VOTES TARGET 🎯: 125

The pressure of his body against mine eased suddenly.

Arhaan stepped back, releasing my wrist as if the contact had burned him.

Cool air rushed in where his warmth had been, raising goosebumps along my arms beneath the thin black kameez.

He ran a hand through his hair, messing the perfectly styled strands, and exhaled slowly, the sound rough in the quiet drawing room.

The single bulb overhead swung gently, casting shifting shadows across his sharp jawline and the faint stubble that had grown since the rally.

"Shall we discuss the next meeting?" he asked, voice once again sliding back into that measured, velvet tone-like the last few minutes of heat and proximity had been nothing more than a minor disruption in his schedule.

"I would want your participation, Aarini. Properly this time. No protests, no megaphones. Just you, me, and a small team. We can go through the petition point by point. I'll listen."

I stared at him, chest still heaving, the cut on my temple stinging where fresh blood had dried into a tight line.

The embarrassment from the distant, fading moans upstairs still prickled hot across my cheeks and neck.

My dupatta had slipped completely off one shoulder, the edge trailing on the dusty floor.

Pinky and Meher were safe upstairs now-I could hear Shabnam's soft voice telling them a story-but the memory of their terrified faces made my hands tremble with leftover fury.

I straightened against the wall, refusing to smooth my clothes or fix my hair.

"I want a public apology," I said flatly. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

"On record. In front of the cameras. You stand there and say it clearly: 'I was wrong to dismiss the women in kothas as unimportant. Their lives matter. The girls being trafficked matter.' No spin. No 'optics.' Just the truth."

Arhaan's expression didn't change, but something cooled in his amber eyes.

He folded his arms across his chest, the white shirt pulling slightly at the shoulders.

"That's not how this works."

The refusal landed like a slap.

I pushed off the wall, stepping closer again, my bare feet silent on the cool marble. "Then how does it work, Mr. Rathore? You show up like some saviour, chase away the dealers with your security and your important phone calls, pin me to the wall like I'm a problem to be managed, and now you want me to sit politely in your next meeting while you 'listen'? After everything you said in your office? After the tear gas and the batons? I want the apology public because those girls upstairs deserve to hear that someone in power finally admitted they matter."

He shook his head, a small, condescending movement that made my blood simmer hotter.

"Public apologies are theatre, Aarini. They satisfy the crowd for twenty-four hours and then everyone moves on. Real change happens in closed rooms, with budgets and legislation. Not viral soundbites."

"Real change?" I laughed, the sound bitter and cracked.

"You mean the kind of change where nothing actually changes? Where dealers still walk into our courtyard because your government looks the other way? Where girls like Pinky get sold while you worry about your father's image?"

Arhaan's jaw tightened. He took one step forward, voice dropping.

"You're being unreasonable. Emotional. Again. This is exactly why I can't-"

"Emotional?" I cut in, voice rising. The embarrassment from earlier twisted into pure rage.

"Because I refuse to let you sanitise what happened? Because I won't smile and nod while you treat my home like a PR exercise? You called us unimportant in your fancy office, Arhaan. You made me wait three hours like a beggar. Your men cracked my head open yesterday. And now you want participation without accountability?"

He exhaled sharply, patience visibly fraying. "For God's sake, Aarini. Look around you. This place-" He gestured vaguely at the faded walls, the threadbare divan, the distant creak of the old charpoy upstairs that had finally gone quiet.

"This is cheap. The whole setup. The girls, the clients, the thin walls where everyone can hear every transaction. You fight like you're some revolutionary, but you're still running a kotha at the end of the day. Cheap emotions in a cheap environment. That's why public apologies won't fix anything."

The word landed like acid.

Cheap.

My vision narrowed to a red haze.

The cut on my temple throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I saw Pinky's tear-streaked face again, felt the grip of the dealer's fingers on her thin arm, heard the moans that had made me burn with shame while he stood there judging everything.

My hand moved before my brain caught up.

The slap cracked across his cheek-sharp, loud, the sound echoing off the cracked plaster walls.

My palm stung instantly, the impact jolting up my arm. His head snapped slightly to the side, a red bloom already forming on his perfect, polished skin.

The faint imprint of my fingers stood out against his cheekbone.

For one frozen second, silence swallowed the room.

Then Arhaan growled.

A low, dangerous sound that vibrated from deep in his chest.

His eyes flashed-amber turning darker, hotter.

In the next breath he surged forward, catching both my wrists in one large hand and pinning them above my head against the rough wall.

The movement was fast, controlled, but not gentle. My back hit the plaster again with a soft thud, the uneven surface scraping through my kameez.

He leaned in close, towering over my five-foot frame, his body caging mine without fully crushing it.

His free hand braced against the wall beside my head, knuckles white.

I could feel the heat of his breath on my forehead, smell the faint woody cologne mixed with the metallic trace of anger.

His cheek was still flushed where I'd slapped him. A tiny muscle ticked furiously along his jaw.

"You have no idea how close you are to the edge right now," he growled, voice low and rough, every trace of polished calm gone. His grip on my wrists was firm-inescapable-but not bruising. Not yet.

"Slapping the Prime Minister's son in your own kotha. Calling me out like I'm the only monster here. You think your little fire and your cheap little slaps change anything?"

I tilted my chin up defiantly, even though my heart hammered wildly against my ribs and the position left me completely at his mercy. My breasts rose and fell rapidly under the black cotton, brushing lightly against his shirtfront with every breath.

The cut on my temple had reopened again; a warm trickle of blood slid down my cheek, but I didn't care.

My freckles felt exposed under his intense gaze, my reluctant dimples hidden behind clenched teeth.

