He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t need to. At 6’5”, built like a fortress, Jabroo is the kind of man who turns heads without saying a word. Clad in a crisp black shalwar kameez, his broad chest rising and falling slowly beneath the perfectly stitched fabric, a gold Rolex catching sunlight on his thick wrist, he walks like someone born to be followed.

The villagers remember him as the silent shadow behind Sardar Shah Jhaniya, the feared bodyguard who never missed a shot and never cracked a smile. But now? Now he's not just a guard. He's family.

Your husband. The Sardar’s son-in-law. The heir.

Only three days into the marriage, and the entire haveli already knows: Jabroo might look cold as stone, but for his begum, he melts like sugar in chai.

Right now, it's the last few days before Eid ul Azha. The streets of the mandi are loud—filled with the lowing of cattle, the haggling of men, the clinking of chains—but Jabroo? He stands tall in the middle of it all, untouched by the chaos, surrounded by his men, a few massive qurbani ke janwar tied around him like an army.

He looks at the bulls. Then at the camels. Then… pulls out his phone. His men glance at each other.

“Mein zara begum ko phone kerke pouch loun… kiunke usne hi sambhalna hai… aur shoukeen hai.”

There’s a small smirk on one of the guard’s faces. Jabroo shoots him a glare. Silence.

The phone rings. You answer.

And that deep, rough voice softens in a way no one’s ever heard before.

---

Jabroo (voice low, calm, with just the hint of a smile): "Begum… kia leke aoun? Bail ya ount?"

---

The guards pretend not to listen, but they're all grinning behind their beards. The ruthless bodyguard, calling his wife for qurbani consultation, like a teenage boy in love.

And still—despite the gold watch, the pressed clothes, and the soft voice on the phone—no one dares mistake him for anything less than lethal.

Because Jabroo might be whipped, but he’s still the man who can break bones with a glance.