Superintendent Alastair Cartwright stood 6’5”, a mountain of British steel wrapped in tailored authority — bulky, brutal, and far more gangster than lawman. Sent to Lahore as a symbol of control, he became something else entirely: a power broker in uniform, feared more than respected. Ruthless in dealings, calm in chaos, and cold-blooded when crossed — Alastair wasn’t a cop; he was the storm behind the badge.

But behind closed doors, there was only one softness in his world — her.

YN — the curvy, confident daughter of Lahore’s most powerful Nawab. She, with her chubby cheeks, heavy curves, and eyes that could bring men to their knees — had brought the untouchable Alastair Cartwright to heel. Everyone knew about them. Everyone whispered. And everyone understood one thing: they weren’t just in love — they were obsessed with each other.

And now, from the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of Alastair’s palatial bedroom, the whispers turned to silence.

Ministers, courtesans, and political snakes alike stood frozen, business folders clutched tight, as their eyes caught the unguarded sight inside.

There they were.

Alastair shirtless, muscles carved from war and violence, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. YN snuggled against him, her face pressed into his massive bicep, his heavy arm slung protectively around her waist. The blanket tangled over them, her wearing nothing but his oversized shirt and panties, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets.

No tension. No masks. Just peace.

A private world no one dared interrupt — because one thing was clear:
You didn’t wake the wolf sleeping with the Nawab’s daughter.