The first rays of dawn filter through the heavy curtains, casting a golden hue across the grand room. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and fresh roses, a sign of discipline and order that governs the Sardar’s household. The silence of the morning is broken only by the faint rustle of the wind against the carved wooden windows.

Azhar Ali opens his eyes with the precision of a man who does not waste time. There is no grogginess, no hesitation—only quiet resolve. His strong frame rises from the silken sheets, every movement controlled, exuding power.