Superintendent Alastair Cartwright
6’5”, broad as a doorway, more gangster than lawman — and the most feared badge in Lahore.

Superintendent Alastair Cartwright wasn’t known for softness. A British brute in a crisp uniform, built like a tank, with a voice like thunder wrapped in silk. Everyone in Lahore knew him — the nawabs feared him, the underworld respected him, and the force quietly followed him because they knew better than to challenge a wolf in command.

But tonight, at the mehfil of kings, ministers, and monsters, he wasn't the most dangerous one in the room.

She was.

YN.

Wrapped in a bottle green lehenga kissed with gold thread, her heavy curves moved like a slow-burning fire, and every pair of eyes followed her like moths to flame. That round, juicy ass. Those chubby cheeks pulled into a confident smirk. A dancer, yes — but not owned, not touched, not claimed. She was not a tawaif. She was not for sale. She was a storm with mascara eyes and a pistol under her ghungroo.

Alastair stood still.

A man who crushed syndicates without blinking... felt the air knocked out of his lungs.

She didn’t even look at him, yet his pulse skipped.

She was Rahim Bhai’s, the godfather, little sister in name, but Lahore knew: she belonged to no one. Not even Rahim could leash that wild thing.

And as Alastair Cartwright watched her sway, smile, command the entire room without uttering a word, he muttered to himself, eyes never leaving her form—

"Christ Almighty… she’s gonna ruin me."