#prithvi pratap

[desigal-26]

On special request of @twinblueflamee, here comes the Prithviraj Pratap x Indu’s younger sister oneshot (littlu self-promotion but if you want Prithvi’s bot on C.ai—you can use mine 😜😉).

Enjoy your reading!

Lovers? Even Worse

Prithviraj Pratap x Indu’s Younger Sister!Reader

Were they friends? No. Were they lovers? Even worse…

They said opposites attract, and yet, Prithvi Pratap had no interest in opposites. Rather his gaze sought the figure of the younger daughter of Rajkumar Seksaria.

Warnings: He fell first and harder. Enemies to lovers. Prithvi is a stubborn and hotheaded man. Age gap. Arranged marriage. Banter. Blackmailing (not the reader).

Tag List: @twinblueflamee, @sonasarchive, @goodnightkatherine, @poetry-beauty-love-writez, @myvarya, @budugu

Connections in the realm of politics were the currency that could buy power. The kind that came with the backing of the voters. The kind that came when the men meant to enforce the laws written years ago implemented the rules you made. And the kind that came with the chair of the Chief Minister of the state.

And Prithviraj Pratap had grown up watching his family consolidate connections in the highest ranks of Madhya Pradesh. He had watched a government forming due to his family’s party, and he had witnessed it fall when they withdrew it.

Everything had been going according to the plan—until the dirty claws of politics sank into the belly and tore it to pieces.

One second, he was the heir apparent to the Rashtrawadi Party, and in another? He was forming one of his own, but there stood problems waiting for him—like sharp thorns in his path.

Jana Shakti could only win if it had enough funding to campaign for the fast-approaching elections, but how could he—a young, temperamental leader with a childhood of wealth and abundance, spoilt, some would say—arrange for such numbers in such a short time?

His answer had come soon enough at the hands of his younger brother Samar.

An arranged marriage with the daughter of the local industrialist Rajkumar Seksaria—a man who had been a close acquaintance of his family. A man who had two young daughters, one blooming like a sunflower on a sunny day while the other was the calm of monsoon.

Prithvi knew Samar had meant Indu when he had proposed the plan, and he knew why she was the more…appropriate choice.

Bright like the sun in the heat of May, with a smile that lightened up her entire face. Completely opposite of the sharp-eyed man with anger like a bubbling volcano. The safer choice that would balance him out in the optics.

But his mind was already set on another.

The younger sister was nothing like Indu—not bright and cheerful. But calm, like the moon in a dark night. Steady but not loud. Someone who would use her mind before she uses the sharp blade of her words, with a smile that could kill enough men and even more boys.

Someone who had never been afraid of speaking her mind—and that was enough to have caught his eyes.

He had known her his whole life, given that she was her elder sister’s shadow, following her with quiet steps and observing eyes. The silence to her sister’s chaotic storms; the mind of cognition while her sister was the impulsive heart.

And Prithvi had always preferred mind to heart.

They never really got along, always bickering and arguing over the prevalent issues of the political world—and even when they were not discussing politics? They were bickering about something else.

Always together, always conversing, but never agreeing.

And somewhere along the line, he had started observing things he shouldn’t have. Like how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was uninterested in a conversation, or how her gaze would always clock all the exits and guards in a room. She preferred wearing lighter colours instead of the eye-catching dark ones, plain solid kurtas over the flowy, flower prints Indu wore. Her hair was always pulled away from her face, in a loose braid with a few strands escaping, or in a bun held together by a pen.

“Aap jaise log hi humare system ke liye sabse bada khatra hai,” (people like you are the most dangerous for our system) she had hissed during a heated debate between them, something about corrupt civil servants and even more corrupt politicians.

“Hum jaise matlab?” (What do you mean by people like us?)

Prithvi had only recently entered the horizons of the game the men of his family had been playing for ages. A youth leader with a powerful name and an entire party’s support. Known already for his charismatic words, just as the whispers of his temper were heard behind hands.

He could still vividly recall the fire of defiance in her brown eyes, burning like the sun itself, and yet controlled like a bonfire under a starry night. Almost as if the Agni Dev himself danced in those orbs.

“Matlab joh apne jhoothe waadon se logo ko phassa kar votes lete hai, aur phir gayab ho jaate hai.” (I mean those who charm the people into giving votes with fake promises, and then disappear.)

Had it been someone else, his fist would have already kissed the jaw in a rough knockout. But the then-youth leader had only found himself smirking, stepping closer until he could study each of her long eyelashes under the April sun.

“So you think I am charming?”

“In your dreams, Pratap.”

When they had been younger, the thought of her not calling him ‘bhaiya’ angered him deeply, for he felt—back then—that she was refusing to respect him. But the realisation of how big a blessing in disguise it was came years later, way after she had walked out of their bickering with flushed cheeks and hands trembling in anger.

His father had thrown a grand party on the eve of his birthday, introducing him to men he had seen walking in and out of the doors of their bungalow, but never spoke to until that day. They shook his hand, complimented his looks, praised how he carried himself like a ‘true politician’, whatever that meant. He had seen the glances between the conversation—of skeptical, of insecurity, of the quiet ‘will he be the next head of the party’.

