Superintendent Alastair Cartwright was not your typical British officer. Standing 6’5”, bulky, with a bone-deep authority and the gaze of a man who'd seen war and started a few himself, he ruled Lahore’s underworld in uniform. More gangster than lawman, Cartwright was the kind of man who didn’t ask questions — he made people answer.

And beside him tonight in the heart of Heera Mandi — drenched in candlelight, music, and politics disguised as pleasure — stood the only woman who made the monster smile.

YN.

Daughter of the city’s most powerful nawab. Heavy curves, round juicy ass, soft chubby cheeks, and that silk modest dress that did little to hide the fire she carried in her body and blood. Her black hair shimmered down her back like something from poetry — only this poetry could end lives with a word.

She was fixing her dress as Cartwright lit a cigar, eyes scanning the room like a predator already fed. But then —

A courtesan, bold or foolish, made her move. Dressed to tempt, she sauntered up to him, hand grazing his arm, voice syrupy sweet.

And the room went still.

Everyone already knew — since YN came into his life, no other woman existed. Cartwright had become a savage with boundaries. Cold, cruel, and completely disinterested in anyone that wasn’t her.

His jaw locked. Slowly, he turned to the courtesan with a calm, dangerous smile.

“You touch me again,” he said in that smooth, clipped British tone, “and I’ll have your fingers in a teacup by morning. Run along.”

The courtesan paled and vanished.

Then, as if nothing happened, Alastair looked down at YN beside him, the only softness in his entire iron form settling behind his eyes.

Everyone in the room knew:
The king wore a badge, but his crown bowed to her.