Several weeks later came the special day.
Mrs. Anisha Khan, widely known simply as Mrs. Khan arrived at Sabiha's house in the same black Scorpio with tinted windows, the same two discreet security cars trailing behind.
She stepped out in a deep emerald-green silk saree with gold zari borders, her posture regal, her expression warm but assessing.
The District Magistrate carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had spent decades navigating power corridors without ever raising her voice.
Noorzadi greeted her at the gate with folded hands and a soft embrace. Mrs. Khan held her daughter at arm's length for a long moment, studying her face.
"You're glowing, beta," she said quietly, thumb brushing Noorzadi's cheek. "Everything is good?"
Noorzadi nodded, cheeks warming just slightly.
"Very good, Ammi. Sahil takes excellent care of me."
Mrs. Khan glanced toward Sahil, who stood a respectful distance away in a neat kurta-pajama, smiling politely. She gave him an approving nod—impressed by the visible contentment radiating from her daughter.
The healthy flush, the subtle fullness in Noorzadi's figure, the relaxed ease in her shoulders—all of it spoke of regular, satisfying nourishment. She assumed it came from her son-in-law.
She had no idea the credit belonged entirely to Arahan.
They moved inside.
After tea and light conversation in the drawing room, mostly about the weather, the Ganga's water level, and upcoming festivals, Mrs. Khan suggested they move to the small meeting room at the back of the house. The one with the heavy teak door that locked from the inside.
Once seated around the polished oval table, Mrs. Khan at the head, Sabiha to her right, Arahan to Sabiha's right, Noorzadi and Sahil opposite, Mrs. Khan came straight to the point.
"The gun project," she said calmly.
Sabiha leaned forward slightly, hands folded.
Mrs. Khan continued. "The previous supplier's tender was cancelled after repeated failures. Faulty firing pins, inconsistent chamber pressure, misaligned sights, three soldiers died in training accidents last quarter because of those defects. The Ministry broke the contract immediately. We need a reliable domestic manufacturer. Fast. Discreet. And above all, effective."
She paused, letting the weight settle.
"The specifications are classified, but you already have the drawings. Your… back-end facility has been producing small batches for private buyers for years. We both know that."
Arahan's head snapped toward Sabiha.
He stared at her, really stared.
The woman who rode his cock every morning like it was her lifeline, who is pregnant with his child, and called him "my darling" in that breathy voice, who begged him to breed her deeper—was running an illegal arms workshop behind the garment factory?
Machining rifle barrels, casting receivers, testing ammunition in some soundproofed basement he had never even suspected existed?
Sabiha met his gaze calmly, she has no shame, no apology, just quiet confidence.
Mrs. Khan didn't notice the silent exchange. She continued.
"The Ministry wants this turned legal. Full licensing, oversight, government contracts. But they also want profit participation. Thirty-five percent royalty on every unit supplied. In return, we fast-track environmental clearances, power allocation, and security cover. And we make sure no questions are asked about… prior production."
Sabiha nodded slowly. "We accept thirty percent royalty. Not thirty-five."
Mrs. Khan smiled thinly. "Thirty-two. And my daughter remains happily married in this house. That was always part of the understanding."
The wedding had never been about love or alliance alone. It was leverage. Noorzadi's presence ensured the Khan family's stake.
Arahan remained silent, mind reeling.
After twenty more minutes of negotiation, percentages, delivery timelines, prototype testing schedules, the deal was finalized.
Mrs. Khan rose first. "Papers will be drafted tomorrow. Signatures next week."
She extended her hand to Sabiha—firm shake.
Then to Arahan.
As their palms met, her fingers brushed the inside of his wrist, accidental, or perhaps not.
A visible jolt ran through her body. Her breath hitched for half a second; her pupils dilated slightly; color rose high on her cheeks. She pulled her hand back quickly, but not before Arahan felt the tremor in her grip.
Mrs. Khan recovered almost instantly, smile fixed, posture perfect.
"Thank you for your hospitality," she said to the room at large. "I look forward to a long and profitable partnership."
She turned to Noorzadi, kissed her forehead.
"Take care of yourself, beta. Eat well. Rest well."
Then she left—escorted by security, Scorpio pulling away smoothly down the drive.
The moment the gate closed, the room exhaled.
Sabiha turned to Arahan, eyes gleaming.
"You didn't know?" she asked softly.
Arahan shook his head once. "Not a clue."
She stepped closer, placed a hand on his chest, "I didn't want to scare you. The cloth factory is clean. The rest… was necessary. Now it has become legal. Respectable. And very, very rich."
Noorzadi moved to Arahan's other side, slipping her arm through his.
"And you," she murmured, "are now legally tied to both sides of the business."
Sahil simply smiled from the doorway, quiet, content, as always.