In all honesty? He basked under the spotlight.

Until she had walked in with a saree draped around herself like a weapon of mass destruction, her eyes sharpened by the kohl and her lips painted a sinful crimson that had made his breath stutter for a moment before his composure slid back into place.

He had avoided her like a plague that night, for his heart threatened to give up at the mere sight of her, and he wasn’t keen on finding out what shall transpire when he saw her up close. At least, not that night.

But he had understood one thing.

He has to have her.

And he had tried everything in his power to make that happen. From trying to charm her into giving him a chance to woo her—which ended up with them bickering over his ‘outrageous audacity’—to trying to persuade his father Chandra Pratap and uncle Bhanu Pratap into asking her hand in marriage, which again backfired, for both of them had ambitions far beyond the boundaries of Madhya Pradesh. He had spoken of her in riddles to his mother, calling her ‘the moon hiding behind the mist of winter’ one night, and ‘the bells of a temple echoing through the hilly valleys of the Himalayas in the morning’ the other.

Still, as days turned to weeks and weeks into months, and years had passed since his unsuccessful attempts at having her, his hopes had plummeted—a desire burning still inside his chest, but the practicality had softened the glow.

But now he sat in front of Rajkumar Seksaria, with Samar and Brij Gopal flanking him, Prithvi realises with an invisible startle that this was his only chance. That one moment he had been waiting for since she had dared to show up to his birthday in the softest of pink, as if she was one of the very roses that had decorated those walls that night.

“Toh meri beti se shaadi ke badle tum chahte ho ki main tumhari party fund karu?” (So in exchange of a marriage to my daughter, you want me to fund your party?)

That was precisely what Prithvi wanted. But they were talking of the wrong daughter still. The elder sister instead of the mastermind that the younger one was. But soon, he will erase that confusion from their minds, once and for all.

“Ji.” (Yes.)

“Aur main aisa kyu karunga?” (And why would I do that?)

The man leaned back against the couch, sparing not even a single glance in the direction of the two men sitting beside him. Instead, his gaze moves past the industrialist—stopping squarely at the object of all his desires. The very bane of his existence; the fire that draws him closer to his end.

“Kyuki apka damad CM hoga.” (Because your son-in-law would be CM.)

Greed, Prithvi had learned early, could sway the morals of the most honourable man, and businessmen and politicians had questionable morals to begin with. And what can an industrialist want more than a close relative of his in power? Especially when he has enough crimes to hide.

“Hume yeh rishta manzoor hai, aaj se Indu—” (I accept this relationship, today onwards Indu—)

A huff of amusement escapes the man clad in a plain white kurta, a maroon scarf curling neatly around his neck, his polished footwear shone under the lights as he stood up, rounding the table and bending down a little. The next words were a whisper into the businessman’s ear—off record as many things in Rajkumar’s life has been:

“Suna hai Malanpur wali factory ki zameen kabhi sarkar ki hua karti thi, jispe apne apni industry bana daali—aur nakli kagaz bhi banva liye…” (I have heard that Malanpur factory’s land used to be government’s, on which you opened your industry—and forged fake documents…)

His lips twitched, desperate for a smirk, but his face remains passive while his hands grip his soon-to-be father-in-law’s shoulders, prompting him to stand up. How could he possibly sit when his son-in-law was standing? That would be a blatant mistake, won’t it?

“Kya chahiye tumhe?” (What do you want?)

The desperation in the whispered words amused Prithvi to an extent beyond his comprehension. He realises in that moment why men fought for power, committed sins and acts horrifying enough that they were buried before they could see the light of a day. The intoxicating effect of seeing a powerful man bend his knee and serve his whims.

“Apki choti beti.” (Your younger daughter.)

The next few moments passed like a whirlwind—with a startled Rajkumar Seksaria rambling about ‘she is too young to be a politician’s wife’ and her eyes narrowing while he could see the gears of her mind working. He wondered what she was thinking; whether it was trying to find a motive behind his words, or whether it was trying to deduce what her life would be.

But it was the words that left her lips that made everyone raise their eyebrows and share glances, all while she remained impassive—the very moment Prithvi decides that her father knew nothing about her, for she would be perfect as the wife of the most important man in the state.

“Hume Prithvi se akele mein kuch baat karni hai.” (I want to speak to Prithvi in private.)

With a reluctant nod from the elders, she guides him through the maze of corridors of the mansion to the sprawling gardens—neat flowerbed, carefully cut trees, a stone way leading to a sitting area in between the space. Six chairs were centred around a white table, fancy without being loud. And yet, the arranged beauty of the greenery around them was nothing in compared to the woman in front of him.

The pink kurta she wore hugged her in all the right places, and the man following her like a guard dog had to tear his gaze away from her just to stop the river of thoughts he would not dare admit in the light. Thoughts that urged him to press against the nearest tree and kiss her—show her how much she had tortured him all these years.

But he stops a few steps away when she turned around, leaning her hips against the table while her arms crossed in front of her, drawing his gaze to the curve of her bosom, but his attention hastily diverts itself to the huge tree that provided shade to the arrangement of the table and the chairs.

