Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

Good story

Hi Sher@Khaan

I truly appreciate your compliments, it motivates me to keep writing.


Warm Regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Wow!!! What suspense!!!

Hi readersp

Thank you, I really appreciate your feedback and continued support.

With warm regards

Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Part 8 – The Aftermath
 

Rhea Malhotra, radiant and untouchable moments before, had vanished into thin air. For a breathless instant, the hall was suspended between disbelief and awe. Gasps echoed like distant thunder, whispers rippled across the room, and cameras clicked in frantic desperation. Every flash illuminated the space she had occupied, yet revealed nothing. Not a shadow, not a trace, only emptiness.
 
The host’s practiced smile faltered. His voice, once commanding, now trembled as he addressed the stunned audience.
Host (strained): “Ladies and gentlemen… please remain calm. Security is inspecting the stage, everything is being checked.”
 
But calm was a fragile veneer. Murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire. Eyes darted to the balcony, to the wings, to one another, as if the impossible might reveal itself in some hidden corner. Journalists leaned forward, livestreaming the moment, their cameras trembling in the shared sense of unreality.
 
And in the shadows above, a figure in saffron robes remained perfectly still. Every flicker of panic, every incredulous glance among the audience seemed not to escape him. His gaze was patient, measured, yet it carried the quiet weight of someone who had anticipated this chaos long before it unfolded. No one dared speak the thought aloud, yet every pair of eyes acknowledged it in silence: Could he have orchestrated this?
 
Outside the hall, the story erupted. Social media caught fire within minutes:
#RheaVanished #GrandPodiumMystery #ImpossibleEvent

News anchors replayed the footage, frame by frame, struggling to explain a disappearance that defied logic. Headlines splintered between speculation and disbelief: abduction, a publicity stunt, or something… inexplicable.
 
 
Back inside, the audience tried to rationalize what they had witnessed. Producers whispered into phones, industrialists adjusted their ties nervously, and actors exchanged glances heavy with unspoken fear.

Every thought brushed against the same shadow, yet no one dared give it voice. The saffron-robed man, silent and still, remained an unbroken presence, a silent observer whose calm intensity seemed to deepen the mystery rather than dispel it.
 
Security scoured the stage with meticulous care. Cameras, drones, even infrared sensors failed to yield a single clue. The floor gleamed, pristine and unyielding, yet near the spot where she had stood, a faint, almost imperceptible indentation lingered, a ghost of her presence, a question pressed into wood.
 
By the end of the night, Rhea Malhotra had become more than a missing person—she had become a myth in motion. Every camera frame, every whispered speculation, every flashing headline added to her legend. The world watched, baffled, fascinated, and subtly afraid.
 
And through it all, no one dared confront the saffron-robed figure, though everyone sensed he had played some role in the impossibility they had just witnessed. Eyes flickered toward him, hearts tightened, yet not a word passed between them.

The thought hovered, a dangerous, tantalizing possibility that someone, someone unseen, had bent reality to their will.
 
The Grand Podium, empty yet radiant in its silent authority, stood as a testament not just to Rhea Malhotra, but to the unseen forces that moved through the room. It was a stage that had borne witness to impossibility, and those who had seen it knew that some power—quiet, patient, and unyielding, was at work in the shadows.
 
In the balcony above, the saffron-robed man smiled faintly, eyes never leaving the polished stage. 

He had waited for this moment. And though no one would ever dare to speak it aloud, everyone understood, deep in the marrow of their bones, that something had shifted forever.
 

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Part 9 – The World Reacts
 

By the time the Grand Podium emptied, the news had already begun to spread like wildfire. Smartphones in the audience had captured the impossible: Rhea Malhotra, vanishing mid-step, leaving nothing but emptiness in her wake. Video clips flooded social media before the night had ended.
 
#RheaVanished trended within minutes. Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube were alive with speculation, each frame dissected. Fans replayed the moment endlessly, pausing, zooming, and debating:

"Is this a magic trick?"
"Somebody must have done something—cameras don’t lie!"
"No one can just disappear like that…"
 
"She was Taken"
 
News anchors scrambled to keep pace, their broadcasts a mix of wonder and disbelief. One anchor, voice tight with excitement, declared live:

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve witnessed an event that challenges everything we understand. Rhea Malhotra, India’s most magnetic star, has vanished in front of hundreds of people. Security footage, eyewitnesses, and social media confirm it—yet no trace remains. Theories are emerging, but no one has an answer.”
 
