03-11-2025, 04:18 PM
-- One week later --
The political cauldron bubbled over. Newspapers screamed headlines about the fierce VP race between Chandrani and Rupa, their photos plastered beside venomous editorials. Chandrani’s phone buzzed relentlessly—allies pledging support, rivals whispering threats, journalists demanding comments. She felt like a chess piece in a game where the board kept catching fire.
--
That humid afternoon, Chandrani stood before her wardrobe, debating between a peach chiffon saree and a turquoise linen suit. Ashok waited by the door, car keys jingling impatiently, while Rehan bounced a tennis ball against the hallway wall. "Mummy, hurry! I’m starving!" he whined. She’d promised them biryani at their favorite lakeside restaurant—a rare family moment amidst the chaos.
Her phone buzzed like an angry hornet on the dresser. Khyam’s name flashed, sharp and unavoidable. She answered, her free hand tightening on the hanger. "Khyam Saab?"
His voice cut through the line, brisk and commanding. "Cancel your plans. Be at Hotel Grand Sea View by seven tonight. The Jhunjhunwala group’s hosting a junket—industrialists, party donors. Your presence is non-negotiable."
A cold ripple spread through her chest. Junkets meant champagne, cigar smoke, and hands sliding too low under banquet tables. Ashok frowned, catching her stiffened posture. "Problem?" he mouthed. She forced lightness into her voice. "Of course, Khyam Saab. I’ll be there.".
Hanging up, she spun toward Ashok, her face sculpted into apologetic dismay. "Ashok, *yaar*, I’m so sorry—that was Sarojini Devi." She invoked the stern widow who chaired Delhi’s Women’s Commission—a name Ashok respected and feared. "She’s convened an emergency strategy session tonight. Something about Rana’s camp leaking our welfare-fund proposals to the press." She sighed, rubbing her temples theatrically. "If we don’t counter this, Rupa will spin it into gold by morning."
Ashok’s frown deepened, but the mention of Sarojini Devi pricked his civic conscience. "Now? On a Saturday?"
"Politics never sleeps, *jaanu*," Chandrani murmured, stepping close to smooth his collar. Her fingers lingered, warm and reassuring. "Take Rehan. Go to the lakeside. Order extra kebabs—my treat." She pressed a kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering just enough to soften his irritation. "I’ll join if I escape early. Promise."
Relief surged through her as Ashok finally nodded, ruffling Rehan’s hair. "C’mon, champ. Double biryani day!" Their footsteps faded down the hall, the slam of the front door echoing like freedom. Alone, Chandrani sagged against the wardrobe, the peach chiffon slipping from her grip. *Liar*, hissed a voice in her head. But survival demanded sacrifices—and truth was the first casualty. She dressed carefully: a deep maroon silk sari, gold earrings sharp as daggers. Armor for the battlefield ahead.
By six, the humid Delhi dusk clung to her skin as her taxi pulled up to the opulent facade of the Grand Sea View Hotel. Crystal chandeliers spilled light onto the marble steps, a stark contrast to the darkening sky. Just as she stepped onto the entrance carpet, her phone vibrated urgently. Khyam’s name flashed. "Where are you?" His voice was clipped, tense. "Don’t go to the ballroom yet. Come directly to my suite. Room 712. Now." He hung up before she could question.
Chandrani frowned, puzzled. Suite? Why not meet with the donors? Yet a flicker of relief washed over her. The pressure of walking into that glittering shark tank alone made her pulse race. And truthfully, she desperately needed a moment—and a luxurious washroom—to compose herself, smooth her sari, and touch up her makeup after the sticky taxi ride. The suite offered privacy; the crowded ballroom did not.
She navigated the hushed corridors of the seventh floor, her heels sinking into plush carpet. Room 712. She hesitated, took a breath, and knocked firmly. The door swung open almost instantly.
SUMMARY^1: Arriving at the hotel, Chandrani receives an abrupt call from Khyam redirecting her to his suite instead of the ballroom. Relieved to avoid facing the donors alone, she heads to Room 712 seeking privacy to compose herself, only to find the door opening immediately upon knocking.
Khyam stood silhouetted against the suite's ambient lamplight, clad impeccably in a deep navy Armani Nehru jacket. His expression was unreadable—a mask carved from polished stone. He didn't speak, merely stepping aside to grant her entry. Chandrani expected his gaze to linger, perhaps with the familiar flicker of appraisal or the veiled possessiveness she’d grown accustomed to. Instead, his eyes slid past her, scanning the empty hallway before he shut the door with a soft, definitive click. The silence stretched, thick and unnerving, broken only by the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning. He moved past her toward the suite’s elegant sitting area, leaving her standing awkwardly near the entrance, the scent of his expensive sandalwood cologne hanging heavy in the air.
"Tonight," Khyam began, his voice low and urgent as he poured two fingers of single malt into crystal tumblers, "isn't about champagne flutes and hollow pleasantries downstairs." He handed her a glass without meeting her eyes. "Rana’s maneuvering behind closed doors. Jhunjhunwala’s group is wavering—they’re terrified of Rana’s street power and whispers that Rupa offers… *access*." He finally looked at her, his gaze sharp as a scalpel. "I need you to forge alliances. *Personal* alliances. With men who control votes, funds, and fear." He gestured toward a closed door off the main living area. "In there. Three men crucial to swinging Jhunjhunwala’s bloc. Deb you know. The other two? Prakash Malhotra, who owns half of Delhi’s media outlets, and Vikram Oberoi, whose shipping empire funds half our coastal candidates. They’re skeptical. Of you. Of us."
Chandrani’s knuckles whitened around her glass. The smoky whisky burned her throat, but the chill in her spine was colder. Prakash Malhotra—the kingmaker whose tabloids crucified female politicians for imagined scandals. Vikram Oberoi—rumored to collect political favors like rare coins, paid in flesh or secrets. Deb’s presence was no comfort; their last encounter pulsed like a fresh bruise beneath her silk sari. Khyam leaned closer, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Win their confidence. Charm them. Assure them you’re not just Rana’s pawn-in-waiting. The election hangs on this. *Your* nomination hangs on this." His eyes dropped pointedly to the slit of her sari, revealing her calf. "Use every asset you possess."
The words landed like shards of ice. She wasn’t here to negotiate policy; she was the sacrificial lamb offered to appease wolves. A tremor ran through her, the maroon silk whispering its betrayal. Khyam turned toward the inner door, his hand on the knob. "Deb asked for you specifically," he added, a flicker of something unreadable—contempt? Amusement?—in his eyes. "He remembers your... *persuasive* talents." The click of the unlocking door echoed like a gunshot in the hushed suite.