“Hum kyu? Didi kyu nahi?” (Why me? Why not didi?)

He had expected that question, but he hadn’t been prepared enough to answer it immediately. Instead, he takes a step closer, and another until only a few inches separated them, shared breath warming each other’s face.

“Kyuki aap samajhdar hai.” (Because you are sensible.)

The kind that would stand by his side and not behind him. The kind that would not sit like a trophy by his side but participate actively in the matters of state politics—and one day, if the fate had willed so, even in national politics. The kind that would give better solutions to problems than the old men whose primary purpose was to fill their pockets.

“Kyuki aap kabhi mujhse dari nahi.” (Because you were never scared of me.)

Not when they were bickering and his voice had risen with rage flickering behind his eyes, for who would dare defy the opinions of the future Chief Minister? Except for, as it stood, his wife-to-be. Not even when he had lost his calm and nearly beaten a journalist asking evasive questions about something he doesn’t even remember now. She was never afraid—always putting forth opinions that rivalled his, without any fear.

It had annoyed Prithvi once, but things that annoy one can be things to be admired, and she was the only woman he cherished—even if it had been from a distance.

But not anymore.

“Kyuki aap mere dimag se jaati nahi hai. Subah, shaam—har waqt sirf apke baare mein sochta hu and it’s annoying, Ms. Seksaria. Kyuki aapse zyada respect na maine kisi ki kari hai, aur shayad kabhi kar bhi nahi paunga. Kyuki…pyaar toh hum bohot karte hai aapse…bass batana nahi aaya.” (Because you don’t leave my mind. Morning, evening—all the time, I think about you and it’s annoying, Ms. Seksaria. Because I don’t respect anyone more than you, and probably won’t.)

Not even the birds dared to chirp in the silence that fell in the garden, a tension so thick that it could be cut by a knife.

His hand rises almost cautiously, brushing away a loose strand away from her face, tucking it away behind her ear before his finger begins tracing her helix—a feather-light touch that send shivers down her spine. His thumb brushes against her cheek, eyes lingering on every inch of her features, as if committing her to his memory.

“Do sharte hai humari.” (I have two conditions.)

Prithvi only nods, even though he knew he would agree to them, regardless of what they were. Anything for her.

“Humse kabhi jhooth bolne ki koshish mat kijiyega. Khoon bhi karke aaye hai, toh bhi sach,” (Never try to lie to me. Even if you have murdered someone, tell the truth) she whispered, lips parting in a quiet exhale while her gaze flicks down to his lips. And had he not been waiting for her second condition, he would have kissed her by now. After all, patience had never been his forte, unless she was included in the mix.

“Manzoor hai.” (I accept.)

A pause. An exhale of hers that he breaths in like it was the most sacred air in the world. A small moment, her ducking her head a little—shy for the first time for him to witness—and their skin brushes against one another. Her forehead barely grazing his chin. Something that looked rather normal to anyone, but it had their hearts racing in their chests.

Her hands rise then, fingers curling into the collar of his kurta while the familiar fire shine in her eyes again.

“Agar kisi aur ladki ke baare mein socha bhi, toh neend mein hi maar dalungi.” (If you even think of another woman, I will kill you in your sleep.)

A gentle, admiring caress of his thumb on her cheek while a smirk brushes his lips, amusement dancing in his eyes. There she was, he thought to himself before he leaned his head forward, forehead resting against hers.

“Apke hote hue kisi aur ki kya zarurat?” (What is the need of another if you are here?)

Their lips crashed together.

A future sealed together.

[desigal-26]

Can we get some more Prithviraj pratap fics pleaseeeee

I will try to make as many posts as I can

Behind The Pillars

Headcanons to being in a Forbidden Relationship with Prithviraj Pratap

Warnings: Forbidden Relationship. Politics. Enemies to lovers. Misogynistic point of view from some politicians. Corruption.

Tag List: @sonasarchive, @goodnightkatherine, @twinblueflamee, @misteriadare, @fanaajnabi

The eldest son of the political family wasn’t interested in serious relationships at all, preferring to keep things casual between a woman he finds attractive—physical involvement, but his emotions remained locked away in a box with a lock, shoved deep into the depths of his heart.

He appreciated beauty and the company of women, but the weight of commitment to someone felt like an oppressive burden on his shoulders, and he had enough of it already.

She was the daughter of another prominent politician in Madhya Pradesh—a candidate that often contested with the politicians of Rashtrawadi Party, leading to the formation of an air of animosity between the families. If the Pratap family sat in the ruling party, it was almost assured that her father would raise the issue of corruption in politics and subtly take a jab at Bhanu Pratap and his younger brother Chandra Pratap.

He knew of her since they were children, having met during parties and political galas where their families were invited. The children were deliberately kept away from each other by the elders, making sure that they knew they were supposed to not interact with each other.

That continues until they arrive at the age when most of the teenagers begin rebelling—some in the small ways while others were more adventurous. And Prithvi? He belonged to the latter category, even if it was for the smallest of time.

They went to the same school, but their sections were always different—her being one of the toppers of Section A, and him being one of those backbenchers in Section C or D who was involved in every other incident in school.