Late-night coverage turned into analysis panels, filled with producers, former magicians, and psychologists. Everyone had a theory: abduction, publicity stunt, mass hallucination, or some inexplicable manipulation of reality itself. But one idea hovered unspoken in every mind—the saffron-robed figure in the balcony.
 
Across India, newspapers printed blown-up frames of the balcony, the mysterious figure’s calm, unreadable expression becoming the subject of endless conjecture. “A follower of Swamiji? An illusionist? A silent orchestrator?” Headlines hinted but dared not assert. Even seasoned journalists, known for their bluntness, wrote in careful tones:

“A presence was felt... one that seemed to command the impossible... but to speculate openly would be unwise.”
 
Meanwhile, television channels cut between interviews with industry insiders: producers, actors, and organizers who had been present. Each added layers to the narrative, their words tinged with awe and a subtle fear they could not entirely disguise. One veteran director murmured on camera:
“I’ve seen many grand entrances, but this… this is different. There was a force, something beyond human. You could feel it. Even the cameras seemed to hesitate.”
 
Social media, unstoppable and insistent, magnified the mystery. GIFs and slow-motion clips of her vanishing circulated endlessly. Hashtags proliferated:
#ImpossibleRhea #GrandPodiumMystery #VanishingStar #SaffronShadow

Each shared image and clip fueled collective obsession. Memes mixed humor with disbelief, yet a deep undercurrent of unease threaded through every post.
 
Even politics whispered around the edges. Industrialists, socialites, and cultural commentators debated: Was this an act of divine interference? A deliberate warning? No one spoke the word aloud, but the thought danced silently in every room, in every glance toward the balcony, toward the saffron figure.
 
From the shadows of the Grand Podium, the saffron-robed man remained still, patient, almost eternal in his calm. Every reaction in the hall, every headline, every viral clip seemed anticipated. His faint smile hinted at a secret only he could know, a knowledge of forces that defied the understanding of all who watched.
 
Even as Rhea’s name dominated news cycles, her absence became a haunting presence, an invisible gravity that pulled the collective imagination of the nation. People whispered in cafes, offices, and households alike:
“Did you see it? Did she… really vanish?”
 
And in the silence between the whispers, in every glance that lingered too long on the balcony, the same unspoken suspicion crystallized: perhaps it was him… a follower of Swamiji. Perhaps the impossible was not magic at all, but something darker, more deliberate, beyond comprehension.
 
No one dared confront it. No one dared ask aloud. 

Yet everyone, somewhere deep, knew the truth might be closer than they wanted to admit.

-- oOo --

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[Saikarthik]

Interesting superb updates

[shailu4ever]

Interesting superb updates

Hi SaiKarthik

Thank you for your compliments. 

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Scene 10A – The Genesis of Rhea Malhotra
 
 
Before the name Rhea Malhotra ever commanded headlines, it belonged solely to Jaipur, her birthplace — a city of history, old palaces, and intricate lanes that smelled of the spices of centuries gone by. Here, nestled within the heart of this vibrant city, the Malhotra family had flourished for generations. 
 
Their name wasn’t merely spoken; it was reverently acknowledged. From colleges to hospitals, from ancient archives to modern courtrooms, the Malhotras were a quiet force in the city, woven into its very fabric.
 
At the head of this distinguished line was Justice Arvind Malhotra, a retired High Court judge whose reputation extended far beyond the legal community. His decisions were landmarks in Indian jurisprudence, studied in universities and quoted in political debates. 
 
To the common folk, Arvindji was a beacon of justice, his words carrying weight that shaped the course of law itself. He was a man who commanded respect simply by being present. But it was not just his legal intellect that earned him reverence; it was the stoic dignity he carried, the sense that justice was an unmovable mountain he had spent his life shaping.
 
Beside him stood Savita Malhotra, a woman of profound elegance. Soft-spoken and graceful, Savita possessed a strength that seemed unyielding yet unseen by most. Her presence was calming, her poise impeccable. 
 
Her beauty lay in the restraint she exuded; the quiet authority of a woman who held a household together without ever raising her voice. If Arvind was the sharp, unwavering hammer of the family, Savita was its unshakable anvil,  a steady force that provided balance, grounding, and unwavering support.
 
Into this world of discipline, wisdom, and legacy, Rhea Malhotra was born. The younger daughter, the unexpected fire to an already perfect structure. Rhea was not one to simply follow the established path,  she would create her own. From her earliest days, she was already a presence. A spark among calm waters.
 
As a child, Rhea did not see the world the way others did. While her older brother dutifully followed the family’s well-laid plans, excelling academically and securing a future as a respected civil servant,  Rhea lingered in the background, watching, calculating, absorbing everything. Where her brother adhered to tradition, Rhea was already a rebel in spirit.
 
