Adultery Cuckold looses loving wife to boss

[vaali10946]

The Bandra villa of Sanjay Malhotra, perched like a glass-and-marble crown above the Arabian Sea, shimmered under the Mumbai night sky. It was a fortress of ambition, its sleek lines and sprawling terraces a testament to Sanjay’s meteoric rise as the thirty-five-year-old prodigy of Visionary Ads. The advertising empire he’d built, with campaigns for global giants like Unilever and Tata, was a beacon in Mumbai’s cutthroat corporate landscape. Tonight, the villa hosted a gala to celebrate a major client win—a glittering affair of clinking glasses, fusion cuisine, and live jazz that echoed across the manicured lawns. Sanjay, the evening’s architect, had ensured every detail was flawless: a rooftop bar with panoramic views of Bandra’s twinkling skyline, caterers weaving through crowds with trays of smoked paneer tikkas and mango martinis, and invitations extended to clients, employees, and their families. The event was as much a networking coup as a celebration, Mumbai’s elite mingling under chandeliers that cast golden light on polished marble floors.

Sanjay, in a tailored navy suit that hugged his lean frame, stood near the grand staircase, his presence magnetic yet approachable. His sharp jawline, framed by neatly trimmed stubble, and deep-set eyes gave him a boyish charm tempered by authority. He was a rare figure in the industry—ethical, mentoring young talent, funding local colleges, yet fiercely driven. But beneath his polished exterior, his personal life was a quiet wreckage. His wife, Neha, thirty-four, was a shadow of the poised socialite she’d once been. Her cocaine addiction had hollowed her, her gaunt frame and jittery eyes a stark contrast to Sanjay’s vitality. Their eight-year-old son, Arhan, was safely tucked away in a London boarding college, shielded from Neha’s chaos. Sanjay’s public smile hid the strain, but tonight, Neha’s presence threatened to unravel his carefully curated image.

Arjun, a mid-level creative at Visionary Ads, saw the gala as a stage for his own desires. His wiry frame, clad in a slightly ill-fitting blazer, betrayed his middle-class roots, but his sharp mind had earned him a foothold in Sanjay’s empire. Arjun had brought Priya to the gala not for networking or pride, but to indulge his voyeurism—to watch her beauty draw eyes, to imagine her with powerful men, a fantasy born in the glow of his laptop’s illicit videos. He’d chosen her outfit with care, pulling a sheer black saree from her wardrobe, its diaphanous fabric clinging to her curves, paired with a low-cut blouse that revealed the swell of her breasts. “Wear this,” he’d urged, his voice thick with anticipation. “It’s modern, classy, perfect for the crowd.” Priya, her almond eyes narrowing, had hesitated. “It’s too revealing,” she said, her voice soft but edged with discomfort. Arjun’s pleading gaze wore her down. “Please, for me. It’ll make an impression.” Her love for him, a fragile thread woven through years of Juhu Beach walks and whispered promises, compelled her to comply. She dbangd the saree, its transparency accentuating her hips, the blouse’s cut daring under the villa’s lights, her discomfort masked by a practiced smile.