Superintendent Alistair Cartwright stood tall at 6’5”, his massive frame built like a bear — wide shoulders, thick arms, the kind of man who filled a room by just walking into it. British by birth, but long buried in the dirt and politics of Lahore, Cartwright was more gangster than lawman now — a name spoken in half-whispers and sideways glances across the city. He commanded with silence and stared men down like a loaded weapon.

He didn’t frequent Heera Mandi like the others did. Never for pleasure. He came for business — and today, it was Malikajaan’s haveli.

The courtesans watched him with thinly veiled resentment, but all eyes snapped to the door the moment she entered.

YN — the daughter of Lahore’s most feared and respected man, Nawab Sahab. Draped in a modest silk dress that veiled her from head to toe, yet somehow only made her lush curves more sinful — the wide, round ass, chubby cheeks, full figure, and that sweet, almost teasing smile on her round face that made people forget how dangerous she really was.

And more than that… she was his.

Cartwright’s woman — privately, but powerfully.

Even before she spoke, everyone in the room stood. Some in respect, most in fear.

Malikajaan, draped in brocade and years of control, forced a smile, her kohl-rimmed eyes betraying disdain.

“Well, well,” she purred, voice thick with false sweetness. “The lion brings his queen to a den of wolves. What an honor, Superintendent.”

Cartwright didn’t flinch, didn’t smile. Just stepped forward with a slow, deliberate pace, the weight of him settling like a storm in the room.

His voice was calm, deep, British-accented and dangerous.
“She’s here because I say so. And you’ll treat her like royalty… or you’ll be scrubbing blood off these marble floors for days.”

The room fell silent again. No one questioned him.
Not in Lahore.
Not when Cartwright spoke.