There was a particular memory from her childhood that encapsulated the essence of her early years. At seven, she had been invited to a family gathering where the usual discussions of politics, culture, and history would take place. 
 
As the conversation flowed, Rhea found herself drawn to her uncle, a well-respected professor who had spent decades studying the works of great poets. In a quiet moment, Rhea asked him to teach her a passage from Ghalib’s ghazals,  a request that initially caught him off guard. 
 
She had always been drawn to poetry, and this moment would be a milestone that marked the beginning of her extraordinary intellectual curiosity.
 
 

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[shailu4ever]

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Her uncle laughed, amused by her precocity, but when she recited the verse with a depth and richness that far exceeded her years, the room fell silent. Her father, who had always prided himself on his keen eye for intellect, looked at her with new admiration.

There, in that moment, he saw a fire in Rhea,  a sharpness that would set her apart in ways no one could have predicted.

 
But it wasn’t only her intellect that set her apart, it was also her striking beauty. From a young age, people took notice. 

At ten, Rhea had already begun to exhibit the kind of elegance that would later define her,  not in a conventional way, but in the way she carried herself. Other girls ran and played in the garden, their laughter echoing through the air, but Rhea would often be found curled up in a corner of the study, eyes wide and intent on the book she was reading, as though the world inside those pages was more real than anything around her. She had an air of stillness, a sense of purpose in everything she did.
 
By twelve, she had become an enigma, one that many found hard to decipher. The beauty she possessed was not just physical, though it was undeniable. It was the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she seemed older than her years. Teachers remarked on her poise, her eloquence, and her ability to grasp concepts that were often reserved for adults. 

Yet, there was something else, a magnetic energy in her presence that seemed to draw people toward her. It was not just a beauty you could see,  it was a beauty you could feel, in the air, in the space she occupied.
 
But Rhea was never content with being just beautiful. At fifteen, she found herself at the center of a college debate,  an annual event where the sharpest minds from across the city gathered to present their views.

Rhea, known for her quiet intellect, found herself pitted against an older classmate, a senior with a reputation for rhetorical excellence. Everyone assumed it would be a fierce battle, but no one could have predicted what came next.
 
 
When Rhea took the stage, her voice was steady, her words sharp. She dismantled every counter-argument with precision, her points delivered with the kind of clarity that left even the most seasoned debater speechless. As the audience sat in stunned silence, Rhea had already secured her victory.

It wasn’t just the win itself that marked this moment, it was the way the entire room had been captivated by her. In that moment, she was no longer just a girl from Jaipur. She was a force. Her victory was not just a triumph of intellect; it was a statement of what was to come.

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Scene 10B – The Step Toward Stardom
 
 
By the time she turned seventeen, the whispers had already begun: “This girl will not stay in Jaipur for long.” Rhea had always known she was destined for something greater, but now, even the world was beginning to sense it.
 
Her beauty, once a quiet undercurrent, now became impossible to ignore. Rhea had grown into a vision, an ethereal presence that could not be confined by the boundaries of her home. At seventeen, she was not merely a beautiful girl from a prestigious family; she was a woman on the cusp of something monumental. But the moment that truly changed the course of her life came unexpectedly.
 
A national beauty pageant, the kind every aspiring model dreamed of entering, held auditions in Delhi. Rhea’s friends, ever the enthusiastic supporters, dared her to attend. But Rhea, having grown up with a sense of detachment from such superficial pursuits, had no real desire to compete. 

Her life was already one of intellectual pursuit, of books and debates, not of stage lights. Yet, there she was, standing in front of a room full of people who were waiting to see if she could transform herself into a pageant contender.

She wore a crisp white kurta, her braid falling effortlessly over her shoulder, a girl from Jaipur, standing amidst a sea of glamorous, polished competitors.
 
When she stepped onto that stage, the world shifted. The moment her foot touched the floor, the room seemed to hold its breath. It wasn’t just her beauty that stunned the judges, it was her presence. 

Rhea didn’t need to try to be beautiful; it simply radiated from her. Her eyes, steady and unfaltering, looked straight ahead. The way she carried herself, the way she held her gaze, demanded attention, not by force, but by pure, magnetic grace.
 
She did not win the crown that night, but she walked away with something far more valuable. An offer from a Mumbai-based modeling agency, an invitation to take the first step toward something far beyond Jaipur, beyond the life she knew.
 
