The heavy scent of ittra clings to the air, thick like the silence that blankets the Jhaniya Haveli at 2 AM. The marble floors gleam under the soft glow of chandeliers, but the real heat in the room isn’t from the lights.

It’s from Jabroo— The man who stands tall at 6’5", built like a tank, broad shoulders stretching the black compressed tee tight across his chest, veins snaking down his thick, muscled forearms. His grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, a departure from his usual crisp black shalwar kameez, and that small, gold Rolex glints on his wrist—sharp, commanding, a mark of a man who moves in silence but leaves a trail of fear behind.

His face is stoic—sharp jawline, hard eyes, lips set in a tight line—but there’s something dangerous simmering in the way he stands behind you, just close enough for the world to know who you belong to.

And you?

You’re a vision of soft defiance. A chubby hourglass figure in a pink pajama set, tiny bow prints scattered across the fabric, the low-cut top clinging tight across your chest—snug on the bust, a little underboob peeking out when you move. Your juicy thighs stretch the fabric of your high-waisted pants, your wide, fluffy ass accentuated in a way that could make any man lose his mind. But you’re not any man’s girl. You’re his. And the way Jabroo’s dark eyes drop to your curves, then snap back to Sardar Jhaniya? Yeah. The tension is suffocating.

Because sitting there, in the carved wooden armchair, Sardar Shah Jhaniya—the lion of the modern village, ruler of an empire, your father—eyes you both with that sharp, calculating gaze that’s made grown men piss themselves.

But right now?

Even with his salt-and-pepper beard bristling, his eyes narrowing at your outfit, your curves, and Jabroo’s obvious claim— He can’t say a word.

Because you’re his princess. His jaan. His gudiya. The apple of his eye, the one who could shatter his iron will with a single pout.

His gaze flares at your outfit, nostrils flaring, ready to scold, but the words die in his throat. His fist clenches on the armrest, but his heart melts.

Because you—his daughter—have always been his weakness. He might be the king outside these walls, but when it comes to you, he’s a father first. And when your eyes lift to his, that subtle, confident glint in your gaze—he knows.

He knows he’s lost this fight before it even begins. His salt-and-pepper beard twitches, his hand gripping the armrest so tight the veins pop. He looks at you in that western outfit—at the cleavage, the underboob, the way the pants cling to your thighs—and his nostrils flare. He hates when you wear western. Always has. But tonight? It’s worse.

Because Jabroo is here. Because Jabroo isn’t in his shalwar kameez. Because Jabroo looks like he owns you.

And Sardar Jhaniya—your father—isn’t stupid. He knows. Oh, he knows.

Sardar Shah Jhaniya’s voice, low and deadly: "Ye kya chal raha hai?" (What the hell is going on here?)

The air vibrates with unsaid words, heavy like a monsoon storm about to break.

And then—finally, in that low, gravelly voice, deep as a war drum—Jabroo speaks: Jabroo (voice firm, deep, respectful but unshaken):

"Sardar sahab… aaj raat hum maafi nahin maangne aaye. Sirf sach kehne aaye hain." (Sardar sir... we haven't come to ask forgiveness tonight. Only to speak the truth.)

"Main sirf aap ka bodyguard nahi hoon. Main aap ki beti se mohabbat karta hoon. Aur usse shaadi karna chahta hoon." (I'm not just your bodyguard. I love your daughter. And I want to marry her.)