Meena blew out the lamp, plunging the tent into a thick, protective darkness. But even in the silence, the rhythm of his song stayed in your blood.
“Duniya bache ya mare, kya sharaafat…
Tu meri Ibaadat, main teri Laanat hi..!”
"Dilli abhi door hai.." you whispered into the blackness, a single tear finally escaping your eye. You fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by the image of a man who didn't want a wife, but a Doomsday..
The journey to Delhi was not measured in miles, but in the slow, agonizing shifting of the sun across a vast and heartless sky.
By day, you lived in a world of filtered amber light. The carriage was a cocoon of heat and incense, jolting rhythmically as the bullocks pulled you deeper into the heart of the North. You did not look out, but you listened. You heard the clatter of the Imperial vanguard, the rhythmic shouting of the scouts, and the unmistakable, heavy gallop of a single horse that circled your carriage at dawn and dusk.
Alauddin was a shadow in the periphery. He would ride close enough that the dust kicked up by his stallion’s hooves clouded your window-slats, a silent reminder that he was the wind pushing you toward your fate.
The nights were where the true psychological warfare began. The camp would fall into a heavy, exhausted slumber, the thousands of soldiers collapsing into their bedrolls. But the Sultan did not sleep.
You would lie on your cot, the silk walls of the tent breathing with the wind, and hear the slow, deliberate crunch of boots on the dry earth. He walked the perimeter of your tent every night, a lone sentry who was also your jailer. He didn't speak to the guards. He didn't bark orders. Instead, he hummed.
It was a low, vibrating sound—Persian melodies of longing and ghazals of war—carried by the desert breeze. He walked so close to the fabric that his shadow would occasionally blot out the moonlight, a towering, jagged shape that loomed over your sleeping form.
"Sultana..." you heard him murmur one night, his voice a rasping thread of sound just inches from the silk. He wasn't talking to you; he was talking to the air you breathed. "Kitni khamosh ho tum. Magar ye khamoshi mujhe batati hai ke tum jaag rahi ho. Tum mera intezar kar rahi ho."
He was marking his territory with sound, ensuring that even in your dreams, you could not escape the vibration of his presence.. it was terror..
For you, it was terror, for Alauddin, these days were a grand, agonizing performance of restraint. He was a man who had never been denied a single desire, yet here he was, walking in the dust while his greatest prize sat a few feet away, veiled and silent.
"Sultan..." Malik Kafur would say, approaching him during his nightly patrol. "Aap thak gaye hain. Thoda aaraam kar lijiye."
Alauddin would turn to him, his eyes bloodshot and gleaming with a manic fervor. "Aaraam? Kafur, jab jannat saamne ho, toh kaun sona chahta hai? Main uski saanson ki aahat sun raha hoon. Main uske darr ki mehek mehsoos kar raha hoon. Ye intezar... ye maut nahi hai, ye toh zindagi hai!"
He would strike his chest, his laughter low and jagged, before he would then continue his walk, his fingers trailing along the ropes of your tent, his humming growing louder, more insistent, like a predator purring over a meal it was saving for a special occasion.
The march continued. A thousand miles of dust, a thousand nights of songs, and the slow, inevitable approach of a sun that would set on your freedom forever.
"Dilli! Dilli dikhayi de rahi hai!"
You woke from a man shouting in th3 early morning hours.
At the vanguard, Alauddin Khilji pulled hard on the reins of his black stallion. The beast reared, its hooves pawing at the very air of the North as if trying to gallop into the sky itself. Alauddin threw back his head, and a roar of pure, primal triumph tore from his throat, drowning out the sudden clamor of the drums.
He was home. But he was not the same man who had left. He had departed a conqueror of lands; he returned a captor of a star.
Alauddin turned his horse, spurred it into a gallop, and flew back down the line toward your carriage. He didn't care for the dust that coated his expensive silks or the sweat that matted his hair. He was electric, his eyes wide and shimmering with a manic, joyous light that bordered on the holy.
He pulled up alongside your silken fortress, the horse dancing restlessly beneath him.
"Sultana!~" he cried out, his voice cracking with a high, boyish excitement that was terrifying in its intensity. "Dekho! Meri sultanat tumhara swagat kar rahi hai! Ye mitti, ye hawa... ye sab tumhare kadmon mein girne ke liye tadap rahi hain!"