Arahan looked at each of them, his pregnant wives, his devoted boyfriend, his newest claim, and felt the weight of it all settle deeper.
For the first time he found that, he was still new in the group of adults. He was still satisfied that Sabiha has a garment factory. But now, it turns out, she also has a gun factory.
He then took out his mobile, video call Shaista, and to his son Aryan. In his life he only felt, Shaista is pure, free from any conspiracy.
---
Mrs. Anisha Khan was only thirty-three years old, a young widow who had lost her husband fifteen years earlier when Noorzadi was just a toddler. Since then, she had poured every ounce of herself into two things: raising her only daughter with fierce, protective love, and climbing the ladder of power until she became the District Magistrate of Prayagraj.
She was respected, feared, and admired, but in matters of romance and desire, she remained the same shy, reserved girl she had been at eighteen. After her husband's death, she had never taken another lover. Not once.
Until Arahan.
She did not know his full story. All she knew was that Arahan was Sabiha's legal husband, and that fact alone left her deeply confused. How could a young man, the same age as Sabiha's son Sahil, be her husband? The question alone was enough to make her cheeks burn whenever his name came up. It was enough to make her thighs press together under the conference table.
The attraction had begun with an accidental handshake during the gun-project meeting. His warm, firm grip had sent a sudden current straight to her core. Since then, she could not stop thinking about him: his broad shoulders, the quiet confidence in his voice, the way his forearms flexed when he lifted a prototype rifle case. At night she lay awake, fingers slipping between her legs, imagining those hands on her breasts, that deep voice whispering filthy things while he filled her. She came hard every time, biting her pillow to stay quiet, ashamed and exhilarated in equal measure.
But she could never say it aloud.
He was her daughter's father-in-law, at least on paper. He belonged to Sabiha, a woman she respected and feared in equal parts. How could she even think of crossing that line? She was daring in the world of power and politics, but when it came to desire, she froze. Always had.
Still, her body betrayed her. Her pussy ached constantly now, growing wet at the slightest thought of him and throbbing during meetings whenever he was mentioned. She had started wearing darker sarees to hide the damp spots that sometimes appeared between her thighs.
---
One clear morning, Arahan arrived at her official residence carrying a sleek black rifle case. He was alone, Sabiha had sent him to deliver the first approved prototype for final inspection.
Mrs. Khan received him in her private study, door closed, staff dismissed for "confidential discussion."
He opened the case on her desk. The rifle gleamed, matte black, perfectly balanced, chambered in 7.62 NATO as per the Ministry specs.
She lifted it carefully, checked the weight, the sight alignment, and ran her fingers along the barrel. Professional. Detached.
"It feels… solid," she said, voice steady despite the pulse hammering in her throat.
Arahan nodded. "Test-fired yesterday. Zero malfunctions at 500 rounds. Accuracy within 1 MOA at 300 meters."
She nodded, set it down.
"Good. Very good."
Silence stretched.
She wanted to say something to keep him there longer. But the words stuck.
Arahan waited politely.
Finally she managed: "The trigger pull is smooth?"
"Crisp. 4.5 pounds. No creep."
She swallowed. "Excellent."
Another pause. He turned to leave.
"Wait," she said suddenly, too quickly.
He paused, looking back.
She forced a professional smile. "I'd like to see the next variant tomorrow. The suppressed version. Same time?"
"Of course, Mrs. Khan."
He left.
The next day he came again, this time with a suppressed carbine variant. She inspected it the same way: lifting, checking balance, asking technical questions she already knew the answers to. Anything to hear his voice, to watch his hands move over the metal.
Day after day it continued.
A compact PDW on Wednesday.
A designated marksman rifle on Thursday.
Each time she approved, nodding, murmuring praise, while inside she screamed.
She wanted to drop to her knees right there on the carpet, unzip him, take him in her mouth until he groaned her name. She wanted to bend over the desk, hike her saree, beg him to fuck her raw and fill her. Her pussy clenched every time he spoke, leaking steadily into her panties.
By the time he left each day she was trembling, thighs slick, barely able to walk straight to the bathroom where she would lock the door and rub herself furiously to the memory of his forearms, his voice, his scent.
But she could never say it.
She was Anisha Khan—widow, mother, District Magistrate. Not some desperate woman throwing herself at a younger man who already had a father-in-law of her daughter.
So she kept inviting him back.
Each visit was shorter on business, longer on stolen glances, accidental brushes of fingers when handing over documents, lingering eye contact that made her heart race and her clit throb.
She told herself it was just professional diligence.
But she lied, her body knew the truth.
And every night, alone in her bed, she came again and again to the fantasy of finally breaking—finally saying the words she could never voice in daylight: "Please, Arahan… fuck me. Ruin me. Make me yours."
But the words stayed locked behind her shy, respectable smile.
For now.
Until the day she couldn't hold back anymore.