Her father, as expected, was resolutely against it. “Bollywood? A place for girls of respect?” he had exclaimed, the very idea sounding foreign to him. Bollywood was a world of glitter and artifice, far removed from the values he held dear. 

But Savita, with her quiet wisdom, placed a hand on her husband’s arm and said, “Let her go, Arvindji. The world is changing. She will not lose herself. She will find herself.”
 
And so, at eighteen, Rhea Malhotra stepped into the unknown. the world of Mumbai, where dreams were made and shattered in the blink of an eye. She wasn’t a naïve girl anymore. She was a force. And the city would soon know her name.
 

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Scene 11 – The Coronation of a Star
 
At just eighteen, Rhea Malhotra left Jaipur,  leaving behind the red sandstone courtyards of her childhood, the ancestral halls where her father’s voice still echoed in judgments, and the quiet embrace of her mother’s gaze. She carried no nostalgia in her stride. Jaipur had been her foundation, but Mumbai...  Mumbai was the destiny.
 
The city awaited her like a living beast: restless, seductive, ruthless. Its air was heavy with dreams and betrayals, with the mingling scents of ambition and despair. 

The airport swarmed with hopefuls,  girls clutching worn-out portfolios, men murmuring hollow promises in honeyed voices, agents circling like predators. Many arrived trembling, unsure if the city would eat them alive.
 
But when Rhea walked into Mumbai, the atmosphere changed. The moment was electric,  as though the entire city had stopped mid-breath. She did not enter the city; she claimed it. Her luminous skin caught the unforgiving fluorescent lights and made them soft. 

Her kohl-lined eyes carried the calm assurance of someone who had already seen through every mask, every lie. She was not a girl fresh from Jaipur; she was a queen entering her court.
 
Strangers turned their heads. A businessman dropped his phone mid-call. A stewardess forgot the next announcement. Even the cynical eyes of jaded talent scouts lingered too long. Her arrival did not feel like a beginning. It felt like a coronation.
 
Within weeks, Mumbai plastered her face everywhere. Glossy magazine covers declared her the “new face of India.” On Marine Drive, billboards rose with her image, her eyes following the tides. Fashion houses fought for her presence; designers tailored entire collections around her silhouette. She was breathtaking in her symmetry, magnetic in her strength.
 
But what set her apart wasn’t only beauty, it was presence. On photo-shoots, where other girls fluttered nervously, Rhea stood still, composed, commanding the lens. Photographers whispered that she didn’t pose for the camera, she made the camera obey her. Even the paparazzi, relentless as wolves, found themselves pausing, almost reverent, before the click of the shutter.
 
Unlike others who scrambled for attention, Rhea did not chase fame; fame chased her. In the chaotic whirl of Mumbai’s modeling circuit, where girls bartered dignity for a chance, where men dripped false charm like cologne,  Rhea never begged, never bent. She did not cling to powerful men. Instead, the powerful found themselves circling her, drawn like moths to flame.
 
Her discipline astonished even the hardened veterans. She arrived on set before her directors, knew her lines before rehearsals, never needed a retake. 

She learned every name, the spot boys, the light men, the assistants who were otherwise invisible. And when the day ended, she sent handwritten notes to co-stars, thanking them with a humility that only heightened her mystique.
 
By nineteen, Rhea was more than a model. She was a phenomenon. At fashion weeks, she didn’t walk the runway, she owned it. Every step was poetry, every glance a weapon. 

Designers whispered prayers that their garments would grace her body; critics admitted, almost grudgingly, that she was redefining Indian glamour itself.
 
But modeling was only the first act. 

Mumbai was not content with a face, it demanded a star. 

And Rhea Malhotra, whether she admitted it or not, was preparing to give the city exactly that.
 

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Scene 12 – The Queen of the Silver Screen


 
By twenty-one, Rhea Malhotra had leapt from billboards to the big screen. She did not stumble into cinema; she conquered it. Her very first film may have been light on plot, but the audience didn’t care. The moment she appeared on screen, luminous, commanding, her voice carrying the warmth of velvet and the steel of conviction, theaters erupted. People didn’t go to watch the film. They went to watch Rhea.
 
Critics scoffed, dismissing her movies as shallow spectacles. But the masses? The masses were intoxicated. They returned again and again, not for stories, but for the Rhea Malhotra experience. Her films became less about narrative and more about presence, about the way she walked into a frame and consumed it whole. She was cinema, she was spectacle, she was emotion made flesh.
 
But behind the glitter of premieres and the flash of cameras, Mumbai revealed its darker veins. The film world was not a garden; it was a labyrinth of shadows, egos, and bargains struck in silence. Deals were sealed in penthouse suites, careers made or destroyed with a whispered word. Many girls lost themselves here, swallowed by its hunger.
 