Khyam paused, his gaze sweeping over her conservative maroon sari, the modest gold earrings, the carefully pinned hair. A slow, sardonic smile curved his lips. "Tell me, Chandrani," he murmured, the smooth velvet of his voice laced with acid, "you aren’t planning to greet Prakash and Vikram dressed like a grieving Sati Savitri widow ready to lecture them on morality?" He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "This isn’t some dusty party workers' meeting where you rally the troops with righteous speeches. Downstairs is a battlefield of silk and scotch, and your virtue," his eyes lingered pointedly on the high neckline of her blouse, "is the least interesting weapon you possess tonight. Remember who you need to *convince*, not convert."
Chandrani met his gaze steadily, a flicker of defiance quickly masked by practiced calm. She didn't flinch at the insult. Instead, a slow, deliberate smile touched her lips – not warm, but sharp, calculating. "Khyam Saab," she said, her voice smooth as honey poured over steel, "may I use your washroom? Just for a moment." She gestured subtly towards the gleaming en-suite door. "A touch-up, you understand."
Khyam’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her unexpected composure. He gave a curt, almost dismissive nod, waving his hand vaguely towards the door. "Be quick," he muttered, turning his attention back to his whisky glass, swirling the amber liquid as if studying its secrets. "The wolves grow restless."
SUMMARY^1: Khyam mocks Chandrani's conservative attire as ineffective for wooing the powerful men, emphasizing seduction over virtue. Unfazed, Chandrani requests to use his washroom for adjustments, displaying unexpected composure that makes Khyam suspicious but granting permission.
Chandrani slipped into the lavish washroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her. She didn’t deliberately lock it; the latch was stiff, and her mind was already racing ahead—calculating angles, assessing risks. The cool, tiled space offered sanctuary, smelling faintly of lemon disinfectant and expensive soap. She leaned against the marble vanity, breathing deeply. The maroon silk sari *was* deliberately modest—Ashok’s trusting eyes saw pious devotion, not political armor. Downstairs, she knew, would be a parade of ambitious wives and mistresses dbangd in scandalous chiffon, flesh strategically displayed like bargaining chips. Chandrani wouldn’t compete; she’d redefine the game.
With practiced efficiency, she uncapped her lipstick—a deep crimson—and leaned toward the well-lit mirror. The peach chiffon she’d almost chosen flashed in her memory, discarded for its vulnerability. *Too soft*, she’d thought. *Too much like surrender.* She traced her lips, sharpening their Cupid’s bow into a weapon. Foundation smoothed the faint worry lines. Kohl darkened her eyes until they gleamed like obsidian shards. Each stroke was preparation for the hunt. Setting the lipstick down, her fingers moved to the hidden hooks of her blouse. The silk whispered as it parted. The clasp of her bra released with a soft *snick*. Cool air prickled her skin—
The door creaked open. Khyam leaned against the frame, tumbler in hand, eyes sharp as shards of glass. His gaze swept downward, past her startled gasp, past the hands that flew instinctively to shield herself—too late. His breath hitched, a fractional pause that echoed louder than words.
Her fingers clamped desperately over her nipples, knuckles white against flushed skin. The rest—the swell of her breasts, the vulnerable curve beneath—lay shockingly exposed. Silk pooled at her waist, the unhooked blouse gaping like an accusation. The air conditioner’s hum vibrated against her bare skin. *Idiot*, her mind screamed. *The latch was stiff, not locked—*
Khyam didn’t move. He stood framed in the doorway, the amber scotch forgotten in his grasp. His gaze wasn’t predatory hunger; it was cold, clinical assessment—a sculptor examining flawed marble. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of her panic and his sandalwood cologne. "Covering the essentials, I see," he remarked, his voice unnervingly calm. "Though perhaps not the *strategic* ones." He took a deliberate sip from his tumbler, his eyes never leaving hers, ignoring the trembling hands shielding only the peaks. "Modesty is admirable in a temple, Chandrani. Not in a war room."
SUMMARY^1: Khyam unexpectedly enters the washroom to find Chandrani partially exposed while adjusting her attire. Though startled and embarrassed, she seeks cover, but Khyam observes her clinically, criticizing her misplaced modesty and emphasizing the pragmatic demands of their political "war room."
He moved then, impossibly smooth. Three steps closed the distance. His free hand shot out, not rough, but implacable—a politician parting a crowd. He gripped her wrist, knuckles pressing into delicate bone, and wrenched her shielding hand aside. She gasped, a choked sound swallowed by the marble walls. His other hand followed, peeling her left hand away with surgical efficiency. Her arms fell limply to her sides. There was nowhere to hide. The vanity’s unforgiving light illuminated every inch—the full, heavy swell of her breasts, the flushed areolas tightening under the cool air, the puffy nipples already stiffening in shock and shame.
Khyam didn't speak. His gaze, sharp as broken obsidian, raked over the exposed flesh. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his empty hand. Not the whisky tumbler. His fingers, cool from the glass, brushed the outer curve of her right breast. A tremor ripped through Chandrani. His thumb traced the plump swell, circling inward with agonizing slowness until the rough pad grazed the hardened peak. He pinched, rolling the sensitive nub between thumb and forefinger. Her breath hitched, sharp and involuntary.
SUMMARY^1: Khyam forcibly removes Chandrani's shielding hands, leaving her fully exposed. He intently examines her breasts before deliberately touching her right nipple, causing her intense discomfort and involuntary reactions.
His gaze locked onto hers. "These," he murmured, his voice a low scbang against the marble silence, his thumb still tormenting her nipple, "have sucked the ambition out of many fools." His other hand rose, mirroring the assault on her left breast, fingers closing possessively around the soft weight. Chandrani stood frozen, naked from the waist up, pinned not by force but by the sheer, paralyzing shock of exposure. His fingers tightened, squeezing the yielding flesh, making the dark areolas pucker tighter still.
"They've swallowed promises, secrets... probably swallowed lots of bastards whole," Khyam continued, a cruel, mocking smile twisting his lips. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, sandalwood and scotch thick in the air. "But those days are over, Chandrani." His thumbs pressed hard against her stiffened peaks, sending a jolt of unwanted sensation through her. "From tonight, these," he gave another hard, possessive squeeze, "these *melons*," his voice dripped disdain, "will only go into the mouths of men who can deliver the President's chair to *you*..." He paused, letting the humiliation sink in, his eyes boring into hers, devoid of lust, filled only with calculation. "...and who will buy *me* the my politcal ambition." His thumbs flicked her nipples sharply, dismissively. "Consider it a strategic realignment of assets."
SUMMARY^1: Khyam declares Chandrani's breasts as tools no longer for personal gratification but solely for strategic political advancement. He asserts they must only "go into the mouths" of men capable of delivering significant power to her presidency and his political ambitions, framing her sexuality as a transactional asset.