"Cheap?" I hissed back, voice trembling with fury but steady enough to cut.

"That's rich coming from a man who hides behind his father's name and his Oxford accent while girls bleed in the streets. Pin me all you want, Arhaan. Gas me. Insult my home. But I will never apologise for fighting for them. And if you think calling this place cheap makes you superior, then you're the one who's truly cheap-hiding behind power because you can't face the truth."

His breath ghosted across my lips now, hot and uneven.

The red mark on his cheek stood out like a brand under the swinging bulb.

Outside, distant police voices murmured as they took statements, but in here the world had narrowed to the rough wall at my back, his iron grip on my wrists, and the dangerous spark in his eyes that promised this fight was far from over.

I didn't look away.

Neither did he.

He stepped back abruptly, as if my skin had scorched him.

My arms dropped heavily to my sides, shoulders aching from being pinned high against the rough plaster wall.

The skin around my wrists carried the faint red imprint of his fingers-warm, tingling, already beginning to fade.

I rubbed them absently, chest still heaving, the cut on my temple throbbing in time with my racing pulse.

A fresh drop of blood had escaped and was tracing a slow, warm path down my cheek, dripping onto the collar of my black kameez and leaving a tiny dark spot that bloomed like ink on cotton.

Arhaan's chest rose and fell sharply.

The red imprint of my slap stood out vividly on his left cheek-five distinct finger marks blooming against his fair skin, the edges already turning a deeper crimson.

His perfect jaw was clenched so tight a tiny muscle jumped repeatedly beneath the skin.

His amber eyes, usually so cool and controlled, burned with something raw and uncontrolled now.

Strands of his dark hair had fallen across his forehead, messy from where he'd run his hand through it earlier.

The woody cologne that clung to him felt heavier in the confined drawing room, mixing with the faint jasmine still lingering in my own hair and the distant, stale trace of incense.

He stared at me for one long, charged second-taking in my disheveled braid, the blood on my face, the way my dupatta lay crumpled on the floor like a discarded flag.

Then his lips curled into a cold, dangerous smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"You want war, huh?" His voice was low at first, almost a whisper, but it gained steel with every word. "Fine. You want public apologies and theatrical confrontations instead of actual work? You want to slap the Prime Minister's son in your little kotha and then demand cooperation on your terms?"

He took another deliberate step back, straightening his white shirt with sharp, angry tugs. The fabric pulled acro

ss his broad shoulders, the sleeves still rolled up to reveal the tense cords of muscle in his forearms. A single bead of sweat had formed at his temple-probably from the humid night air or the sheer force of holding himself back.

"You will never cooperate," he continued, the words clipped and final. "Not really. Not without turning everything into a battlefield. So be it."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and glanced at it once before slipping it back in.

His movements were precise, controlled again, but the anger simmered just beneath the surface like a live wire.

"I withdraw all support. No more meetings. No task force access. No protection for your precious kotha or the girls you call sisters. The audit you wanted? Dead. The rehabilitation proposals? Shelved. Whatever quiet channels I was willing to open for you-consider them closed. You're on your own now, Aarini Razia Khan."

My stomach dropped, but I lifted my chin higher, refusing to let the cold fear show.

The embarrassment from the earlier moans, the terror on Pinky's face, the sting of his "cheap" comment-all of it fused into a single, burning resolve in my chest.

Arhaan turned toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. His gaze raked over me one last time-lingering on the blood on my cheek, the freckles across my nose that he'd noticed before, the reluctant dimple that refused to appear now because my face was locked in defiance.

"I won't stop anything either," he added, voice dropping to that dangerous velvet again.

"The dealers? The police raids that conveniently look the other way? The slow erosion of whatever fragile safety you've built here? I won't interfere. You want to fight the world alone with your placards and your slaps? Then fight. But when the walls really start closing in-when those little girls upstairs are crying because there's no one left to protect them-remember this moment. You chose war."

He didn't wait for my reply.

Arhaan Dev Rathore walked out of the drawing room, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the marble corridor.

The heavy wooden main door creaked open, then slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the thin walls of the kotha.

Outside, I heard the low murmur of his security team falling into step, car doors opening and closing, and then the smooth purr of an expensive engine fading into the night traffic of GB Road.

Silence swallowed the room.

I stood there against the wall for a long moment, palms pressed flat to the rough plaster behind me for support. My wrists still carried the ghost of his grip-warm, accusing. The distant creak of a charpoy upstairs had gone completely quiet now. No more moans. Only the faint sound of Shabnam humming a lullaby to Pinky and Meher, trying to coax them into sleep.

I slid down the wall slowly until I was sitting on the cool marble, knees drawn up to my chest.

My breath came in shaky bursts. Embarrassment, rage, and a sharp new edge of fear twisted together in my gut.

He had declared war.

No help. No protection. No quiet backdoor support I hadn't even known I was counting on.

I was on my own.

The kotha felt smaller suddenly-the faded blue walls closing in, the neem tree outside rustling softly in the night breeze as if whispering warnings.

Ammi would be back from her meeting with the other madams soon.

The girls would wake up tomorrow still scared, still looking to me for answers.

And Arhaan Dev Rathore-the man with the cool voice, the freckle-noticing eyes, and the dangerous growl-had just walked away, leaving me exactly where he thought I belonged.

Alone.

But as I wiped the dried blood from my cheek with the back of my hand and felt the sting of my palm where I'd slapped him, a small, fierce smile tugged at the corner of my mouth despite everything.

War, then.

So be it.

I would fight dirtier, louder, and more relentlessly than he could ever imagine.

Because those girls upstairs weren't just my sisters by heart.

They were my reason.

And no polished politician with amber eyes and a bruised cheek was going to take that away from me.