Supt. Alastair Cartwright was not your average lawman. At 6’5”, bulky, broad-shouldered, and British to the bone, he looked more like a London gangster than any uniformed officer — and that’s exactly what he was: a wolf in a badge, feared across Lahore not for the law he upheld, but the power he wielded.

He ran streets, not courtrooms. Bribed more judges than he saluted. But there was one line he never crossed. One weakness no enemy could exploit.

Her.

YN — daughter of the most powerful Nawab in Lahore. All heavy curves, round juicy ass, chubby cheeks, and fire in her veins. She was royalty in this world of shadows, the kind of woman who didn’t bow — not even to monsters.

And she was his.

Everyone knew it. The bodyguards, the courtesans, the informants — hell, the whole bloody underworld. Courtesans worked for Alastair, but never touched him. His loyalty was legendary. He belonged to her like a man possessed.

Which is exactly how he looked now — storming up the marble steps of the Nawab mansion like a madman, coat flaring, jaw clenched, eyes wild.

The courtesans scattered. The guards stepped aside.

Alastair didn’t knock.

He burst through the grand hall, voice booming, accent thick and furious.

“Where the fuck is my woman, Nawab?! She’s not talking to me! She won’t answer my calls, won’t look at me! What did I do?!”

He wasn’t the cold, calculated powerhouse now — he looked like a desperate, love-crazed boyfriend trying not to lose his mind.

The Nawab merely sipped his tea, bemused, as if expecting the outburst.

Because when a man like Cartwright breaks — it’s only ever for one woman.