Chandrani whimpered, a sound trapped deep in her throat. Her hands trembled at her sides, useless. "But... Khyam Saab..." she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, thick with shame and desperation. "My...m married. i have..fa..family... Ashok..." The plea was feeble, pathetic even to her own ears. She was bargaining with morality in a den of wolves.
Khyam didn't reply. His gaze, cold and assessing, remained locked on hers in the mirror. His thumbs gave her nipples a final, sharp, dismissive tweak—a silent command, not a caress. Then, moving with unnerving calm, he turned her fully towards the vast mirror, forcing her to confront her own exposed reflection: flushed face, terrified eyes, breasts held captive in his hands. His fingers found the intricate folds of her maroon silk sari at her waist. With practiced efficiency, he unwound the pleats, the expensive fabric pooling like discarded snakeskin around her ankles with a soft *whoosh*. Next came the petticoat; he untied the drawstring knot at her waist, letting the thin cotton slip down her legs. Chandrani stood frozen, hypnotized by the reflection, by the sheer impossibility of the situation unfolding under the harsh bathroom lights. She watched her own hands clutch the edge of the cold marble basin slab, knuckles bone-white, as if anchoring herself against the tidal wave of degradation.
He didn't speak a word. His hands settled firmly on her hips, guiding her torso forward. Instinctively, mechanically, Chandrani bent at the waist, pressing her bare stomach against the cool marble surface. Her gaze remained locked on the mirror, witnessing her own transformation: a respectable politician, wife, mother—now stripped, bent, exposed. The cold air from the AC vent overhead stirred the sparse dark curls between her legs, making them flutter against the vulnerability beneath. She felt utterly naked, physically and psychologically, the vanity lights illuminating every curve, every fold, every tremor.
Khyam’s fingers trailed down her spine, tracing the dip of her lower back before spreading possessively over her buttocks. He kneaded the soft flesh, almost clinically, as if appraising livestock. His eyes met hers in the reflection—a predator assessing prey. His lips brushed her ear, the scent of whisky sharp and invasive. "Wider," he commanded, his voice a low rasp devoid of tenderness. "Open yourself." A tremor shook her, but she obeyed, shifting her feet apart on the cool tiles, exposing the dampened glistening folds completely. His thumb slid lower, pressing against her slick entrance, circling slowly. Chandrani gasped, her knuckles whitening on the basin edge. "You'll ensure it?" she choked out, her voice strained, desperate to anchor this horror to purpose. "The Presidency? No matter what?"
He nodded once, curtly, his gaze unwavering. "Done." His thumb hooked into the elastic waistband of her last barrier—the flimsy lace panties. With a single, efficient tug, he yanked them down to her ankles. The cold air kissed her swollen mound, lifting the sparse dark curls. Fully nude now, her reflection trapped her: flushed face, heavy breasts swaying slightly with each ragged breath, legs splayed like an offering. Khyam’s palm landed sharply on her right buttock—a stinging slap that echoed off the marble. Her cry was swallowed by the room’s sterile silence.
"Spread," Khyam commanded again, his voice devoid of pity. She obeyed, trembling.
Chandrani turned her head slowly, sensuously, her dark kohl-rimmed eyes locking onto his in the mirror. Sweat beaded at her hairline. "Khyam Saab..." Her voice was a husky whisper, thick with unshed tears that somehow sounded like desire. "Please... not too rough." She swallowed hard, her exposed throat working. "I need to walk... downstairs. To meet Prakash, Vikram... Deb." Her gaze pleaded, raw and vulnerable beneath the calculated seduction. "If you mark me... if I limp... how will I forge your alliances? How will I *smile* while they touch what you’ve..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang—*used*, *ruined*—in the humid air between them.
Khyam’s eyes narrowed. His fingers, tracing the puckered rim of her asshole, paused. He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "No marks," he conceded, his voice flat. His thumb pressed insistently against the tight furl. "Spread properly. Wider." Chandrani obeyed instantly, arching her back further, pushing her buttocks high and apart. The fluttering pink knot of her asshole was fully exposed now, glistening faintly under the harsh lights. Khyam leaned closer, his breath hot on her sensitive skin. "Lube?" Chandrani gasped out, the word thick with shameful anticipation. "Is there...?"
He ignored her plea. His thumb pressed harder, the dry friction brutal against her delicate opening. She whimpered, her knuckles bone-white on the basin edge. "Stop the theatrics," Khyam snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass. "Tell me, Chandrani," His thumb circled the straining pucker, relentless. "Is tonight the grand premiere? Will this," he jabbed the tip of his thumb cruelly against her hole, making her cry out sharply, "be the first time you walk into a glittering party, smelling of another man’s sweat... *and seed*?"
Chandrani squeezed her eyes shut against the mirror’s merciless gaze. The cool marble pressed into her belly. "No," she whispered, the confession ripped from her throat, raw and jagged. "Not... not the first."
Khyam’s thumb stopped its cruel circling. The silence grew thick, charged. Then, abruptly, his hands clamped onto her hips and hauled her upright, spinning her to face the mirror. Her eyes flew open, colliding instantly with her own reflection—utterly naked, flushed, trembling. Her gaze darted down, refusing to meet the terrified woman staring back. Khyam crowded behind her, trapping her against the vanity, his navy jacket rough against her bare shoulder blades. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice low and venomous. "Look," he commanded, forcing her chin up with bruising fingers. "Look at yourself. See what ambition has carved." His other hand slid possessively over her belly, then lower, cupping the damp curls between her thighs. "This trembling piety? This downward gaze? It’s a lie." His fingers parted her folds, exposing the slick pink core. "You weren’t closing your eyes in shame moments ago, Chandrani. You were anticipating me. Needing me. Because you know exactly what opens doors tonight."
She flinched, a soft whimper escaping her lips as his fingers probed deeper, invading her slickness. His eyes locked onto hers in the mirror, cold and assessing. "Don’t pretend to be Sati Savitri now," he hissed, his fingers curling inside her, drawing a choked gasp. "You stood ready to get fucked right here against this marble vanity for your Presidency." He withdrew his hand, glistening wet, and brought it deliberately to her lips. The scent of her own arousal mingled with his sandalwood cologne. "Taste," he ordered. "Taste the price." When she hesitated, frozen, his thumb smeared the slickness roughly across her trembling mouth. "Own it. Or walk out that door and lose everything."
Chandrani swallowed hard, humiliation burning hotter than the whisky. Her tongue flicked out instinctively, tasting the tangy betrayal. The gesture—forced, degrading—stripped away her last shred of illusion. *This wasn’t seduction.* It was a stark reminder of her place. A transaction laid bare under the vanity lights. She met Khyam’s gaze in the reflection, the defiance gone, replaced by a hollow resignation. She nodded once, sharply. Understanding dawned, cold and clear: he hadn’t wanted sex; he’d wanted her broken. Ready.