He leaned over the saddle, his hand slamming against the side of the carriage in a rhythmic, celebratory thud. "Maine kaha thha na? Maine kaha thha ke main tumhe taj pehnaunga! Aaj dilli ke har minar se sirf tumhara naam goonjega!"
He looked toward the distant silhouettes of the Siri Fort, his chest heaving. To him, the city was no longer just a seat of power; it was the jewel box he had finally brought the diamond home to.
He snapped his fingers, and Malik Kafur appeared instantly at his side, his horse lathered in foam. Alauddin didn't even look at his servant, his eyes remained fixed on the black curtains of your carriage.
"Kafur! Tez raftaar kaasid bhejo!" Alauddin commanded, his voice booming with the authority of a man who was already rearranging the heavens. "Mehal mein khabar pahunchao. Aaj raat... sirf aaj raat ka waqt hai. Kal subah hote hi nikaah ki taiyariyaan mukammal honi chahiye!"
He gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. "Qazi se kaho ke apne sabse behtreen libaas nikaal le. Mehal ko gulaabon se bhar do! Itne phool bichao ke mitti nazar na aaye. Meri Sultana ko lagna chahiye ke wo aasmaan se seedha mere takht par utri hai!"
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was the polar opposite of the Sultan’s delirium. You sat in a darkness that felt thick enough to touch. The maids were huddled in the corners, their eyes wide with the realization that the "safety" of the road was over. The gates were coming. The distance was closing.
You heard his horse circling, heard the frantic, joyous edge to his voice. It sounded like the hunger of a man who had fasted for a lifetime.
Alauddin looked back one last time at the carriage. His eyes were dark with a promise that made the air turn cold.
"Bas thodi der aur, meri jaan," he whispered to the wind, his smile terrifyingly bright. "Bas thodi der aur. Phir ye parda, ye khamoshi, ye doori... sab raakh ho jayenge."
The gates of Delhi loomed ahead, massive and unyielding. As the first shadows of the city walls fell over the caravan, the Sultan let out one final, triumphant cry. The tiger had reached his den, and he had brought the moon with him.
The red sandstone walls of the Siri Fort did not just enclose a city; they enclosed a different kind of silence. As the heavy mahogany doors of the inner sanctum swung open, you were led not to a guest wing or a concubine’s quarters, but to the Khas Mahal—the heart of the Zenana.
The bells of the city began to chime, a thousand metallic voices announcing your arrival.
The air here was thick with the scent of ambergris and expensive attar of roses. Gold-flecked silk curtains billowed in the dry Northern breeze, and the floors were a mosaic of mother-of-pearl and white marble. These were the chambers of a First Wife. These were the rooms of the woman who had held the title of Sultana since Alauddin had first tasted blood and power.
Your ten maids stood huddled near the door, their eyes wide with the opulence, but you stood in the center of the room, still veiled, feeling the weight of a theft you hadn't intended to commit.
"The Sultan... he has given me her rooms?" you whispered to the head eunuch.
The man only bowed, his face a mask of practiced indifference. "The Sultan’s word is the only law in Delhi, Malika. These are your chambers now."
A soft rustle of silk came from the arched doorway leading to the private terrace. You turned, your hand instinctively reaching for the hidden dagger in your waistband, but you froze.
She didn't look at you with the fire of a rival. She didn't come with a blade or a curse. She stood a few paces away, her gaze raking over your veiled form, and then, she let out a long, shuddering sigh.
A woman stepped into the light. She was older than you, perhaps twenty-five, with a face that was a masterpiece of Persian grace and Southern sun. Her eyes were deep, liquid pools of kohl and ancient sorrow, and her skin had the luster of polished sandalwood.
This was Mehrunissa. The daughter of the King he had murdered. The woman he had discarded like a worn-out cloak the moment he heard of your name.
"Toh... ye hai wo dakkhan ka noor.." she murmured, her voice like the chime of a silver bell in a desert night.
She stepped closer, her movements fluid and regal. She didn't ask for permission. She reached out and gently lifted the edge of your veil. You expected to see hatred. Instead, you saw a devastating, quiet understanding.
"I can almost forgive him.." Mehrunissa whispered, her lips curving into a sad, thin smile. "He was always a man who chased the sun. I was only the moon, reflecting his own light back at him. But you... you have a fire of your own."
You took a step back, your heart heavy with a guilt that tasted like ash. "Sultana, mujhe maaf kar dijiye," you said, your voice thick with genuine remorse. "Maine ye kamre nahi maange thhe..!- Maine ye takht nahi maanga thha. Main aapki jagah nahi lena chahti."
