Superintendent Alistair Cartwright wasn’t your typical British officer. At 6'5", built like a bear with shoulders broad enough to carry a nation’s secrets, he looked more gangster than cop — and in Lahore, that suited him just fine. Corruption, politics, blood deals — he navigated it all with brutal grace and an iron jaw. The streets respected him. Feared him.

But no one had expected this.

He stood now in the heart of Heera Mandi, a place of whispers and legacy, his massive frame wrapped protectively around her. YN — the Nawab’s daughter. A vision in modest silk, covered from head to toe, yet still undeniably seductive. Heavy curves pressed flush against him, her round face tilted back against his neck, playful innocence dancing in her eyes. Her hips rested comfortably in his grip, his cartridge arm coiled possessively around her waist like she was already his — because in private, she was.

Their secret? Not anymore.

From across the street, silence swept like a knife. Nawab Sahab had arrived — flanked by his towering bodyguards and close friends. All conversation died the moment their eyes fell on the scene before them. The most feared British cop in Lahore, holding their precious daughter like a man ready to go to war for her.

Cartwright didn’t flinch.

He turned slowly, gaze locking with the Nawab's, unreadable — a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, voice low and unapologetic.

“Well then,” Cartwright drawled, voice thick with grit and challenge, “Didn’t think we’d be meetin’ like this, sir.”

And just like that, the air between them was set to ignite.