Rhea, however, refused to be anyone’s pawn. She was courted, flattered, even cornered, but never claimed.
 
One story became legend in the industry: At a high-profile party in Juhu, a powerful director, drunk on both whiskey and his own reputation, rested a possessive hand on her shoulder. A gesture meant to brand her, to show the room that she belonged to him. But Rhea did not flinch. 

She turned her kohl-dark eyes to his, and in that silence, the man realized his mistake. Slowly, with a grace that cut sharper than any blade, she removed his hand and continued her conversation as though he no longer existed.
 
By morning, whispers had spread across Mumbai: Rhea Malhotra was untouchable.
 
Her reputation grew, not just as a star, but as a force who demanded respect. Directors admired her discipline. Producers admired her numbers. Co-stars adored her warmth. The city adored her. She was power and grace, beauty and discipline, a paradox wrapped in silk and fire.
 
By twenty-five, Rhea Malhotra was not merely a leading lady. She was the undisputed queen of Indian cinema. Every film she touched turned to gold. Every premiere was a carnival. Every public appearance was a procession of worship. Crowds chanted her name as though it were prayer.
 
But even thrones cast shadows. Her brilliance lit the industry, but it also invited envy. Rivals whispered behind jeweled masks, tabloids sharpened their knives. Some saw her rise as a threat to the old order, others as a challenge they couldn’t ignore. For every admirer, there was someone plotting in silence.
 
Rhea Malhotra had climbed higher than anyone imagined. But the price of greatness is never what it seems.
 
And soon, the city that had once bowed at her feet would demand its due.
 

-- oOo --

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[Saikarthik]

Nice buildup good updates

[shailu4ever]

Nice buildup good updates

Hi Saikarthik

Thank you so much for the kind words! I'm really glad you enjoyed the buildup and the updates. 

I'm excited to share more as the story progresses,  there’s a lot more to come!


with warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Scene 13 – The Anonymous Note
 

Four weeks ago… before the lights, before the vanishing, before the city held its breath…


The vanity van was less a vehicle and more a sanctum, dressed in velvet dbangs and mirrored walls that reflected a dozen versions of the same goddess. The air was perfumed with rosewater, powder, and the faintest trace of sandalwood, an indulgent blend that seemed to follow Rhea wherever she went. Outside, the restless press of the world clamored at the tinted glass: the metallic frenzy of flashbulbs, the chanting of her name, the impatient thrum of a city that always wanted more.
 
But inside, there was silence. Or rather, a curated silence, the quiet one finds in cathedrals or palaces, a silence that reminded everyone this was not ordinary space. This was Rhea Malhotra’s world.
 
Seated before the mirror, she was a vision of composure. Her long hair spilled like black satin down her shoulders until the stylist’s deft fingers sculpted it into place, every strand pinned with reverence, not haste. Rhea did not rush beauty. She embodied it, effortlessly, as though time itself slowed in her presence.
 
Her reflection gazed back at her, luminous under the soft golden bulbs. Yet even that reflection seemed inadequate, unable to capture the full weight of her presence. Rhea was not simply beautiful; she was inevitable. A force. The kind of woman who redefined every room she entered.
 
Meera, her trusted assistant, swept into the van with the lightness of someone who had learned to orbit a star. In her hands she carried yet another bouquet, lilies wrapped in cream-colored paper that looked almost too delicate to touch. “Another one,” she said, her tone playful, though tinged with awe. “That makes eight today. The florists will soon be the richest.”
 
Rhea’s smile flickered across her lips, serene and amused. Her laughter was soft, the kind that lingered like music in the air. “One day, I will vanish beneath a mountain of petals,” she murmured, her voice velvet-smooth, each syllable deliberate, as though even jokes became poetry in her mouth.
 
She loosened the ribbon with graceful ease. The flowers parted, releasing their perfume, heavy, sweet, faintly intoxicating. And then, something unexpected slid free from their core: a small envelope, ivory-white, unmarked but for its sharp precision.
 
Unlike the clumsy scrawls of devoted fans or the gilded cards from sponsors, this envelope had restraint. Elegance. It seemed to belong not to the chaos of admirers, but to another realm entirely, as though it had been crafted for her alone.
 
Rhea’s long fingers unfolded it. Inside, the message was short.
 
"You don’t belong to them. You belong to me. Soon, everyone will know."

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[shailu4ever]

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You don’t belong to them. You belong to me. Soon, everyone will know.
 