The first time they speak to each other is at a gala when the men were too drunk and the ladies were too busy comparing the size of their diamonds

“Oh, toh tum ho Rai ji ki honhar ladki?” The smug boy of sixteen smirked, eyes taking in the petite form of the graceful girl that stood beside a pillar, observing the room more than interacting.

She offered him an uninterested side glance in return, scoffing quietly while internally blaming herself for not accompanying her mother to the ladies group despite her mother’s insistence. At least the ladies’ petty fight over whose diamond is bigger would have been better than the insolent blabbering of the bratty boy. Rolling her eyes at his words, her arms crossed in front of herself defensively, “aur tum ho Chandra Pratap ke bade bete joh pure school mein famous hai—gundagardi ke liye.”

Prithvi had expected a meek girl with a bright smile and shy words—much like Samar’s friend Indu, not the sharp-edged dagger that met him.

The boy gasped out in mock exaggeration, placing a hand on his chest as he shook his head while a self-assured smirk dangled on his lips. “At least main famous toh hu, Ms. Padhaku. Tumne kya kiya hai? Except for being a teacher’s pet and goodie-two-shoes? And of course, woh boring morning speeches,” he mocked, running a hand through his growing hair.

Usually? The action attracted the attention of many girls. But the one beside him? She was unamused, rolling her eyes and huffing about him being a brat under her breath.

“At least mere chehre pe acne toh nahi hai.”

He absolutely did not have acne on his face. He only had a handful of pimples, which was absolutely normal, wasn’t it?

He doesn’t approach her after that conversation, partially because he doesn’t want to be caught talking to her by someone and partially because he was scared (he would never admit that) of talking to her and making a fool out of himself in front of her.

She leaves for abroad for her higher education, determined to pursue a career in journalism, much to the joy of her father because what could be better than a journalist at home to shape the narratives in front of the masses. Meanwhile, he got involved in his family’s party, slowing working his way through the ranks until he consolidated significant power as the Youth Leader of the party.

They meet again after a few years, her having returned from abroad and joined a local daily newspaper as the editor and him being the front runner for getting the party’s leadership after his uncle.

The party was much like the one they had first spoken in—only that they were both individuals now with their own identities

“Pehle editorial mein humari party target karke khushi toh mili hogi,” he hummed almost conversationally, eyes taking the subtle changes in her—the hair that she had trimmed a little shorter, the straight back and squared shoulders that came with self-confidence. And yet, her own proud smile remained exactly the same as he had remembered it.

She turned around, a glass of champagne in her hand whilst she was surrounded by middle-aged men that frowned at the sight of women being close to alcohol—any kind. It was one of the first things he noticed about her, and the first that intrigued him beyond the boundaries of what he deemed right.

She raised an arched eyebrow, tilting her head to the side as she sassed back, “haan, bilkul waise hi jaise gareebon ko joothe waadein karke jeetne ke baad apki party khush hoti hai.”

He huffed a breath of amusement at that, clicking his glass of whiskey against her flute before taking a sip with a smirk that seemed to be pasted on his face. “Kitna time ho gaya, par phir bhi, kenchi jaisi zubaan bilkul waisi hi hai,” he commented, swirling the amber liquid leisurely, as if he had all the time of the world.

A shrug of her shoulders. A little hum.

That is what she grants him before stepping closer, her eyes watching him with the cunning of an experienced journalist even thought she was only a rookie on paper—but the paper didn’t mention her childhood surrounded by chameleon-like politicians that changed colours swiftly in the face of challenge.

“Kitna time ho gaya, but you are still a self-absorbed prick.” Her flute clings against his glass, finally taking a sip after a quiet toast delivered to him by a single punctuating wink before she turned around, leaving even before he could react to her words with a sharp jab of his own—leaving behind Prithvi whose heart was alit with the fire of intrigue for the retreating figure.

He begins to look forward for her editorials, mostly covering the political situation of Madhya Pradesh. But sometimes, she wrote about other topics too, genuine issues of the poor people and the need for feminism in the society or what a particular technology could do if integrated into the economy properly.

If the Rashtrawadi Party was ever involved in one of her articles, he made sure to send her a reply—through email or a text or even a letter placed discreetly on her table to be found by her later.

And despite all her better judgements, she began to wait for his replies, maybe even making a harsher statement just to try and rage bait him a little, well aware of his hotheadedness.

But surprisingly? He never disrespected her or showed his anger in the ways he would if it was anyone but her. Instead, his teasing about her own father wishing to use her as a pawn to win the elections intensify.

The first time they actually meet for a date, even though neither of the two call it that, they discuss the current controversy on the political horizon, spending hours on sharing ideas and cracking jokes on a minister’s horribly flawed speech. And somewhere in between that, they realise that their ideas are either mutually shared, or complimentary to one another.

They both are aware of their families’ complicated history of electoral battles and jabs during speeches in the state assembly, and yet, they find a different home in each other.

For Prithvi? She was the only person that didn’t expect him to swallow his emotions and take practical decisions. He didn’t need to lead in the moments he was with her, and he didn’t need to think his words before speaking to her. And for her? He was the only person who didn’t see a pawn in her, only a person. The person who didn’t see a political advantage but a woman with strong ideas.

