Adultery The Swamiji

[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.
 

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