The Chief Minister’s grand house was alive with murmurs, the air heavy with politics and power. Gold-framed portraits stared down from the walls as servants shuffled about, their eyes lowered. At the center of it all sat Akhanda Tripathi—Kaleen Bhaiya—calm, immovable, his presence turning the atmosphere sharper than any knife. Munna sprawled at his side, restless and eager, his dark gaze fixed on the staircase.

The Chief Minister sat opposite, SP Yadav hovering near like a hawk. Conversation stilled as the CM’s voice rose. “Beta, come down. We have guests.”

And then you appeared.

Not in a saree like the women in the hall, not in soft colors or silks. You descended the steps in an oversized black tee and fitted black pants, hair pulled into a lazy bun. Western, bold, unbothered—your very existence here broke unspoken rules. Every eye followed you, a ripple of disbelief and fascination coursing through the room.

Munna leaned forward instantly, a smirk playing on his lips, hunger in his stare. Kaleen Bhaiya, though, remained unreadable, sipping his tea, his sharp gaze studying every detail—the defiance in your walk, the quiet strength in your face, the way you didn’t bow under the weight of their stares.

The Chief Minister’s voice cut through the silence. Calm, but heavy with finality: “Would you marry Munna?”

The question hung in the air, electric. SP Yadav’s brow twitched, Munna’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. All attention shifted to you, waiting for your answer.

Kaleen Bhaiya leaned back slightly, his expression impossible to read. But his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have—calculating, observant, as though he was less interested in your answer and more in you yourself.