Their meetings were planned carefully; a coincidental meeting at the bar, spent sitting side-by-side, discussing neutral topics over a glass of wine; excuses for a breath of fresh air overlapping each other in different conversations at the same gala; his interview with a junior reporter held in the same building that houses her office.

She is the first woman he is emotionally vulnerable with, allowing her to see his real feelings; and he is the first partner she probably ever has, letting go of the burdens of her family’s expectations to do something she truly loves for the first time in her life.

The physical intimacy of their relationship is different than his previous ones—with him being far more attentive about her needs

His body pressed hers flush against the marble pillar of the protruding balcony, moonlight bathing the white balustrade in silky silver glow. Her body arched off at the cold sensation pressing into her back, seeking the warmth of his body while her fingers curled into the collar of his cream Nehru jacket.

His hands moved, fingers threading through her loose strands tucking at her roots while his other hand snaked through her waist, slightly calloused skin grazing the sliver of back left pared by the pallu of her saree. His lips press open-mouth kisses against the length of her neck, being cautious enough to not leave behind a mark to be scrutinised by someone.

She lets out a whimper—of pain or of desperation, he couldn’t quite deduce, especially with the fog of desire clouding his mind. But he stopped, lips brushing against the spot where her pulse jumped before straightening, hand in her hair loosening until it was merely a caressing presence on her scalp.

“Aap thik hai?” He asked, thumb brushing against the line of her jaw.

Wide eyes glance up at him, surprised before she let out an annoyed huff, rolling her eyes at him even while a blush decorated the apple of her cheeks.

“Maine rukne ko kaha tha joh aap ruk gaye?” She hissed, shaking her head while she felt his fingers draw soothing circles on her back—as if making a quiet apology before he leaned forward, forehead brushing against hers.

“Maaf kariye, mujhe laga apko pareshani ho rahi thi.”

Her gaze softened, a dreamy smile teasing her lips before she allowed a smirk instead.

“Pehli wali girlfriend ke saath bhi aisa hi karte the?”

His hand moved from her hair, settling on her waist, tight enough to keep her body pressed against his. Almost as if he was trying to keep her by his side—as long as it was possible. His nose brushed against her temple, breathing in her intoxicating scent and basking in the ethereal beauty caged in his arms.

He raised an eyebrow at her words, huffing a quiet chuckle.

"Pehle wali tum nahi thi na, meri jaan."

He absolutely despises keeping their relationship a secret—not being able to hold her hand or fix the pallu of her saree; not being able to claim her as his in front of everyone, having to endure the sight of other men flirting blatantly with her in his presence; having to pretend that he only know of her, and not her.

She is aware of his many complaints about their situation, and tries to soothe him in her own way but reassuring him that she likes the quietness of their meetings, the anticipation of spending some time with him and the thrill of sneaking around.

Though he sees and finds much comfort in her words, he also sees that she longed to be with him publicly just as he did. And he swears an oath to himself that one day, he will surely make her his wife—loud enough that every individual in Madhya Pradesh would know.

After he leaves Rashtrawadi party and founds the Jana Shakti party, Prithvi makes sure that their next meeting isn’t in the shadows or behind the pillars, but in her own office, right where everyone could see the Chief Ministerial candidate brush a hair away from the editor’s face or place his hand on her back.

Her father, even though he wasn’t much at ease by the thought of his daughter being involved with his opponent in the election, could not resist the opportunity the moment had presented him with. After all, it was rather evident that Prithviraj Pratap would become the next Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh, and it was better to align with the state government than sit in the opposition like her father had been doing since years.

They aren’t naive enough to think that the approval of her father is out of genuine blessing. But they were not above using the opportunity to benefit from it.

By the time it was his swearing-in ceremony as the Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh, she was already sat in the front row as Mrs. Prithvi Pratap.

[desigal-26]

I loveeeeee your Prithviraj stuff so much

How about Prithvi with a bureaucrat who doesn’t like him but he’s smitten with her

Maybe they initially have an enemies thing because she stops one of his projects. Appreciate it

I didn’t even see this gem in my asks 😭 thanks for sending this! Loved the idea a lot 🫶🏻 I might not post anything in the next few days…given the uncertainty that surrounds my result

A Signature and a Spark

Prithviraj ‘Prithvi’ Pratap x Reader

He did not prefer to hear the word ‘no’, and she preferred to keep her ideals above the fickle noises of politicians

There were no men who could deny the heir of Rashtrawadi Party—but she was no men. She was a force to be reckoned. The only one that could challenge the presumptuous man…and win.

Warnings: Enemies with sparks(?). Reader is a baddie from UP (BECAUSE I AM FROM UP) and wears glasses. Prithvi is whipped for a baddie. Banter. Flirting.

Tag List: @sonasarchive, @goodnightkatherine, @twinblueflamee, @misteriadare, @fanaajnabi, @rainpuddlesoup

Prithvi had heard about the retirement of the old District Magistrate—a man who bowed his head in deference and came to the party office himself, just to make sure that Bhanu Pratap had to take no pain of sitting in a car and bear the burden of stepping into the government office of the DM. A loyal man, indeed, but greedy too—signing off on all the rallies that the Rashtrawadi Party organised in exchange of a little…encouragement.