Mehrunissa’s smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. She walked to a silver bowl of pomegranate seeds, her fingers tracing the rim.
"Do not apologize for the sun’s gravity, sister.." she said. "Alauddin is a storm. He takes what he wants and tramples what he leaves behind. He wants you to be the Sultana. He wants me... erased. He thinks that by moving me to the dark corners of the fort, he is punishing me."
She turned back to you, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something that wasn't sorrow. It was relief.
"But he is a fool." Mehrunissa continued, her voice gaining a strange, haunting strength. "He thinks his presence is a gift. He thinks that by denying me his bed and his company, he is sentencing me to death. He doesn't realize that for years, I have lived in the shadow of a man who killed my father to sit on that throne. Every time he touched me, I smelled my own blood. Every time he spoke, I heard the screams of my kin."
You watched her, stunned. You had expected a fight for power; instead, you were witnessing a soul choosing freedom.
"Aap... aap khush hain?" you asked, breathless.
"I am at peace," she replied. She walked toward you, taking your hands in hers. Her skin was cold, but her grip was firm. "I have made a deal with him.. He cane to me after your arrival.. was so desperate to have you, so impatient to clear the path for your arrival, that he agreed to my terms. I told him: Give her the title. Give her the crown. Give her the Khas Mahal. And in return, let me vanish. Give me the small, private quarters near the Old Mosque. Let me live in my loneliness. Let me breathe air that he hasn't touched."
The realization hit you like a physical blow. She wasn't angry because she was leaving you alone with him; she was pitying you because you were the one staying.
"You are his final step to absolute power.." Mehrunissa whispered, her eyes searching yours. "And I am his final link to his past. By making you the rightful Sultana and sending me away, he thinks he is starting anew. He thinks he can wash the blood from his hands with your beauty."
"Lekin main yahan akeli ho jaungi.." you whispered, the fear finally breaking through your royal mask. "Wo mujhe... wo mujhe tod dega, Sultana..!"
Mehrunissa squeezed your hands. A single tear escaped her eye, but she didn't wipe it away. "Yes. He will try. He will look at you until you feel transparent. He will want you until you feel hollow. He will be the most attentive, most opulent, most terrifying husband a woman could fear."
She leaned in, her forehead almost touching yours. "Mujhe dukh hai ke tumhare paas meri tarah koi raasta nahi bacha. Magar yaad rakhna... agar wo shair hai, toh tum uski zanjeer ho. Jab tak wo tumhare naseeb mein uljha hai, mera raajya surakshit hai, aur meri tanhayi meri apni hai.."
She stepped back, adjusting her shawl with a dignity that broke your heart. She looked around the magnificent room—the gold, the silk, the power—and she looked at it as if it were a heap of rotting garbage.
"I leave you to your Sultan, Malika," she said, her voice formal now. "I will go to my quiet rooms. I will listen to the call of the Azaan and the sound of the wind, and I will finally, finally be alone. Do not feel bad for me. Feel bad for the woman who has to be the moon for a man who wants to swallow the sun.."
She bowed—a deep, respectful bow to the new Sultana of Delhi—and turned toward the door.
"Sultana!" you called out, one last time.
She paused at the threshold, the light from the hallway framing her like a saint.
"He will come soon," she said, not looking back. "The wedding is rushed. He has no patience for the rites of the North. Be strong. The South taught you how to survive; now Delhi will teach you how to rule from within a cage.."
She vanished into the shadows of the corridor, her footsteps fading into the silence of the palace.
You stood alone in the Khas Mahal. Your maids began to move, lighting the lamps, bringing the basins of rosewater, preparing the silks for the Nikkah. But you felt as if the walls were leaning in. The opulence felt like a shroud.
You walked to the balcony and looked out over the city of Delhi. The drums were already beginning to beat. The Sultan was coming. The "joyous" homecoming was about to turn into the final, rushed ceremony of your ownership.
You touched the silk of the curtains—the curtains that had belonged to a woman who had just traded everything she had just to be away from the man who was currently marching toward you with roses in his hands and a fire in his soul.
You weren't just a bride. You were the replacement. The new obsession. And as the sound of the Sultan’s laughter echoed from the courtyard below, you realized that the loneliness Mehrunissa had craved was a luxury you had just lost forever..
