Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

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The elite moved with the poise of royalty, their gestures measured, their expressions refined. 

Producers leaned toward each other, whispering words pregnant with millions of rupees, while industrialists and politicians nodded with the precision of chess masters, every glance and smile a strategic move. Fashion editors adjusted the hems of gowns, photographers repositioned lenses, and assistants flitted between tables like choreographed shadows, yet beneath all the elegance, the room thrummed with one single expectation: her arrival.
 
Conversations faltered in her absence. Eyes drifted toward the door, the tension growing thicker with every passing second. It wasn’t the nominees, the films, or even the awards that mattered tonight. Everything, the whispers, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the subtle jostling of guests, was measured against a single, invisible standard.

Rhea Malhotra.
 
“She’s in Dubai. I saw her on a flight yesterday,” murmured a producer, scrolling through his phone, voice low but tinged with doubt.
 
“No, I heard from her makeup artist this afternoon,” another replied, excitement barely contained in the edge of his words. “She’s in the car. Five minutes.”
 
The words floated in the air, settling like fine gold dust over the crowd. Every camera lens, every watchful eye, every whispered speculation amplified the tension, the gravity, the sense of impending arrival. Time seemed elastic, stretching and compressing with each heartbeat, each shallow breath, each click of a photographer’s shutter.
 
“Do you think she’ll wear something traditional?” a fashion editor whispered to her photographer.
 
“Rhea Malhotra?” The man scoffed. “She is tradition and scandal in the same breath. Whatever she wears, it’ll break the internet.”
 
Even the hotel itself seemed to respond. The chandeliers above flickered softly as if acknowledging the approaching moment. The walls, polished marble and gilded paneling alike, seemed to lean inward, focusing attention on the heavy double doors at the far end of the red carpet. 

The scent of jasmine and sandalwood thickened, wrapping the room in a cocoon of anticipation and elegance.
 
Somewhere near the service entrance, a makeup artist’s whispered announcement cut through the ambient hum: “Yes… she’s on her way. Five minutes.”
 
The crowd stirred as one, a subtle wave moving through them, anticipation radiating like invisible electricity. Hands rose instinctively to cameras, lenses adjusted, breaths were held. Every element—the hotel, the city, the guests—aligned as though the world itself were preparing for her singular presence.
 
 
And yet, she remained unseen. Her absence, paradoxically, dominated the room. In that void, her power, her magnetism, her legend, was palpable. She was the axis around which this glittering universe rotated, the silent conductor of the orchestra of whispers, flashes, and hearts pounding in measured, eager synchrony.
 
 
“Rhea…”
 
And just like that, the name hung in the air, a shiver of electricity in its wake. It wasn’t just the crowd that reacted, it was the city itself.
 
The host of CineGlam Tonight, his throat dry, adjusted his tie as if to ground himself, though the world seemed to tilt on its axis. His eyes flickered toward the door, waiting, praying. This moment was his too, in a way. Her presence, her image, would set the stage for the evening—everything hinged on her arrival.
 
 
In every corner, in every glint of a chandelier, in every ripple across the red carpet, the question echoed: When will she arrive?
 
And the Grand Imperial waited. The city waited. Mumbai waited.
 
For now, all that existed was the promise of her arrival, the anticipation that had wrapped the night in silk and light, and the knowledge that the world would never look the same once she stepped into this space.

-- oOo --

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