Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

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Scene 28 – The Business Tycoon’s Jet – Delhi
 

Delhi, a city built on the power of its titans, glittered with its usual late-night brilliance.
 
By evening, the city’s vast avenues were drenched in the gold of streetlights, their rhythmic pulse in perfect harmony with the city’s ceaseless hum.
 
The embassies whispered in the cool night air, hosting their private, late receptions, while the private aviation terminal gleamed like a sanctuary for the few who commanded the skies.
 
Here, amidst the luxury of its marble-clad walls and the discreet hush of velvet-lined corridors, the world’s wealthiest and most influential men came and went with the kind of grace that only the privileged could ever know.
 
At the heart of this world stood one man.

 
Raghav Malhotra.

 
To speak of him was to speak of power itself, of empires built with steel and oil, of ports and satellites that spanned continents, of luxury hotels that bore his name and film studios that echoed with his influence.
 
His was a world of untold wealth, of unimaginable connections, a realm where his counsel was sought by political leaders from Delhi to Washington. Some called him ruthless, others called him visionary, but no one could deny his importance.
 
He was not simply the richest man in India; he was the man who defined what wealth meant.
 
The kind of wealth that didn’t just exist, it shaped the world around it.
 
Malhotra’s life was one of meticulous perfection.
 
His Savile Row suits were cut with surgical precision, his cologne from Parisian perfumeries bespoke elegance and opulence, while his Patek Philippe watch, its sapphire glint catching every ray of light, was synchronized with the very beat of his heart.
 
His presence in any room wasn’t just noticed; it commanded attention. When he entered, the world bent toward him. Every conversation, every glance, every action became a reflection of his will. To shake his hand was to grasp the pulse of an empire, cold, electrifying, and inevitable.
 
And tonight, after yet another negotiation swaying firmly in his favor in Dubai, he was coming home. Word had already leaked to the markets, and stocks tied to his empire surged, causing ripples in the international financial pool.
 
His aides stood waiting at the private terminal, discussing tomorrow’s announcements with practiced ease, while black Mercedes cars lined the tarmac, their engines purring with readiness.
 
A handful of journalists crouched at the barricades, their long lenses poised, eager for a single frame of the man who had shaped India’s skyline.

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