But just as every king has to step back after a certain time, the old man had to retire, albeit reluctantly. Parting with power was a cruel separation, regardless of whether it was political or administrative. But holding on to it? That might be a choice for the leaders that the people choose, but not the civil servants appointed.

And so, the man had retired.

And in his place, came a new District Magistrate. One that the workers of Bhanu Pratap’s party called stern and strict, loyal only to the constitution and the welfare of the people and not the parties that played the dirty tricks of corruption. One that had refused the opposition from organising a rally in an area that was observing political unrest at the time.

Prithvi paid the shift of administrative power no mind. Why should he? None was foolish enough to refuse the whims of the Rashtrawadi Party; and none was half-minded enough to deny the temperamental heir presumptive.

He sat in the back of the car, one leg resting upon another while his fingers drummed on his knee—a rhythm only he knew of—when the insistent ring of a phone disrupted the quiet silence after a long day of giving speeches laced with half-truths and empty promises. A well-created mask of charm that had dropped to let exhaustion take over until he needed to perform again, for the people and the cameras.

Brij Gopal sat in the front beside the driver, a mastermind that reminded the young man of Lord Krishna with his wisdom and ability to think ten steps ahead of others. It was as if he knew beforehand how the story would unfold, and he was merely a catalyst, pushing the other elements to move in the directions written in their fate.

The call was short, and not much was said by the wise man except for a “chalo, main dekhta hu” before the call was dropped and silence again filled the small cabin. Though this time? A looming unease floated just above it.

“Kya hua, mama?” Prithvi queried, eyes narrowed, fingers stilling on his knee as he waited for an answer—one that would explain the sudden churn in his stomach.

Brij Gopal exhaled, eyes firm on the phone in his hand before he nodded with a huff of laughter. He had anticipated this would happen, warned the party even, in his own subtle words—but they didn’t listen. And now, there stood a thorn to their side, a stubborn one that won’t step aside at the sight of money.

“Naye DM ne Azad Nagar wali rally pe sign nahi kiya. Kaha hai ki waha ki paristithi abhi thik nahi rally ke liye.”

“Kyu?” Prithvi prompted, a frown tugging at his handsome features while his mind raced to calculate the consequences of the setback—the kind of which they never had to endure before. When was the last time their rally wasn’t approved? The heir couldn’t even remember. Definitely not in front of his own eyes.

So why now was a bureaucrat deciding that their campaigning wasn’t worth the approval? Especially one that had only recently arrived in Madhya Pradesh.

The old man offered no explanation, gaze shifting to the horizon outside while his mind analysed the shift in the political landscape. The introduction of a new character that seemed rigid in ideals—inflexible even at the offer of riches that would have made a massive impact before. One that the opposition had tried desperately to buy and exploit, but their efforts had failed. And it wasn’t only an unsuccessful attempt at creating an asset, but they had created a liability in the form of a high-profile case of corruption.

Rashtrawadi Party had profited on it, paying media to sensationalise it beyond the limits until it was a surety that the accused politicians would lose their seats in the next state election.

“Bulaiye naye DM ko office, dekhte hai kya dikkat hai,” Prithvi muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes at the addition of an unnecessary work in his already busy schedule. But the stillness that followed his words made him glance at the party worker sitting beside him—a close associate from his college days that had followed him into politics.

The man refused to meet his eyes, gaze downcast with chin tipped low. The expression of a man given an impossible task, as if the young politician hadn’t asked him to summon the DM to the party office but the devil himself.

“Virodhi party ne koshish ki thi, par DM Sahiba ne saaf kaha hai ki jisse milna hai usse unke office khud aana padega,” Brij Gopal explained calmly, as if he was narrating a mere story and not the unofficial rule that the lady had created upon her arrival—a rule so distinctive that it evoked the wraith of many, though none could do about anything about it.

The young heir raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as his mind processed the words and the challenge that hid in the words uttered by the freshly-arrived government official. Surprise coloured him for a brief moment, for it wasn’t a gutsy man he had imagined the new DM to be.

But a woman.

One that had created rather large waves since she was transferred here to take on the top-most rank in the district—may it be her refusal to take bribes from anyone or the corruption case against a few politicians that had tried to sway her morales. One that had cancelled many arms and ammunition licenses, stating the license-holders’ obvious and intentional inclusion in unrest and violence that had resulted in innocent deaths. One that had also stopped an illegal land acquisition involving Rajkumar Seksaria, an old acquaintance of Bhanu Pratap and father of Samar’s friend Indu.

“DM ke office chalo.”

Because Prithviraj Pratap had to meet this woman himself, for never before had he come across one that had intrigued him so much with her actions and not beauty.

A hour it took the small convoy to reach the modest government office, guards spilling out before the young politician to make sure no harm shall come to the future of the leading party of Madhya Pradesh while party workers spoke to the shaking employees, demanding that the new DM sees their leader at once.

But the District Magistrate enjoyed testing patience, just as she enjoyed crushing fragile egos—especially if they belonged to egoistic men—underneath the simple mojaris she wore under her formal sarees.