The handwriting struck her immediately: no frantic loops or uneven strokes, no adolescent passion pressed into paper. Instead, the letters flowed with poise and balance. Elegant. Assured. As though the writer was not begging for her attention, but declaring possession.
 
For a fraction of a second, the smallest flicker of unease passed through her eyes, though her face, her public mask, remained unbroken.
 
Meera leaned over her shoulder, eyes widening. “Oh my god. That’s… unnerving. Should I report it? Security will...”
 
“No.” The interruption was calm, commanding. Rhea’s lips curved into a practiced smile, the kind that reassured without revealing. She folded the note and, instead of discarding it, slipped it into her purse with deliberate grace. “It’s only another admirer. Let it be.”
 
 
But she had not dismissed it. Not truly. Something in her touch betrayed that. She did not throw it away because, in some unspoken corner of her mind, she understood: this was different.
 
Time ticked forward, and when the hour arrived, the frenzy outside surged like a tidal wave. The door opened, and the world greeted her with blinding light and deafening sound. Hundreds of flashbulbs burst like fireworks, cries of her name rising in a chorus of devotion. The lilies were still in her hand, their pale petals a startling contrast against the black tide of cameras.
 
She descended into the chaos with majesty, her every step measured, her poise untouched by the storm. She did not emerge from the vanity van like a woman; she emerged like a vision. A sovereign stepping into her court. The air shifted around her, as it always did, bending toward her presence.
 
Yet tonight, something was different.
 
For years, she had worn her smile like a crown,  a gift, a weapon, a shield. But as her gaze drifted over the crowd, her lips remained still. Her eyes, sharp and searching, no longer sought the adoration she had grown accustomed to. They hunted.
 
The crowd blurred into faceless worshippers, their adulation a background hum. But somewhere in that sea of devotion, she felt a gaze set apart,  not reverent, not dazzled. A gaze that claimed. It lingered like a touch against her skin, invisible yet undeniable.
 
The note’s words pulsed in her memory, as vivid as if they had been etched into her veins.
 
You don’t belong to them. You belong to me.
 
The night thickened around her. Even as the cameras immortalized her every gesture, Rhea felt herself less a star and more a secret,  a treasure already stolen in the mind of another.
 
For the first time in a very long time, Rhea Malhotra, queen of the screen, untouchable star, woman of legend, walked into the light without her smile. And the city, though it did not yet understand why, sensed the shift.
 
Somewhere beyond the flashes and cries, someone was watching not Rhea Malhotra, the goddess, but Rhea, the woman. Watching her not as an icon, but as possession.
 
And though her posture remained regal, flawless as ever, beneath the sheen of her perfection, a quiet truth began to unfurl.
 
The story was no longer hers alone.
 

-- oOo --

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[ratipremi]

Story is going very well. My earlier comments were not found worthy of posting by who ever decides that.

[shailu4ever]

Scene 14 – The Dinner That Ends in Silence
 

The Oberoi’s rooftop restaurant shimmered with candlelight, its glass walls opening to the Mumbai skyline, a sweep of light that glittered like spilled diamonds across a sea of velvet night. The air carried the faint perfume of jasmine from the terrace, mingling with the rich aroma of saffron and slow-cooked spices, an atmosphere of indulgence crafted for only the city’s elite.
 
And then, she arrived.
 
Rhea walked in wearing a deep emerald gown that moved like liquid silk, clinging and releasing with each step as though it had been poured directly onto her skin. A diamond cuff graced her wrist, catching the light with every subtle movement, and her hair, gathered in soft waves, framed her face like a crown of shadow and flame.
 
Conversations halted. Glasses paused midway to lips. Heads turned. There was no announcement, no herald, yet her presence commanded the room with the inevitability of dawn. She was not simply beautiful; she was radiant, untouchable, a vision sculpted from grace and command.
 
The men in the restaurant stole glances, some openly, others beneath lowered lashes, their companions catching the faint shift in their gaze. Women looked too, not with envy alone, but with the quiet awe reserved for rare things. Every eye held her, yet none could contain her.
 
Rhea felt the weight of it, though she carried it lightly, as she always did. Admiration was her shadow, familiar, expected. Yet tonight, the air around her felt charged, sharpened, as though her presence had not just drawn attention but disrupted the balance of the room.
 
“Miss Rhea, this way,” the maître d’ said softly, bowing with a deference that was almost reverent. He guided her to a corner table, half-hidden by sheer curtains, a vantage that allowed her both privacy and visibility.
 
