"Politics isn't merely about power; it's about wielding influence with finesse, orchestrating the dance of nations on the world stage."
•••
Welcome to a tale that echoes through the luxurious enclaves of the capital to its very downtrodden streets.
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Chandigarh, Punjab India
As the private jet touched down on the runway, Trayaksh felt a pang at the thought of waking his wife, who was peacefully nestled in his arms.
"Anya, sweetheart, wake up. We've arrived," He murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
Ananya stirred slightly, but instead of waking up, she snuggled deeper into his embrace, searching for a more comfortable spot.
A soft smile tugged at his lips as he tightened his hold, his hand gliding up and down her back in a gentle attempt to coax her awake.
Leaning closer, he whispered into her ear, "Bachcha, we're here, and you haven't eaten anything yet."
(Baby,)
"Hm, I'm awake," She mumbled, though her actions said otherwise as she buried her head in his neck.
Trayaksh chuckled quietly, his eyes glowing with affection. After their "horse riding" earlier, she had gotten exhausted to her bones and slept throughout the flight. He knew how tired she was, and he didn't mind her sleeping a bit longer, but the fact she hadn't eaten worried him.
His little Anya had a habit of skipping meals, and he had made it his mission to ensure she didn't fall into that pattern again. He couldn't bear the thought of her getting sick from neglecting herself.
Watching her frowning, sleepy face, he decided to let her be for now. He had hoped the news of their arrival would be enough to wake her, but his stubborn Anya was far too comfortable in his arms to be bothered.
With her head nestled under his chin, Trayaksh descended the jet's stairs, holding Ananya securely in his arms.
The hot breeze swept over and tousled his hair; it carried with it the scent of sunbaked tarmac and distant fields.
Down the runway, a group of men stood in perfect formation, clad in sharp black and maroon uniforms, each with a bold 'B' embroidered on their breast pocket. Their posture was stiff and disciplined.
At the forefront, a man in a perfectly tailored blue suit waited.
He was strikingly handsome—tall, with an almost foreign appearance. His sharp green eyes stood out against his light skin, and his short black hair was immaculately styled, his demeanor more welcoming than authoritative.
Anyone passing by would be compelled to take notice of him.
This was Karanvir Singh Bajaj, the eldest son of the eminent Bajaj family.