Khyam stepped back, wiping his glistening fingers casually on a folded hand towel. "Good," he murmured, his voice flat, devoid of triumph. "Now get dressed. Quickly." He turned away, leaving her trembling before the mirror. Chandrani moved mechanically. Her fingers, numb and clumsy, rehooked her bra, pulled up the cotton petticoat. She rewound the maroon silk sari with trembling efficiency, her movements swift and silent. The fabric felt heavy now, not armor, but a shroud. She smoothed the pleats, adjusted the pallu, her reflection showing only a composed mask—eyes dark and hard as obsidian, lips crimson and sealed. She didn’t glance at the discarded lace panties pooled like a forgotten secret on the tiles.she wore a strapless blouse displaying her boobs seductively.
He watched her from the doorway, leaning against the frame, swirling the dregs of his whisky. "Ready?" he asked, though it wasn't a question. Chandrani nodded, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, on the ornate brass handle of the suite door. She felt hollowed out, the cold marble phantom pressure still against her belly, the phantom sting on her rear. She walked past him, head high, spine rigid, the silk whispering promises of power she no longer believed in. The scent of her own arousal lingered faintly beneath the sandalwood and scotch.
Khyam’s low chuckle stopped her just as her hand reached the door handle. "Tell me, Chandrani," he murmured, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Was this your inaugural performance? Getting fucked bare-assed on a washroom vanity slab… moments before stepping out to charm the wolves?" His eyes, sharp and predatory in the dim hallway light, raked over her immaculate sari. "Quite the pre-party ritual. Sets the right tone, wouldn't you say?"
Chandrani paused, her spine stiffening. The phantom sting of his slap burned fresh on her skin. She turned slowly, meeting his gaze. Humiliation coiled hot in her chest, but she refused to let it show. Instead, a brittle, defiant smile touched her crimson lips. "Actually, Khyam Saab," she replied, her voice unnervingly smooth, like shards of glass wrapped in velvet. "This vanity slab? It lacks… *ambiance*." She tilted her head, a calculated pause hanging in the air thick with unspoken degradation. "The last time I was thoroughly fucked just before a Page-3 gala like this…" Her smile widened, cold and sharp. "...it was in the back of a Rolls Royce Phantom. Much softer leather. Far less… clinical." She let the implication linger – the luxury, the power implied by the car, the sheer audacity of the confession.
Khyam’s smirk faltered. His fingers tightened around his tumbler. "Is that so?" His voice held a forced lightness, a politician’s mask slipping slightly. He hadn’t expected this counter-narrative, this claiming of her own degradation.
Chandrani leaned in, close enough for her breath—sweet with mint yet thick with the metallic tang of her own slickness—to ghost over his ear. Her whisper was silk over broken glass. "Oh, yes." Her eyes, dark pits in the mirror’s reflection, held his captive. "That night... Ashok was inside the Grand Imperial ballroom, drunk on expensive Scotch, boasting about my virtue." A bitter, brittle laugh escaped her. "Our son? Sipping mango kulfi in the lobby fountain courtyard, blissfully ignorant." Her hand rested lightly on the cold brass door handle. "And me?" Her lips curled in a parody of a smile. "Dragged out by that man. *‘Just a quick word about the funds,’* he said, right in front of Ashok." The memory sharpened her voice. "He didn’t waste time on *dialogue*, Khyam Saab."
Her knuckles brushed the doorframe as she turned fully to face him. "He shoved me into that Rolls Royce Phantom. Broke the clasp of my pearl necklace—*snap*—just like that." Her fingers mimicked the motion near her throat. "Silk ripped. *Hard*. Against soft leather seats that smelled of cigars and arrogance." She paused, watching Khyam’s knuckles whiten around his tumbler. "He fucked me so violently," she murmured, her tone detached, clinical, "that my diamond bangle cracked against the walnut veneer." Her gaze dropped pointedly to her bare wrists. "Ashok found it later. *‘Must have knocked it off dancing,’* he said." A cruel laugh escaped her. "Afterwards? That man smoothed his bespoke suit, handed me a wet wipe, and dropped me right back at Ashok’s elbow." She leaned closer, her sari’s pallu brushing his arm. "They spent the rest of the evening discussing cricket averages and monsoon predictions." Her whisper dropped to a venomous purr. "Ashok patted his shoulder. Called him a *‘true gentleman.’*"
Khyam stared, the ice clinking violently in his glass. Chandrani arched a brow. "You see?" Her fingers traced the intricate gold border of her sari, her eyes gleaming with merciless amusement. "You think you invented humiliation? You’re a clumsy amateur." She tapped her temple. "A *real* player makes the destruction invisible. Leaves the husband clueless." Her smile widened. "He made me laugh politely while his cum still dripped down my thighs."
Rage flashed behind Khyam’s eyes—cold, controlled fury. He slammed his tumbler onto a side table. "Enough." His voice was dangerously soft. "Your filthy history won't save you *next time*, Chandrani." He stepped closer, invading her space. "After tonight? After you secure my alliances?" His gaze raked over her silk-clad form. "*I* won't be so gentle. *I* won't bother with whispers." His finger jabbed towards the washroom door. "*I* will bend you over that vanity slab properly. Rip whatever flimsy pretense you're wearing." His lips twisted. "And teach you what happens to whores who forget who holds the leash."
Chandrani didn't flinch. Instead, a brittle laugh escaped her painted lips. "Oh, Khyam Saab," she sighed, her voice dripping with mocking pity. "Threats? Really?" She leaned in conspiratorially. "Let's suppose I win this Presidency... thanks to Prakash's money, Vikram's media empire, and Deb's... *enthusiasm*." Her smile turned icy. "Think of the promises I'll have made! The *favors* owed." She tapped a crimson fingernail against his chest. "I'll be fucking *so* many men just to keep my head above water..." Her eyes widened in theatrical innocence. "...you might need to book an appointment weeks in advance!" She paused, letting the vulgarity hang. "And *if*," she emphasized, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "*if* your name somehow crawls its way to the top of that very long list..." She tilted her head, surveying him with contempt. "...I truly hope your *performance* is better than your dialogue."
Khyam’s face darkened, a vein pulsing at his temple. He grabbed her silk-clad forearm, fingers digging deep. "You insolent bitch—"
Chandrani jerked free before he could finish, the movement sharp and fluid as a blade. Her smile didn’t waver. "Careful, Saab," she murmured, adjusting her pallu with deliberate grace. "That’s your future President’s arm." She turned toward the hallway leading to the ballroom, heels clicking like a metronome on the marble. "Shall we? Prakash Malhotra detests tardiness. I hear he bites."