And so, Prithvi is made to sit in the confines of his car until the sun slowly began considering return to the horizon and the expensive watch around his wrist feared to inform him that he had waited for nearly two hours in the car. But his angry was of no use, for Brij Gopal would calmly point out that at least, they sat in cool air of the air conditioning, unlike the waiting room outside the office.

The young temperamental man was at the brink of losing his mind and shoving his way into the office when the shuddering peon came stumbling out.

“Aaiye, Prithvi ji,” the middle-aged man gestured while opening the car door for him with a downward tilt of his chin. He was used to this deference, not the defiance from the lady who belonged to the land of gods and prime ministers. But he was sure that the resistance was short-lived, and would end with a signature approving their rally.

Brij Gopal and his right hand man trailed behind the young leader, sharp eyes taking account of every employee that nodded their head respectfully at the party advancing towards the core.

But thorns of problems still stick to his side stubbornly—almost as if his life had decided to throw each and every tantrum it could.

The men stationed outside the District Magistrate’s Office stopped them before they could enter—an armed guard’s hand pressed to Prithvi’s chest, much to his raging fury which was evident in the flared nostrils. Fingers curled into fists by his side, but he knew that violence would only escalate the already unpleasant situation.

“Aap logo mein se sirf ek hi andar ja sakta hai.”

The young politician scoffed, dark eyes narrowed with fury, but he received no chance to express it as the wise man beside him placed a comforting hand on his broad shoulder, offering him an encouraging smile before he gestured towards the door.

“Tum jao, beta. Hum bahar intezaar kar lenge,” said in a tone that left no space for an argument, as if one was fool enough to argue with such a wise man that could sense political shifts better than veterans with decades of experience.

The door opened for the aspiring politician and closed behind him while his eyes carefully roamed over the length of the room. Two prominent flags of the nation stood behind the table in the center, guarding the national emblem and the words ‘Satyamev Jayate’ emblazoned on the wall in golden. Files stacked one corner of the glass-top table while the other was occupied by a laptop left open.

And behind the desk, sat the new District Magistrate, or as Prithvi has come to call her in his mind, his newest problem.

She looked up at the sound of his heavy footsteps, unamused eyes sitting intelligently behind clear glasses met his before she gestured to the chair opposite herself with a hand and a small ‘baithiye’—polite, but stern enough to fuel his intrigue.

“Bataiye, kya dikkat hai?” She queried once he was settled in front of her, making him nod and lean back into his chair with a smirk dangling on his face, arms crossed in front of him. A cheap trick of intimidation and superiority that worked on most, but her expressions clearly gave away her boredom. A stiff smile, fingers intertwined in her lap expectantly and a glint in her eyes that clearly indicated that she already knew the purpose behind his visit.

But she wanted to see the man react and decide herself whether he, too, exhibited the textbook personality of a product of political nepotism.

“Apne Azad Nagar ki rally ko approve nahi kiya,” he stated calmly, letting his eyes drag over the fairly young lady—perhaps, even a few years younger than him—as he waited for her reply.

Her lips tugged in a sarcastic smile, an arched eyebrow raised as she shrugged her shoulders, leaning back in her own chair.

“Toh?”

“Toh?” Prithvi repeated with a huff of laughter that carried no warmth, only a cold sharpness, a hint of breaking patience and a slowly rising anger that was capable of burning down the entire office—but the lady in front of him cared nothing of it.

She was toying with him.

And she was enjoying it.

Thoroughly.

The heir of the Rashtrawadi Party leaned forward, one hand settling down on the glass-top table while he offered a menacing smile that added to her amusement.

“Dekhiye, madam,” he began, on the verge of losing his ice-thin patience, but even he knew that only diplomacy and words could get him out of this situation. Violence wasn’t the key here, and so, he continued, “Azad Nagar humari party ke liye bohot mahtvapurn hai, aur yeh rally humare chunav prachar ke liye. Aap toh yeh janti hi hongi ki prachar humare party ka adhikaar hai, aur aap humare adhikar ko humse cheen nahi sakti.”

He had expected his words to blow a dent in her amusement. And much to his dissatisfaction, his words seemed to do exactly the opposite of what he had intended for. The glint in her eyes increased manifold as she nodded in agreement to his words, letting out a hum that was more mocking than anything else.

“Sahi kaha apne,” she replied, the chair swaying a little as her gaze shifted to the file sat upon the top of the stack—the one that Prithvi was here to persuade her into signing.

“Par aap yeh bhul rahe hai ki mera kartavya hai district ke har ek ilaake mein shanti banaye rakhna. Aur iss waqt, ground reality yeh hai ki apki party ki rally se Azad Nagar mein disturbance ke alawa kuch nahi hoga. So, apologies, Mr. Pratap, but I cannot approve your rally.”

In a usual case, the said man would have been enraged and expressed it. Thrown a tantrum, harsh words and flung off a few things off her table, intimidated her with threats until she was forced to either sign the file or call for security and live the next of her days looking over her shoulder.

But this woman was no usual case.

