The heavy wooden doors of the MLA's sprawling farmhouse creaked open as Tara stepped inside, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The air smelled of expensive incense, aged whiskey, and something darker—power. At nineteen, Tara was a slip of a girl from a modest family in the dusty outskirts of the constituency. Her father, a small-time contractor, had been rotting in jail for three months on trumped-up corruption charges. Everyone knew it was political vendetta, but no one dared speak. Desperate, she had pulled every string, only to be told that Sahib—Mr. Rajendra Pratap Singh, the 55-year-old local MLA—held the keys to her father's freedom.

"Arre beta, aao andar (Come inside, child)," the MLA's deep, gravelly voice echoed from the lavish living room. He lounged on a velvet sofa, his thick frame clad in a crisp white kurta-pajama that strained against his belly. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, but his eyes—sharp, predatory—roamed over her simple salwar-kameez like she was already his property.