The political cauldron bubbled over. Newspapers screamed headlines about the fierce VP race between Chandrani and Rupa, their photos plastered beside venomous editorials. Chandrani’s phone buzzed relentlessly—allies pledging support, rivals whispering threats, journalists demanding comments. She felt like a chess piece in a game where the board kept catching fire.
--
That humid afternoon, Chandrani stood before her wardrobe, debating between a peach chiffon saree and a turquoise linen suit. Ashok waited by the door, car keys jingling impatiently, while Rehan bounced a tennis ball against the hallway wall. "Mummy, hurry! I’m starving!" he whined. She’d promised them biryani at their favorite lakeside restaurant—a rare family moment amidst the chaos.
Her phone buzzed like an angry hornet on the dresser. Khyam’s name flashed, sharp and unavoidable. She answered, her free hand tightening on the hanger. "Khyam Saab?"
His voice cut through the line, brisk and commanding. "Cancel your plans. Be at Hotel Grand Sea View by seven tonight. The Jhunjhunwala group’s hosting a junket—industrialists, party donors. Your presence is non-negotiable."
A cold ripple spread through her chest. Junkets meant champagne, cigar smoke, and hands sliding too low under banquet tables. Ashok frowned, catching her stiffened posture. "Problem?" he mouthed. She forced lightness into her voice. "Of course, Khyam Saab. I’ll be there.".
Hanging up, she spun toward Ashok, her face sculpted into apologetic dismay. "Ashok, *yaar*, I’m so sorry—that was Sarojini Devi." She invoked the stern widow who chaired Delhi’s Women’s Commission—a name Ashok respected and feared. "She’s convened an emergency strategy session tonight. Something about Rana’s camp leaking our welfare-fund proposals to the press." She sighed, rubbing her temples theatrically. "If we don’t counter this, Rupa will spin it into gold by morning."
Ashok’s frown deepened, but the mention of Sarojini Devi pricked his civic conscience. "Now? On a Saturday?"
"Politics never sleeps, *jaanu*," Chandrani murmured, stepping close to smooth his collar. Her fingers lingered, warm and reassuring. "Take Rehan. Go to the lakeside. Order extra kebabs—my treat." She pressed a kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering just enough to soften his irritation. "I’ll join if I escape early. Promise."
Relief surged through her as Ashok finally nodded, ruffling Rehan’s hair. "C’mon, champ. Double biryani day!" Their footsteps faded down the hall, the slam of the front door echoing like freedom. Alone, Chandrani sagged against the wardrobe, the peach chiffon slipping from her grip. *Liar*, hissed a voice in her head. But survival demanded sacrifices—and truth was the first casualty. She dressed carefully: a deep maroon silk sari, gold earrings sharp as daggers. Armor for the battlefield ahead.
By six, the humid Delhi dusk clung to her skin as her taxi pulled up to the opulent facade of the Grand Sea View Hotel. Crystal chandeliers spilled light onto the marble steps, a stark contrast to the darkening sky. Just as she stepped onto the entrance carpet, her phone vibrated urgently. Khyam’s name flashed. "Where are you?" His voice was clipped, tense. "Don’t go to the ballroom yet. Come directly to my suite. Room 712. Now." He hung up before she could question.
Chandrani frowned, puzzled. Suite? Why not meet with the donors? Yet a flicker of relief washed over her. The pressure of walking into that glittering shark tank alone made her pulse race. And truthfully, she desperately needed a moment—and a luxurious washroom—to compose herself, smooth her sari, and touch up her makeup after the sticky taxi ride. The suite offered privacy; the crowded ballroom did not.
She navigated the hushed corridors of the seventh floor, her heels sinking into plush carpet. Room 712. She hesitated, took a breath, and knocked firmly. The door swung open almost instantly.
SUMMARY^1: Arriving at the hotel, Chandrani receives an abrupt call from Khyam redirecting her to his suite instead of the ballroom. Relieved to avoid facing the donors alone, she heads to Room 712 seeking privacy to compose herself, only to find the door opening immediately upon knocking.
Khyam stood silhouetted against the suite's ambient lamplight, clad impeccably in a deep navy Armani Nehru jacket. His expression was unreadable—a mask carved from polished stone. He didn't speak, merely stepping aside to grant her entry. Chandrani expected his gaze to linger, perhaps with the familiar flicker of appraisal or the veiled possessiveness she’d grown accustomed to. Instead, his eyes slid past her, scanning the empty hallway before he shut the door with a soft, definitive click. The silence stretched, thick and unnerving, broken only by the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning. He moved past her toward the suite’s elegant sitting area, leaving her standing awkwardly near the entrance, the scent of his expensive sandalwood cologne hanging heavy in the air.
"Tonight," Khyam began, his voice low and urgent as he poured two fingers of single malt into crystal tumblers, "isn't about champagne flutes and hollow pleasantries downstairs." He handed her a glass without meeting her eyes. "Rana’s maneuvering behind closed doors. Jhunjhunwala’s group is wavering—they’re terrified of Rana’s street power and whispers that Rupa offers… *access*." He finally looked at her, his gaze sharp as a scalpel. "I need you to forge alliances. *Personal* alliances. With men who control votes, funds, and fear." He gestured toward a closed door off the main living area. "In there. Three men crucial to swinging Jhunjhunwala’s bloc. Deb you know. The other two? Prakash Malhotra, who owns half of Delhi’s media outlets, and Vikram Oberoi, whose shipping empire funds half our coastal candidates. They’re skeptical. Of you. Of us."
Chandrani’s knuckles whitened around her glass. The smoky whisky burned her throat, but the chill in her spine was colder. Prakash Malhotra—the kingmaker whose tabloids crucified female politicians for imagined scandals. Vikram Oberoi—rumored to collect political favors like rare coins, paid in flesh or secrets. Deb’s presence was no comfort; their last encounter pulsed like a fresh bruise beneath her silk sari. Khyam leaned closer, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Win their confidence. Charm them. Assure them you’re not just Rana’s pawn-in-waiting. The election hangs on this. *Your* nomination hangs on this." His eyes dropped pointedly to the slit of her sari, revealing her calf. "Use every asset you possess."
The words landed like shards of ice. She wasn’t here to negotiate policy; she was the sacrificial lamb offered to appease wolves. A tremor ran through her, the maroon silk whispering its betrayal. Khyam turned toward the inner door, his hand on the knob. "Deb asked for you specifically," he added, a flicker of something unreadable—contempt? Amusement?—in his eyes. "He remembers your... *persuasive* talents." The click of the unlocking door echoed like a gunshot in the hushed suite.
