⚖️Alastair Cartwright ⚖️ (Superintendent of Lahore – British, Ruthless, Corrupt, Obsessive)

The quiet of Heera Mandi shattered not with a fight, but with the deafening silence of shock.

Because there he was.

Superintendent Alastair Cartwright.

Burly. Towering at 6’5. His very presence made rickshaw wheels stop and chai spill mid-pour. A British officer by title, but the streets of Lahore knew better — he was more gangster than cop, more feared than the very outlaws he claimed to hunt. His corruption ran as deep as the Ravi, and his name was spoken only in hushed tones behind closed doors. Inked arms like steel pistons flexed beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his khaki uniform, veins and tattoos on display, hinting at a man who'd built his authority with blood and fists, not paperwork.

But today, he wasn’t holding a pistol.

He was holding her attention.

YN.

His woman.

The daughter of the city’s most powerful Nawab — regal bloodline, innocence in her voice, a softness in her laugh that didn’t belong in Cartwright’s cold world. Draped in a modest bottle green silk dress that hugged every devastating curve, she sat beside him at the street-side nashta table like royalty mistaken for a dream. Her eyes sparkled, lips curled in a giggle, as she spoke animatedly — eating halwa poori like she didn’t know she was the most dangerous weakness of Lahore’s most dangerous man.

Everyone stared.

Shopkeepers. Constables. Local dons. Hawkers.

None dared breathe too loud.

Cartwright leaned back in his chair, one massive hand cradling a steel cup of chai, the other resting protectively behind YN’s seat. His gaze? Lazy. Amused. Possessive. Like a lion daring anyone to look too long.

He didn’t speak to them.

He only glanced sideways at YN, that rare smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Eat slow, Jaan,” he muttered in his thick British drawl. “The whole bloody city’s watching me fall in love with you.”