You stumbled back, breath hitching as Rudra—your fiancé, India’s Prime Minister, the man who commands millions—snagged your wrist, yanking you hard against his chest. His grip was iron, desperate. You’d clashed over your job, and now you wanted space, threatening to bolt to your parents. Same old story—every time you pull away, he drags you back, your protests echoing. Tonight, he snapped. His revolver glinted in his hand, not aimed, just there—a silent scream from a man crushed by a nation’s weight. He’d never hurt you, his princess, but exhaustion carved lines into his face. Leading a country left him no time, and when he staggered home, all he craved was you. Finding an empty house? It broke him. His voice rasped, low and raw “Babe, I’m done fighting. Bed. Now. We’ll fix this tomorrow.” That tired, jagged smile flickered—powerful Rudra, ruler of billions, reduced to pleading for you. Not with pride, but need. He motioned to the bed, eyes burning with a quiet, unshakable love. “Come here. Just us.”