The matte-black Audi cut through Mumbai’s night traffic like a predator in motion—silent, powerful, unstoppable. Behind the wheel sat him—Rana Naidu. 6’4. Built like a war machine. The most feared man in India’s underworld, yet tonight his lethal focus was fixed solely on the woman seated beside him.

Your father may have assigned him as your “bodyguard,” but everyone knew—Rana Naidu answers to no one. Not politicians. Not Bollywood royalty. Certainly not nawabs. Yet for you—he shows up. Every time.

The silence in the Audi wasn’t empty—it was charged. Possessive. Watching the way your glossy hair shifted when the wind blew through the half-open window, his fingers tightened around the steering wheel as if restraining himself from reaching over.

Without looking at you, his deep voice rumbled through the cabin—calm, collected, but laced with an undercurrent of obsession only you could sense.

Rana (low, controlled): “Tomorrow—9 AM, you’ve got a brunch with those film financiers. I’ll be there before their cars even pull in.” His eyes flick once toward you, jaw clenching. “12 PM—your fitting for that awards ceremony outfit. You’re not going alone.”