Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

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The private terminal itself was a testament to his world, a place where the line between luxury and necessity blurred into something almost sacred. Its Italian marble floors gleamed, veins of silver running through them like frozen rivers of liquid wealth.
 
Chandeliers of Bohemian crystal bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, casting long, elegant shadows over the sleek leather armchairs. The scent of aged oak lingered in the cigar lounge, an intoxicating promise of exclusivity.
 
Here, only the most powerful of men were allowed to breathe the rarefied air.
 
And outside, under towering floodlights, the magnificent Gulfstream G700, the very embodiment of Malhotra’s fortune, rolled to a stop, its white body gleaming under the lights like an ivory statue. 

Its tail bore the Malhotra Global crest: a stylized lion standing atop a globe, marking it as a vessel of his empire.
 
This was not simply a jet. It was a flying palace, adorned with Persian carpets, Lalique crystal, and custom Italian leather that seemed to echo with the imprint of its master’s form.
 
As the engines hummed their last note and fell silent, all eyes turned toward the staircase that would soon descend from the cabin door.
 
Tonight, like every night, the ritual was the same. Malhotra would appear first, always first. His tall figure, framed by the cabin’s dim light, descending with the casual grace of a man who was used to ruling the skies and everything beneath them. Behind him, his entourage: aides, assistants, bodyguards, careful not to outshine the master.
 
But tonight, something was wrong.
 
The door opened, but Malhotra did not appear.
 
Instead, the crew emerged first, his chief attendant descending the stairs with her hands folded stiffly before her, her smile too fixed, her eyes betraying something darker. Behind her came two stewards, their steps hesitant, unnervingly slow.
 
They avoided each other’s gaze, their faces pale, their hands clenching the railings in a way that seemed almost frantic.
 
A subtle ripple of unease spread through the reception line. His aides exchanged nervous glances. Journalists leaned forward, sensing the shift in the air. The black SUVs stood motionless, their headlights cutting sharp lines through the night, as if waiting for the inevitable.
 
Still, no Raghav Malhotra.
 
An aide broke rank, his steps fast, his breath shallow. 

He hurried up the stairs and disappeared into the belly of the jet. 

A minute passed, one heavy with an unnerving stillness. When the aide reappeared, his face had drained of color.

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