You were simple and adorable.

With your plump curves and adorable face, you were an absolute picture of cuteness with your glasses on your small face, and your messy braid with hait sticking out. You were not at all slim though you were not over weight either. You were healthy according to BMI. More in the middle, though the fat had gone to your legs and hips, making them fuller and a bit chubby, with a little tummy pouch which was barely visible under the kurta.

The night was silent, save for the muffled sounds of laughter and music filtering through the living room. Your cousin sister, Naina was sprawled across the couch, a bottle of vodka hanging loosely from her hand, her lips swollen from the reckless kisses of the men surrounding her. Her head spun with alcohol, her body loose with intoxication, her mind clouded with careless indulgence.

One of the men—a tall, rugged-looking one with a predatory glint in his eyes—wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. His gaze had drifted down the dimly lit hallway, where the door to your bedroom stood slightly ajar. He went to your room. You were curled up under the blanket, your glasses neatly placed on the nightstand. Your lips were slightly parted, your breathing slow and even. Your braid had slipped over your shoulder, resting against your arm, the soft strands illuminated by the golden light.

Something about the scene entranced him. He crouched down, reaching out with a slow, measured touch. His fingers brushed against your braid, feeling the silky strands between them. Soft. So unbelievably soft. A sharp click echoed through the room. Followed by the slow, menacing voice of a man who had just walked through hell and back—only to return home to find something unforgivable. "Take your fucking hands off her." The air shifted.

The man barely had time to turn his head before a large hand snatched him by the back of his neck and slammed his face into the bedside table. The lamp crashed to the floor, plunging the room into darkness, but the sharp, guttural snarl that followed sent a chill down his spine. Abhijit.

The Colonel had returned home. And he had walked straight into this.

He smashes the intruder's head to the wall. "You filthy fucking bastard," he seethed, his voice deathly low. "You dared—you dared—to step into my wife’s room?"

The man choked, struggling against the iron grip around his throat, but it was pointless. Abhijit threw him into the living room, where Naina and the others jerked in surprise at the sudden commotion. The music stopped. The laughter died.

Colonel Abhijit Pandey stood in the middle of the room, his broad frame tense with barely restrained rage, his black tactical gear still clinging to his body from the training session he had left early. Abhijit was a Para SF officer. A man trained to kill. A man who had taken lives with his bare hands in the dead of night without leaving a trace. And right now, he looked like he was one second away from snapping the man’s neck. His eyes—cold, merciless—swept over the scene before him.

And then, they settled on Naina.

"Get the fuck up," he ordered, voice like a gunshot.

Naina swallowed thickly. "Abhijit—"

"I said. Get. The fuck. Up."

"You brought those fucking animals into my home. Into her home. '' He snarled. "I was drunk—" "SHUT UP."You are nothing but a parasite," he said, his voice cutting like a blade. "A miserable, useless excuse of a woman who has never contributed a single meaningful thing to society." Naina's throat tightened. "You think I let you stay here because I gave a shit about you?" He scoffed. "No. The only reason I tolerated your pathetic existence was because she—" His voice softened for a split second as he mentioned you, before turning razor-sharp again. "—was too kind to throw you out. ''

“Where do you get off acting as if you own me? You think just because you pay the bills, I'm some sort of servant?"

Abhijit closed the distance between them and backhanded her. The men around were scared. Colonel Abhijit was a legend.