 
Seated there already was Raghav Malhotra, industrialist, magnate, a man whose empire stretched from steel and oil to newsrooms and movie screens. He was power in human form, accustomed to the world bending at his nod. Yet, as he rose to greet her, his eyes softened, his voice lowered.
 
He inclined his head slightly, a gesture more profound than it seemed.
“Rhea-ji, you make the evening brighter just by being here.”
 
She smiled, measured but warm, her expression the perfect balance between intimacy and distance. “Thank you, Malhotra-saab. The pleasure is mine.”
 
The table was dressed in extravagance: silver domes lifted to reveal Kashmiri lamb, Iranian caviar, saffron pilaf glistening like molten gold. Yet neither reached for the food. Conversation flowed instead, cinema, politics, the dizzying ascent of new media, the permanence of old empires. Raghav spoke with the measured confidence of a man unaccustomed to contradiction, his sentences edged with steel.
 
Then, his tone shifted, deliberate.
“You know, people like you, Rhea-ji, are not just stars. You are gateways. To influence. To power. Men of my stature… we respect that. And we also protect it.”
 
The candle between them flickered, casting tall shadows across the silk dbangry.

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[shailu4ever]

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Rhea tilted her head slightly, her voice calm, carrying a trace of amusement that concealed an edge.
“Protect it… or own it, Malhotra-saab?”
 
He leaned forward, his gaze intent, measured. “Sometimes the line is too fine to notice. And yet, I see it in you, the way you move, the choices you make. There are paths open to you that others can only dream of. With my guidance, your influence could be absolute. Unmatched. You could be untouchable… even in places where fame and money cannot reach.”
 
Rhea’s lips curved into a smile that was serene, almost regal, yet held the steel of defiance. “And if I choose not to walk that path? To remain… sovereign in my own right?”
 
His eyes darkened, though his voice remained smooth, almost casual. “Ah, but independence, as brilliant as it is, can be… dangerous. The world has a way of testing those who refuse the hand offered to them. I only wish to see you rise, Rhea-ji. To see you safe. To see you command not just the cameras, but the boardrooms, the corridors of influence, the whispers behind closed doors.”
 
She sipped her wine, her emerald gown catching the candlelight as she lifted the glass with effortless grace. Her eyes never wavered. “I am already commanding,” she said softly, almost lazily. “I do not need guardians. And I never accept threats disguised as concern.”
 
For a moment, Raghav’s measured calm flickered, a shadow passing briefly over the face of a man used to control. “Threats?” His voice was smooth, but the pause in it carried weight. “No, Rhea-ji. Consider it… encouragement. Sometimes the most beautiful stars burn brighter when someone points out the danger of falling.”
 
Rhea placed her glass down with absolute precision. Her gaze sharpened, her posture immaculate. “Then I will continue to burn, Malhotra-saab. My way. And I will rise, untouched.”
 
Silence descended, heavier than the Mumbai smog, pressing down like a weight. The world outside glittered in careless brilliance, but at their table, only the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain dared to intrude.
 
Finally, Rhea rose, the emerald fabric sliding with her, every step a declaration of sovereignty. She smoothed the gown with one graceful touch before speaking.
“It was a delightful evening, Malhotra-saab. You’ve always been so kind and thoughtful. But it’s getting late, and I must excuse myself.”
 
Her tone was warm, her smile perfectly courteous, each word wrapped in velvet. She inclined her head gently, the way one might bow to an elder or patron, never too familiar, never too distant.
 
“Thank you for your time,” she added softly, her voice carrying the weight of finality, “I’ll always value your blessings.”
 
She placed her napkin neatly on the table, the gesture ceremonial, then turned to leave. Her heels clicked against the marble floor like the closing notes of a song, elegant, absolute.
 
Behind her, Raghav Malhotra remained seated, his expression unreadable, his gaze fixed on her retreating form. His fingers tapped slowly against the stem of his wine glass, a rhythm too steady, too deliberate, like a man calculating futures not yet spoken.
 
The silence after her departure was profound, heavier than any words exchanged. The restaurant breathed again, but nothing felt quite the same.
 

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Scene 15 – The Shadow in the Car
 


The black BMW slid silently out of the Malhotra estate, its polished body swallowing the reflection of glittering chandeliers one last time before the night claimed it. The city lights began to stretch and blur as the car moved, an island of calm in the restless pulse of Mumbai. 

Inside, the air was chilled, faintly scented with jasmine from sachets Rhea always kept tucked discreetly in the corners, a touch of elegance that marked even her private journeys.
 
At the wheel, Rajesh sat taut and unflinching, the city’s neon reflecting across his forehead. Beside him, Kabir’s eyes flicked constantly to the rearview mirrors, calculating, alert, a presence that seemed to radiate both intelligence and strength. 

