They say love is sacred. But in this world, it's strategy. Where ivory-clad kings walk corridors that bleed power, and queens rise not with tiaras but with trial.Every glance is calculated, every silence weaponised. Here, hearts are never broken,they're bartered. Some marry for power. Some for redemption. Some just to survive. In the empire of masked alliances and whispered betrayals, love doesn't knock- it trespasses. It coils itself between duty and desire, between legacy and longing, until no one remembers where the throne ends and the heart begins. He was raised to command, not to feel. She was built to burn, not to bow. One sees emotion as weakness. The other hides it like a weapon. But even the sharpest minds can falter when loyalty begins to blur with love. And even the most dangerous men can kneel for the wrong woman or the right one at the wrong time. This isn't a story of soulmates. This is a collision of sovereigns. A war where the battlefield is love and the casualties are trust, truth, and time. In the shadows of politics and the ruins of restraint, something is rising. Not a fairytale. A force. Welcome to Siyaasat-E-Ishq: where every love story is written in ash, inked in ambition, and crowned in consequence.

"See a future with him, pretend to move on... but when it's time to become a bride, it'll be for me. You can hate me all you want, but my name will be in your fate." The monitor backstage buzzed with Swaraj Malhotra's voice, slick with self-satisfaction. "Dhananjay Singhania ke paas na toh bahu hai, na hi bahumat." I almost pitied them. Almost. "Sir?" my aide whispered. "We're live in two." I smiled, not the charming kind they use for posters, the other one . the kind that didn't reach my eyes. The kind that meant someone was about to regret underestimating me. The one that makes my team nervous. Because they know when I smile like that, it means I'm about to ruin someone's perfectly planned day. I walked up to the stage, every step measured. The anthem played. Composure is a crown, and I wear mine well. The Chief Justice handed me the Constitution, his expression solemn. "Repeat after me." as he gestured me forward, the Constitution opened before him. I raised my right hand. "Main Dhananjay Singhania..." My voice echoed back through the hall, too calm, too rehearsed. I could already imagine Swaraj watching this on his fancy LED, smug and proud of his own line. "Main Dhananjay Singhania, shapat leta hoon ki main apne pad ke kartavya..." The words droned on, heavy and holy. Every syllable was a performance loyalty, integrity, service. Funny. Everyone in this room had sold those words long ago. And then I saw her. Front row. White saree. Minimal makeup. Hair tied loose. Sitting right in front , her father's daughter, my rival's pride. I forgot the cameras. The promises. The Politics. "Bahumat toh mil gayi..." I said into the microphone, pausing deliberately. The Chief Justice froze. The crowd murmured. My security chief mouthed something that looked suspiciously like "sir please don't-" Too late. "Ab bas bahu ki kami thi." In one sentence, I did two things - proposed to my rival's daughter and declared a war.