Khyam paused, his gaze sweeping over her conservative maroon sari, the modest gold earrings, the carefully pinned hair. A slow, sardonic smile curved his lips. "Tell me, Chandrani," he murmured, the smooth velvet of his voice laced with acid, "you aren’t planning to greet Prakash and Vikram dressed like a grieving Sati Savitri widow ready to lecture them on morality?" He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "This isn’t some dusty party workers' meeting where you rally the troops with righteous speeches. Downstairs is a battlefield of silk and scotch, and your virtue," his eyes lingered pointedly on the high neckline of her blouse, "is the least interesting weapon you possess tonight. Remember who you need to *convince*, not convert."
Chandrani met his gaze steadily, a flicker of defiance quickly masked by practiced calm. She didn't flinch at the insult. Instead, a slow, deliberate smile touched her lips – not warm, but sharp, calculating. "Khyam Saab," she said, her voice smooth as honey poured over steel, "may I use your washroom? Just for a moment." She gestured subtly towards the gleaming en-suite door. "A touch-up, you understand."
Khyam’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her unexpected composure. He gave a curt, almost dismissive nod, waving his hand vaguely towards the door. "Be quick," he muttered, turning his attention back to his whisky glass, swirling the amber liquid as if studying its secrets. "The wolves grow restless."
SUMMARY^1: Khyam mocks Chandrani's conservative attire as ineffective for wooing the powerful men, emphasizing seduction over virtue. Unfazed, Chandrani requests to use his washroom for adjustments, displaying unexpected composure that makes Khyam suspicious but granting permission.
Chandrani slipped into the lavish washroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her. She didn’t deliberately lock it; the latch was stiff, and her mind was already racing ahead—calculating angles, assessing risks. The cool, tiled space offered sanctuary, smelling faintly of lemon disinfectant and expensive soap. She leaned against the marble vanity, breathing deeply. The maroon silk sari *was* deliberately modest—Ashok’s trusting eyes saw pious devotion, not political armor. Downstairs, she knew, would be a parade of ambitious wives and mistresses dbangd in scandalous chiffon, flesh strategically displayed like bargaining chips. Chandrani wouldn’t compete; she’d redefine the game.
With practiced efficiency, she uncapped her lipstick—a deep crimson—and leaned toward the well-lit mirror. The peach chiffon she’d almost chosen flashed in her memory, discarded for its vulnerability. *Too soft*, she’d thought. *Too much like surrender.* She traced her lips, sharpening their Cupid’s bow into a weapon. Foundation smoothed the faint worry lines. Kohl darkened her eyes until they gleamed like obsidian shards. Each stroke was preparation for the hunt. Setting the lipstick down, her fingers moved to the hidden hooks of her blouse. The silk whispered as it parted. The clasp of her bra released with a soft *snick*. Cool air prickled her skin—
The door creaked open. Khyam leaned against the frame, tumbler in hand, eyes sharp as shards of glass. His gaze swept downward, past her startled gasp, past the hands that flew instinctively to shield herself—too late. His breath hitched, a fractional pause that echoed louder than words.
Her fingers clamped desperately over her nipples, knuckles white against flushed skin. The rest—the swell of her breasts, the vulnerable curve beneath—lay shockingly exposed. Silk pooled at her waist, the unhooked blouse gaping like an accusation. The air conditioner’s hum vibrated against her bare skin. *Idiot*, her mind screamed. *The latch was stiff, not locked—*
Khyam didn’t move. He stood framed in the doorway, the amber scotch forgotten in his grasp. His gaze wasn’t predatory hunger; it was cold, clinical assessment—a sculptor examining flawed marble. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of her panic and his sandalwood cologne. "Covering the essentials, I see," he remarked, his voice unnervingly calm. "Though perhaps not the *strategic* ones." He took a deliberate sip from his tumbler, his eyes never leaving hers, ignoring the trembling hands shielding only the peaks. "Modesty is admirable in a temple, Chandrani. Not in a war room."
SUMMARY^1: Khyam unexpectedly enters the washroom to find Chandrani partially exposed while adjusting her attire. Though startled and embarrassed, she seeks cover, but Khyam observes her clinically, criticizing her misplaced modesty and emphasizing the pragmatic demands of their political "war room."
He moved then, impossibly smooth. Three steps closed the distance. His free hand shot out, not rough, but implacable—a politician parting a crowd. He gripped her wrist, knuckles pressing into delicate bone, and wrenched her shielding hand aside. She gasped, a choked sound swallowed by the marble walls. His other hand followed, peeling her left hand away with surgical efficiency. Her arms fell limply to her sides. There was nowhere to hide. The vanity’s unforgiving light illuminated every inch—the full, heavy swell of her breasts, the flushed areolas tightening under the cool air, the puffy nipples already stiffening in shock and shame.
Khyam didn't speak. His gaze, sharp as broken obsidian, raked over the exposed flesh. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his empty hand. Not the whisky tumbler. His fingers, cool from the glass, brushed the outer curve of her right breast. A tremor ripped through Chandrani. His thumb traced the plump swell, circling inward with agonizing slowness until the rough pad grazed the hardened peak. He pinched, rolling the sensitive nub between thumb and forefinger. Her breath hitched, sharp and involuntary.
SUMMARY^1: Khyam forcibly removes Chandrani's shielding hands, leaving her fully exposed. He intently examines her breasts before deliberately touching her right nipple, causing her intense discomfort and involuntary reactions.
His gaze locked onto hers. "These," he murmured, his voice a low scbang against the marble silence, his thumb still tormenting her nipple, "have sucked the ambition out of many fools." His other hand rose, mirroring the assault on her left breast, fingers closing possessively around the soft weight. Chandrani stood frozen, naked from the waist up, pinned not by force but by the sheer, paralyzing shock of exposure. His fingers tightened, squeezing the yielding flesh, making the dark areolas pucker tighter still.
"They've swallowed promises, secrets... probably swallowed lots of bastards whole," Khyam continued, a cruel, mocking smile twisting his lips. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, sandalwood and scotch thick in the air. "But those days are over, Chandrani." His thumbs pressed hard against her stiffened peaks, sending a jolt of unwanted sensation through her. "From tonight, these," he gave another hard, possessive squeeze, "these *melons*," his voice dripped disdain, "will only go into the mouths of men who can deliver the President's chair to *you*..." He paused, letting the humiliation sink in, his eyes boring into hers, devoid of lust, filled only with calculation. "...and who will buy *me* the my politcal ambition." His thumbs flicked her nipples sharply, dismissively. "Consider it a strategic realignment of assets."
SUMMARY^1: Khyam declares Chandrani's breasts as tools no longer for personal gratification but solely for strategic political advancement. He asserts they must only "go into the mouths" of men capable of delivering significant power to her presidency and his political ambitions, framing her sexuality as a transactional asset.