Kabir had been with Rhea since her modeling days, her shadow and guardian through the chaotic ascent of fame. Smart, imposing, and fiercely loyal, he had anticipated threats before they materialized and guided her safely through countless unseen dangers.
 
Rhea reclined in the backseat with the regal ease of someone accustomed to command, her phone glowing softly in her hand. Her profile was a study in elegance: high, sculpted cheekbones, the soft curve of her lips as she smiled at a message, and the sweep of lashes that cast delicate shadows over flawless skin. Every movement, even the smallest blink or tilt of her head, carried an innate grace that made the world pause, even in motion.
 
Yet her smile faded as a subtle vibration ran through the car, a disturbance not from the engine, but from something unseen.
 
Rajesh’s sharp gaze caught it first. He glanced in the mirror. A black SUV, headlights dimmed, trailing them at a precise, measured distance.
 
“Madam, gaadi piche se follow kar rahi hai,” he said, his voice low, controlled, but laced with caution.
 
Rhea lifted her gaze, brows knitting imperceptibly. “Are you sure, Rajesh? Perhaps it’s just following the same route.”
 
But the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Rajesh had been by her side for three years, he never sounded alarmed without reason.
 
Kabir’s head tilted slightly, analyzing. He was calm, but his eyes sharpened, the very air around him carrying the weight of someone who had spent years anticipating danger. “No, Madam. That SUV didn’t just happen to be there.

Its movement is deliberate, controlled. I’ve seen this before, they are professionals.”

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[shailu4ever]

.

The words hung heavy, pressing into the silence.
 

Rhea exhaled softly, a composed mask hiding the tiny stir of unease beneath. She was no stranger to unwanted attention, paparazzi, gossip writers, obsessive fans, all had chased her beauty before. But this was different. The SUV’s precision, its deliberate distance, its patient shadowing, was too calculated. Too professional.
 
To steady herself, she leaned her head against the cool window, watching Mumbai slip by in streams of neon and shadow: tea stalls glowing under flickering bulbs, lovers drifting along the Marine Drive promenade, the restless Arabian Sea murmuring against rocks. To most, the city thrived in constant chaos. Tonight, it held its breath.
 
Her phone vibrated again. A message. Unsigned, untraceable.
 

“You looked beautiful tonight. But beauty can be a dangerous gift. Be careful, Rhea.”
 

Her lips parted slightly, a whisper of breath escaping. No number, no display picture, no hint of the sender.
 
For the first time in years, her heart skipped, not from admiration, nor excitement, but from the icy thrill of unease. She showed the message silently to Kabir.
 
Kabir’s jaw tightened, his mind already racing through possibilities. “Spam ho sakta hai, Madam. Don’t reply. But still… the timing, the precision, someone is watching. And they know where you are.”
 
Rajesh’s voice lowered further, urgent now. “SUV abhi bhi piche hai.”
 
The BMW turned into Bandra’s quieter streets, the lamps flickering weakly like hesitant eyes. The SUV followed, unwavering, patient.
 
Rhea’s hand tightened around her phone, nails pressing into her palm. For the first time in a long time, she felt less like the untouchable star, and more like prey under a patient gaze. Her emerald eyes, normally so soft in repose, flicked toward the rear window. She saw nothing but a dark silhouette, still, waiting, watching.
 
Kabir’s voice was calm, low, and commanding. “Stay composed, Madam. Don’t let them see any fear. We’ll get you home safely.”
 
Rhea straightened, her posture flawless, every movement a quiet assertion of her power even in uncertainty.
 
Rajesh eased the BMW toward her sea-facing apartment complex. The gates parted slowly after the guards’ routine check, the sound of the metal scbanging against metal unusually loud in the tense night. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Kabir’s eyes scanned once more.
 
The SUV had stopped at the end of the lane, idling beneath the shadow of a banyan tree. Its headlights blinked once, twice, deliberate, like a signal, before fading entirely.
 
Rhea did not see the driver’s face. Only a dark, patient figure, unmoving, studying her.
 
Her breath caught. She straightened her back, moving through the lobby with her usual poise, her heels clicking with regal authority against polished marble. Yet, the shadow lingered in her mind, a weight that no amount of elegance could lift.
 
Kabir followed silently, a few steps behind, every muscle ready, every sense attuned. Somewhere deep inside, he knew this wasn’t the paparazzi. Not gossip hunters. Not another admirer.
 
This was something else. Something deliberate. Something far more dangerous.
 

-- oOo --

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