Prithvi found himself deeply intrigued—by her straightforward words and the fearlessness that pronounced each syllable, by her stubborn dedication that fuelled her every action, by the ideals that dictated her decisions. The more he sat there, the more he found himself curious about her, on a level many would frown upon. But who was the young politician if not a man with his own grey morals and desires?

“Disturbances? Kaisi disturbances, madam?” He prompted, no longer because he wished her to sign those papers, but because every word she uttered made him grow more addicted to her.

A dangerous addiction.

The woman released a barely audible sigh, completely unaware of the whirlwind of thoughts in the mind of the man sitting opposite her—only focused on upholding her ideals and duty, as was expected by any sincere officer.

And yet, she could not deny that her gaze lingered on the sharp edge of his jaw or the intense gaze that seemed to look into her very soul—dark enough to embarrass even a moonless sky and deep enough to put shame to the deepest ocean. Gaze that felt like intrusion, a persuasive caress against the very barriers of her mind and soul.

“Azad Nagar ke yuvak apke chune hue umeedvaar se khush nahi, aur sambhavna hai ki woh log hinsa se apna gussa abhivyakt kare,” she explained coldly, straightening up in her chair with her intertwined fingers settling on the table—a quiet gesture to assert her own power, firmer than before, but not yet rude.

“If you look at it from one perspective, I am doing you a favour actually—saving your life from a potential assassination.”

Prithvi smirked at that, raising an eyebrow while his dark bore into her unwavering one. He tusked, shaking his hand before he leaned ever closer over the table, elbow resting on the glass, and his face perched on his palm.

“Pehli mulakaat mein hi itni chinta, DM Sahiba?”

The District Magistrate scoffed, rolling her eyes at the audacity of the man to flirt with her. A politician that desired career suicide would only attempt that, or perhaps a fearless one, or an idiot. And the man clad in a pristine kurta with a beige dupatta around his neck was clearly not part of the third category.

And he was very evidently a paradox to her.

Product of nepotism but not unlearned like she had expected. Strong political backing because of an entire bloodline, and yet, his own spine was made of iron—inflexible and stubborn. A textbook product of nepotism, and yet, she could see the potential in him. The kind that attracted people nonetheless of their origins.

A true politician perhaps.

But those were corrupt, with morales that were more black than grey and hands tainted with blood.

Exactly the type she kept distance from.

Usually.

“Chinta kah lijiye ya chetavni, apki marzi.”

The elder son of Chandra Pratap rose from his chair then, with a smirk that promised devastation as he rounded the table slowly, picking up the file and placing it in front of her. One of his hand sat on the table—beside the file—while the other gripped the back of her chair, bending over until he was eye level to her, still unfazed—at least on the outside.

“Azad Nagar ki chinta ke liye hum hai, aap bass sign kariye,” he whispered, his gaze involuntarily shifting south to the curve of her lips before he reigned in his drifting eyes.

“Security ke dvara bahar nikale jaate hue acche nahi lagenge aap, Mr. Pratap,” she asserted, a threat disguised poorly as a thought. But it wasn’t supposed to be disguised well anyway, just add to their banter that spiralled from professional intellectual wrestling to something…unprecedented.

His first instinct was to use his charms and flirt, especially given such an incredible opening by her. But unfortunate for him, time was running out, and he had no choice but to press on the matter in hand.

“Ek neta ke shabdon ki bohot keemat hoti hai samaaj mein, madam ji.”

“Dhamkiyon se apka kaam nahi hoga.”

Oh, but he knew that already. For if threats would have worked on her, he would already have her approval signed and stamped.

“Vaada karte hai aap se ki Azad Nagar ki rally mein kuch nahi hoga,” he affirmed, straightening up while the hand on her chair rotated it until she faced and not the table. The air thickened as the silence grew, eyes unwavering just as their unwavering will.

“Aur agar hua toh?”

Because when had a politician fulfilled his promise?

He huffed a laugh, bending until his index finger hooked under her chin, tilting her face up until their eyes meet.

“Toh zimmedari humari.”

She shouldn’t believe him, she knew just well. And yet, as her gaze traced the length of his face for deceit and found none, her heart longed to trust him. All while her heart spew venom like arrows, questioning and screaming at her to listen to reason—just as she always has.

But reason often lost the battles when the opponent was heart and its desires.

And she had suppressed hers for long enough.

The chair rotated at her will, facing the table again, but no longer the same idealistic woman who swayed in front of nothing but morales. Now? She was a woman taking a risk she had never did before. One that could end harshly for her, but for once, her head bowed to desires in her life.

Careful fingers opened the file and careful fingers plucked open a pen issued by the government. The tip of it hovered over the blank, fingers awaiting the orders of a hesitant mind that was a battlefield for logic and emotion.

But fear wasn’t synonymous to her.

The blue ink dried soon enough on the paper in an elegant signature inscribed with the date. An approval given, though full of risks that could be mitigated was the file still resting on the stack of files in the corner of her table.

“If something happens, I will come for you, Mr. Pratap.”

Prithvi smirked, bending over yet again until his cheek nearly brushed hers, eyes meeting in a side-glance meant to hold contempt on her behalf and smugness on his, yet, they held something far too volatile.

“You can come for me anytime, DM Sahiba.”