Chandrani whimpered, a sound trapped deep in her throat. Her hands trembled at her sides, useless. "But... Khyam Saab..." she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, thick with shame and desperation. "My...m married. i have..fa..family... Ashok..." The plea was feeble, pathetic even to her own ears. She was bargaining with morality in a den of wolves.
Khyam didn't reply. His gaze, cold and assessing, remained locked on hers in the mirror. His thumbs gave her nipples a final, sharp, dismissive tweak—a silent command, not a caress. Then, moving with unnerving calm, he turned her fully towards the vast mirror, forcing her to confront her own exposed reflection: flushed face, terrified eyes, breasts held captive in his hands. His fingers found the intricate folds of her maroon silk sari at her waist. With practiced efficiency, he unwound the pleats, the expensive fabric pooling like discarded snakeskin around her ankles with a soft *whoosh*. Next came the petticoat; he untied the drawstring knot at her waist, letting the thin cotton slip down her legs. Chandrani stood frozen, hypnotized by the reflection, by the sheer impossibility of the situation unfolding under the harsh bathroom lights. She watched her own hands clutch the edge of the cold marble basin slab, knuckles bone-white, as if anchoring herself against the tidal wave of degradation.
He didn't speak a word. His hands settled firmly on her hips, guiding her torso forward. Instinctively, mechanically, Chandrani bent at the waist, pressing her bare stomach against the cool marble surface. Her gaze remained locked on the mirror, witnessing her own transformation: a respectable politician, wife, mother—now stripped, bent, exposed. The cold air from the AC vent overhead stirred the sparse dark curls between her legs, making them flutter against the vulnerability beneath. She felt utterly naked, physically and psychologically, the vanity lights illuminating every curve, every fold, every tremor.
Khyam’s fingers trailed down her spine, tracing the dip of her lower back before spreading possessively over her buttocks. He kneaded the soft flesh, almost clinically, as if appraising livestock. His eyes met hers in the reflection—a predator assessing prey. His lips brushed her ear, the scent of whisky sharp and invasive. "Wider," he commanded, his voice a low rasp devoid of tenderness. "Open yourself." A tremor shook her, but she obeyed, shifting her feet apart on the cool tiles, exposing the dampened glistening folds completely. His thumb slid lower, pressing against her slick entrance, circling slowly. Chandrani gasped, her knuckles whitening on the basin edge. "You'll ensure it?" she choked out, her voice strained, desperate to anchor this horror to purpose. "The Presidency? No matter what?"
He nodded once, curtly, his gaze unwavering. "Done." His thumb hooked into the elastic waistband of her last barrier—the flimsy lace panties. With a single, efficient tug, he yanked them down to her ankles. The cold air kissed her swollen mound, lifting the sparse dark curls. Fully nude now, her reflection trapped her: flushed face, heavy breasts swaying slightly with each ragged breath, legs splayed like an offering. Khyam’s palm landed sharply on her right buttock—a stinging slap that echoed off the marble. Her cry was swallowed by the room’s sterile silence.
"Spread," Khyam commanded again, his voice devoid of pity. She obeyed, trembling.
Chandrani turned her head slowly, sensuously, her dark kohl-rimmed eyes locking onto his in the mirror. Sweat beaded at her hairline. "Khyam Saab..." Her voice was a husky whisper, thick with unshed tears that somehow sounded like desire. "Please... not too rough." She swallowed hard, her exposed throat working. "I need to walk... downstairs. To meet Prakash, Vikram... Deb." Her gaze pleaded, raw and vulnerable beneath the calculated seduction. "If you mark me... if I limp... how will I forge your alliances? How will I *smile* while they touch what you’ve..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang—*used*, *ruined*—in the humid air between them.
Khyam’s eyes narrowed. His fingers, tracing the puckered rim of her asshole, paused. He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "No marks," he conceded, his voice flat. His thumb pressed insistently against the tight furl. "Spread properly. Wider." Chandrani obeyed instantly, arching her back further, pushing her buttocks high and apart. The fluttering pink knot of her asshole was fully exposed now, glistening faintly under the harsh lights. Khyam leaned closer, his breath hot on her sensitive skin. "Lube?" Chandrani gasped out, the word thick with shameful anticipation. "Is there...?"
He ignored her plea. His thumb pressed harder, the dry friction brutal against her delicate opening. She whimpered, her knuckles bone-white on the basin edge. "Stop the theatrics," Khyam snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass. "Tell me, Chandrani," His thumb circled the straining pucker, relentless. "Is tonight the grand premiere? Will this," he jabbed the tip of his thumb cruelly against her hole, making her cry out sharply, "be the first time you walk into a glittering party, smelling of another man’s sweat... *and seed*?"
Chandrani squeezed her eyes shut against the mirror’s merciless gaze. The cool marble pressed into her belly. "No," she whispered, the confession ripped from her throat, raw and jagged. "Not... not the first."
Khyam’s thumb stopped its cruel circling. The silence grew thick, charged. Then, abruptly, his hands clamped onto her hips and hauled her upright, spinning her to face the mirror. Her eyes flew open, colliding instantly with her own reflection—utterly naked, flushed, trembling. Her gaze darted down, refusing to meet the terrified woman staring back. Khyam crowded behind her, trapping her against the vanity, his navy jacket rough against her bare shoulder blades. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice low and venomous. "Look," he commanded, forcing her chin up with bruising fingers. "Look at yourself. See what ambition has carved." His other hand slid possessively over her belly, then lower, cupping the damp curls between her thighs. "This trembling piety? This downward gaze? It’s a lie." His fingers parted her folds, exposing the slick pink core. "You weren’t closing your eyes in shame moments ago, Chandrani. You were anticipating me. Needing me. Because you know exactly what opens doors tonight."
She flinched, a soft whimper escaping her lips as his fingers probed deeper, invading her slickness. His eyes locked onto hers in the mirror, cold and assessing. "Don’t pretend to be Sati Savitri now," he hissed, his fingers curling inside her, drawing a choked gasp. "You stood ready to get fucked right here against this marble vanity for your Presidency." He withdrew his hand, glistening wet, and brought it deliberately to her lips. The scent of her own arousal mingled with his sandalwood cologne. "Taste," he ordered. "Taste the price." When she hesitated, frozen, his thumb smeared the slickness roughly across her trembling mouth. "Own it. Or walk out that door and lose everything."
Chandrani swallowed hard, humiliation burning hotter than the whisky. Her tongue flicked out instinctively, tasting the tangy betrayal. The gesture—forced, degrading—stripped away her last shred of illusion. *This wasn’t seduction.* It was a stark reminder of her place. A transaction laid bare under the vanity lights. She met Khyam’s gaze in the reflection, the defiance gone, replaced by a hollow resignation. She nodded once, sharply. Understanding dawned, cold and clear: he hadn’t wanted sex; he’d wanted her broken. Ready.
