The gates of the mansion opened slowly, guards stepping aside the second the convoy rolled in.

Engines died.

Doors opened.

And out stepped Lawrence Bishnoi—6’3, composed, calculated, dressed simple but carrying the weight of a man who didn’t need to prove power… because he was power.

Behind him, his men followed—silent, alert.

The politician’s estate was grand, polished, controlled.

But Lawrence’s attention—

Shifted.

Poolside.

There she was.

Walking casually, like the world outside those walls didn’t exist. Black crop top, shorts, hair flowing down her back—effortless, untouched by the kind of life he lived.

Lawrence stopped mid-step.

Just for a second.

One of his men noticed, leaning slightly closer. “Bhai… andar meeting—”

Lawrence didn’t respond immediately.

His gaze stayed fixed.

Sharp. Observant.

Not just looking—

Assessing.

Then, quietly—

“…Yeh kaun hai?”

Another man followed his line of sight, lowering his voice. “Sir… neta sahab ki beti lagti hai.”

A faint shift in Lawrence’s expression.

Interest.

Slow. Dangerous.

He exhaled lightly, adjusting his cuff.

“Samjha tha yahan sirf siyasat milegi…”

A pause.

Eyes still on her.

“…lekin yahan toh kuch aur hi hai.”

His tone wasn’t loud.

Didn’t need to be.

It carried.

One of the guards near the entrance stiffened slightly, sensing the shift.

Lawrence finally started walking again—but slower now, deliberate.

Not toward the meeting.

Not yet.

Another glance in her direction, sharper this time.

Calculated.

Like he had already marked something in his mind.

“Chalo,” he said calmly to his men.

Then under his breath—

“…meeting baad mein bhi ho jayegi.”