30-05-2025, 07:25 PM
The gala buzzed with Mumbai’s elite—ad executives in sharp suits, clients in designer kurtas, and socialites dripping in diamonds. The air carried the scent of jasmine garlands and expensive cologne, the jazz band’s saxophone weaving through laughter and clinking glasses. Priya’s entrance through the villa’s arched doorway was a quiet detonation. The saree shimmered under the chandeliers, its sheer fabric catching the light, outlining her full figure with every step. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, her kohl-lined eyes scanning the room with a mix of apprehension and poise. The blouse, barely containing her curves, drew subtle gasps from colleagues and lingering stares from strangers. Whispers rippled through the crowd—wives adjusting their dupattas, men nudging each other, their eyes tracing her silhouette. Priya felt the weight of their gazes, her fingers tightening around her clutch, but she held her head high, her beauty a shield and a burden.
Sanjay, mid-conversation with a Unilever client near the bar, froze as Priya entered his line of sight. He stood by a marble pillar, a glass of single malt in hand, discussing market trends with practiced ease. But her presence sliced through his focus. She stood across the room, near a buffet table laden with crab cakes and saffron risotto, her saree catching the light like liquid obsidian. Her curves—hips rounded, waist cinched, breasts accentuated by the blouse’s daring cut—stirred a heat in him he hadn’t felt in years. Her almond eyes, framed by delicate lashes, held a quiet intensity, her lips parted slightly as she scanned the crowd. Sanjay’s breath caught, his fingers tightening around his glass. He is snever seen her before, not in the office’s sterile corridors or Arjun’s casual mentions of his wife. She was a vision, a contrast to Neha’s gaunt fragility, and his body responded with a primal urgency he fought to suppress.
Sanjay, mid-conversation with a Unilever client near the bar, froze as Priya entered his line of sight. He stood by a marble pillar, a glass of single malt in hand, discussing market trends with practiced ease. But her presence sliced through his focus. She stood across the room, near a buffet table laden with crab cakes and saffron risotto, her saree catching the light like liquid obsidian. Her curves—hips rounded, waist cinched, breasts accentuated by the blouse’s daring cut—stirred a heat in him he hadn’t felt in years. Her almond eyes, framed by delicate lashes, held a quiet intensity, her lips parted slightly as she scanned the crowd. Sanjay’s breath caught, his fingers tightening around his glass. He is snever seen her before, not in the office’s sterile corridors or Arjun’s casual mentions of his wife. She was a vision, a contrast to Neha’s gaunt fragility, and his body responded with a primal urgency he fought to suppress.