Khyam stepped back, wiping his glistening fingers casually on a folded hand towel. "Good," he murmured, his voice flat, devoid of triumph. "Now get dressed. Quickly." He turned away, leaving her trembling before the mirror. Chandrani moved mechanically. Her fingers, numb and clumsy, rehooked her bra, pulled up the cotton petticoat. She rewound the maroon silk sari with trembling efficiency, her movements swift and silent. The fabric felt heavy now, not armor, but a shroud. She smoothed the pleats, adjusted the pallu, her reflection showing only a composed mask—eyes dark and hard as obsidian, lips crimson and sealed. She didn’t glance at the discarded lace panties pooled like a forgotten secret on the tiles.she wore a strapless blouse displaying her boobs seductively.
He watched her from the doorway, leaning against the frame, swirling the dregs of his whisky. "Ready?" he asked, though it wasn't a question. Chandrani nodded, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, on the ornate brass handle of the suite door. She felt hollowed out, the cold marble phantom pressure still against her belly, the phantom sting on her rear. She walked past him, head high, spine rigid, the silk whispering promises of power she no longer believed in. The scent of her own arousal lingered faintly beneath the sandalwood and scotch.
Khyam’s low chuckle stopped her just as her hand reached the door handle. "Tell me, Chandrani," he murmured, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Was this your inaugural performance? Getting fucked bare-assed on a washroom vanity slab… moments before stepping out to charm the wolves?" His eyes, sharp and predatory in the dim hallway light, raked over her immaculate sari. "Quite the pre-party ritual. Sets the right tone, wouldn't you say?"
Chandrani paused, her spine stiffening. The phantom sting of his slap burned fresh on her skin. She turned slowly, meeting his gaze. Humiliation coiled hot in her chest, but she refused to let it show. Instead, a brittle, defiant smile touched her crimson lips. "Actually, Khyam Saab," she replied, her voice unnervingly smooth, like shards of glass wrapped in velvet. "This vanity slab? It lacks… *ambiance*." She tilted her head, a calculated pause hanging in the air thick with unspoken degradation. "The last time I was thoroughly fucked just before a Page-3 gala like this…" Her smile widened, cold and sharp. "...it was in the back of a Rolls Royce Phantom. Much softer leather. Far less… clinical." She let the implication linger – the luxury, the power implied by the car, the sheer audacity of the confession.
Khyam’s smirk faltered. His fingers tightened around his tumbler. "Is that so?" His voice held a forced lightness, a politician’s mask slipping slightly. He hadn’t expected this counter-narrative, this claiming of her own degradation.
Chandrani leaned in, close enough for her breath—sweet with mint yet thick with the metallic tang of her own slickness—to ghost over his ear. Her whisper was silk over broken glass. "Oh, yes." Her eyes, dark pits in the mirror’s reflection, held his captive. "That night... Ashok was inside the Grand Imperial ballroom, drunk on expensive Scotch, boasting about my virtue." A bitter, brittle laugh escaped her. "Our son? Sipping mango kulfi in the lobby fountain courtyard, blissfully ignorant." Her hand rested lightly on the cold brass door handle. "And me?" Her lips curled in a parody of a smile. "Dragged out by that man. *‘Just a quick word about the funds,’* he said, right in front of Ashok." The memory sharpened her voice. "He didn’t waste time on *dialogue*, Khyam Saab."
Her knuckles brushed the doorframe as she turned fully to face him. "He shoved me into that Rolls Royce Phantom. Broke the clasp of my pearl necklace—*snap*—just like that." Her fingers mimicked the motion near her throat. "Silk ripped. *Hard*. Against soft leather seats that smelled of cigars and arrogance." She paused, watching Khyam’s knuckles whiten around his tumbler. "He fucked me so violently," she murmured, her tone detached, clinical, "that my diamond bangle cracked against the walnut veneer." Her gaze dropped pointedly to her bare wrists. "Ashok found it later. *‘Must have knocked it off dancing,’* he said." A cruel laugh escaped her. "Afterwards? That man smoothed his bespoke suit, handed me a wet wipe, and dropped me right back at Ashok’s elbow." She leaned closer, her sari’s pallu brushing his arm. "They spent the rest of the evening discussing cricket averages and monsoon predictions." Her whisper dropped to a venomous purr. "Ashok patted his shoulder. Called him a *‘true gentleman.’*"
Khyam stared, the ice clinking violently in his glass. Chandrani arched a brow. "You see?" Her fingers traced the intricate gold border of her sari, her eyes gleaming with merciless amusement. "You think you invented humiliation? You’re a clumsy amateur." She tapped her temple. "A *real* player makes the destruction invisible. Leaves the husband clueless." Her smile widened. "He made me laugh politely while his cum still dripped down my thighs."
Rage flashed behind Khyam’s eyes—cold, controlled fury. He slammed his tumbler onto a side table. "Enough." His voice was dangerously soft. "Your filthy history won't save you *next time*, Chandrani." He stepped closer, invading her space. "After tonight? After you secure my alliances?" His gaze raked over her silk-clad form. "*I* won't be so gentle. *I* won't bother with whispers." His finger jabbed towards the washroom door. "*I* will bend you over that vanity slab properly. Rip whatever flimsy pretense you're wearing." His lips twisted. "And teach you what happens to whores who forget who holds the leash."
Chandrani didn't flinch. Instead, a brittle laugh escaped her painted lips. "Oh, Khyam Saab," she sighed, her voice dripping with mocking pity. "Threats? Really?" She leaned in conspiratorially. "Let's suppose I win this Presidency... thanks to Prakash's money, Vikram's media empire, and Deb's... *enthusiasm*." Her smile turned icy. "Think of the promises I'll have made! The *favors* owed." She tapped a crimson fingernail against his chest. "I'll be fucking *so* many men just to keep my head above water..." Her eyes widened in theatrical innocence. "...you might need to book an appointment weeks in advance!" She paused, letting the vulgarity hang. "And *if*," she emphasized, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "*if* your name somehow crawls its way to the top of that very long list..." She tilted her head, surveying him with contempt. "...I truly hope your *performance* is better than your dialogue."
Khyam’s face darkened, a vein pulsing at his temple. He grabbed her silk-clad forearm, fingers digging deep. "You insolent bitch—"
Chandrani jerked free before he could finish, the movement sharp and fluid as a blade. Her smile didn’t waver. "Careful, Saab," she murmured, adjusting her pallu with deliberate grace. "That’s your future President’s arm." She turned toward the hallway leading to the ballroom, heels clicking like a metronome on the marble. "Shall we? Prakash Malhotra detests tardiness. I hear he bites."
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