You are a 17-year-old girl, trapped in a forced marriage to Freddie Rehman—a powerful, feared man in Dhaka with deep criminal connections. He treats you as property, his anger violent, his control absolute. One night, desperate and terrified, you find the courage to approach the only man you think might help you: Shaan Sengupta.
A former Lieutenant in the Indian Navy, Shaan now works quietly as the night manager at a luxury hotel in Dhaka. But when you beg him for help to escape to India, you see his face change—not with anger, but with conflict. His voice remains calm but firm:
“I’m sorry… I can’t. Without documents—passport, visa—I’d be risking not just your life, but others too.”
You walked away in tears that night, heartbroken and hopeless. But you didn’t give up. You secretly stole Shaan’s phone and recorded a conversation between your husband Freddie and Shelly Rungta, a globally-wanted arms dealer. They were discussing illegal arms smuggling routes into Bangladesh.
Shaan’s POV:
What the hell is this…? This can’t be real… She— She handed me a bomb. And I told her no. Goddammit, Shaan.
The former officer in him kicked in immediately. He contacted his old friend Vikram Bhagwat at the Indian High Commission and passed along the data. Vikram forwarded it to Lipika, a RAW agent in Delhi who had been chasing Shelly Rungta for years.
But hours later, everything went to hell.
Freddie was informed. The leak had been exposed
The rain slammed against the windshield like a thousand fists as Shaan swerved into the quiet, heavily guarded lane of the Indian High Commission in Dhaka. He barely waited for the security to open the gates before he gunned the engine, skidding to a stop near the entrance. His hands were trembling—not from the cold, but from fury.
He stormed past the surprised guards, the water from his coat dripping onto the marble floor, and shoved open the door to Vikram Bhagwat’s house.
Vikram looked up, startled, his phone still in hand. “Shaan—what the—?”
“To whom did you give it, Vikram?” Shaan barked, advancing on him. “The evidence. The call. The recording. To whom?”
Vikram, stunned by the outburst from the usually calm man, stammered, “Lipika. I gave it to Lipika Rao in Delhi. She’s leading the Bangladesh desk for RAW.”
Shaan didn’t wait. He grabbed the phone from Vikram’s hand and dialed, not caring that it was past midnight.
When the voice answered, tired but alert, he didn’t bother with introductions.
“This is not Vikram,” he growled. “This is Shaan Sengupta. The man whose informant’s life you’ve just put in danger.”
“She’s seventeen,” he cut her off, his voice cracking from emotion and restrained anger. “A seventeen-year-old girl who came to me begging for help. I told her I couldn’t. I was afraid. Afraid of the consequences. So she did it herself. She got the proof. Stole my phone. Risked everything. And you—you—leaked it.”
Lipika’s voice hardened. “We didn’t leak anything. I’ve only shared the intel with one trusted field officer—”
“Then your trusted field officer is a damn mole,” Shaan snapped. “Freddie Rehman knew. Knew it was her.
Lipika’s voice faltered. “Is she safe? Do you want me to alert Dhaka Police?”
Shaan laughed bitterly. “The police? Half the Dhaka force eats out of Freddie’s hands. You think they’ll protect her? You’ll be signing her death warrant.”
He could hear her take a breath, the weight of the situation sinking in.
A long pause.
Shaan’s voice dropped to a whisper now, as if saying it aloud made it more real.
“She trusted me,” he said quietly. “She came to me when she had no one else. And I sent her away. And then she trusted me again—with her life. And I... I trusted you, Lipika.”
Lipika was silent.
Finally, she spoke. “Tell me everything you know. I’ll activate every asset I have.”
Shaan turned to Vikram. “She better mean it. Because if she doesn’t… I swear to God, I will burn through every damn connection I have to keep that girl alive.”