18-11-2025, 09:47 PM
Khyam’s eyes narrowed, rage simmering beneath his politician’s mask. He fell into step beside her. "Tell me," he snapped, the words clipped and jagged. "All these men—every alliance you’ve spread your legs for... Did you savor any of it?" He gestured mockingly toward the distant sounds of the gala. "The industrialist? The media mogul? my former brother with his clammy hands?" He leaned closer. "Or was it all just... *duty*?"
Chandrani paused mid-stride near the suite’s elevator. The mirrored doors slid open, casting back their reflections—his fury coiled tight, hers unnervingly serene. She turned slowly, her deep red lips curling into a wicked smile. Her kohl-rimmed eyes locked onto his, gleaming with deliberate mischief. One hand rose gracefully, adjusting an invisible strand of hair, while the other remained poised near the elevator button. She let him stew in the silence for a beat—long enough for his knuckles to bleach white around the clutch of his whisky glass.
"Oh, Khyam Saab," she purred, her voice dripping with theatrical nostalgia. "Such a sensitive question." Her fingers tapped thoughtfully against her lips. "Duty? Always." She leaned in conspiratorially, the scent of her sandalwood perfume mingling with the lingering tang of betrayal. "But savor?" A low, husky laugh escaped her. "Only once." Her gaze drifted past him, as if recalling a distant shore. "Goa. My bachelorette trip, years ago." She paused, savoring the tension thickening the air between them. "Met this Nigerian diplomat—tall as a mahogany tree, shoulders like granite." Her tongue flicked out, tracing her upper lip. "He took me against the balcony railing of Taj Fort Aguada." Her eyes snapped back to Khyam’s frozen expression, sparkling with cruel delight. "Monsoon winds howling, waves crashing *right* below us." She shivered dramatically. "*That* man didn’t talk. Didn’t bargain. Just... impaled."
Khyam’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "Impaled?" he echoed, the word brittle.
"Mm." Chandrani hummed, stepping into the elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in mirrored silence. Her reflection smiled—serene, untouchable. "Like a butterfly pinned to velvet." She tapped the 'Lobby' button. "He didn’t ask for my future husband’s policies or my father’s connections. Just lifted my skirt and..." Her hand mimed a swift, brutal thrust. "*Silence*. Only salt spray and my silk tearing." She sighed, the sound dripping with false wistfulness. "Shame piyali interrupted. Barged onto the balcony demanding dessert." Her laugh was ice shattering. "Poor girl thought I was seasick."
Khyam leaned against the brass railing, swirling his near-empty tumbler. "Such a pity," he sneered, the words sharp as cut glass. "All that... vigor. Cut short." He eyed her with theatrical regret. "Leaving your business, unfinished." His gaze traced the swell of her breasts beneath the sleeveless blouse. "Must have been... frustrating."
Chandrani didn't look at him. Her reflection in the elevator mirror held a ghost of a smile, brittle and knowing. "Not at all," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr that vibrated faintly in the enclosed space. She tilted her head just slightly, a cascade of dark hair brushing the silk at her shoulder. "He finished. Thoroughly." Her reflection's gaze met Khyam's in the polished steel. "He fucked my *brain* out. With that magnificent ten-inch cock." A faint tremor ran through her, not shame, but remembered intensity. "Took me again and again." Her voice thickened, intimate. "Against the railing. On the balcony tiles. On the soaking wet chaise lounge... till dawn painted the Arabian Sea gold." She chuckled softly, darkly. "Had to limp back to my suite." Her reflection arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Khyam's sneer vanished, replaced by a sharp calculation. He leaned closer, his whisper slicing through the elevator's hum. "Your husband. Ashok." His eyes tracked her reflection's reaction with predatory intensity. "Wasn't he... suspicious? Of the limp?"
Chandrani’s expression didn’t flicker. Only her fingers tightened infinitesimally on her clutch. "He noticed," she admitted, her tone brisk, detached. "Two days before the wedding." She gave a brittle shrug. "Told him I twisted my ankle dancing barefoot on Fort Aguada’s wet tiles." A ghost of her earlier mocking smile touched her lips. "Easier to explain than... well." Her gaze slid pointedly towards his own trousers. "*You* understand." The elevator chimed softly, signalling their descent's end. The polished steel doors slid open, revealing the opulent chaos of the Grand Imperial lobby—a kaleidoscope of glittering saris, sharp tuxedos, and the ceaseless murmur of power brokering. The scent of tuberose garlands and expensive perfume washed over them.
She didn’t step out immediately. Instead, she turned fully to face Khyam, blocking the threshold. Her posture was suddenly rigid, the brittle defiance replaced by something colder, harder—a blade sheathed in silk. The bright lobby lights etched sharp lines around her eyes. "Khyam Saab," she began, her voice low, stripped of all theatrics. "*As I said earlier*." Her gaze pinned him, unwavering. "I know my duty. I know I must spread my legs... frequently... for the aspiration i harbour..." The vulgar words hung flatly between them, devoid of shame. "For the party. For my chair.." Her chin lifted fractionally. "But I understand the game. I know *what* to do. And *when* to do it."
She took a half-step closer, close enough for Khyam to see the faint tremor in the gold thread of her sari pallu. "So stop worrying," she commanded, her whisper slicing through the distant gala hum.
"And in return?" Her voice dropped to a raw scbang. "You protect me. Shield tme." ." She swallowed hard, the movement stark in her throat. "And you deliver what you promised." Her gaze locked onto his, desperate. "The Presidency of the Women's Wing. My *seat*. Uncontested. Secured before Durga Puja."
Khyam watched her, his expression unreadable granite beneath the lobby's blinding chandeliers. he nodded.
He guided Chandrani through the swirling vortex of sequins and power suits toward Prakash Malhotra and Vikram Sen—two pillars in the Grand Imperial's glittering pantheon. Prakash, bulky in his Savile Row tuxedo, stood like a fortified bank vault, his eyes shrewdly assessing Chandrani’s approach. Vikram, lean and perpetually amused, swirled an amber drink, his gaze lingering on the daring décolletage of her sleeveless blouse.
"Chandrani, resplendent as ever," Prakash murmured, his deep voice a gravelly purr. He clasped her hand briefly, fingers brushing her knuckles—an assessment disguised as courtesy. Vikram grinned, teeth flashing white. "Deb was raving about you earlier, Chandrani," he said, his tone playful yet sharp as a stiletto. "Couldn’t stop praising your… *persuasiveness*. Said only Chandrani could turn a policy debate into a captivating spectacle." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Almost made me jealous I wasn’t the one being… *convinced*."
Chandrani felt the blush bloom hot across her cheeks, a treacherous flush she couldn’t suppress. Deb’s praise? The word "persuasiveness" echoed, heavy with innuendo. *Had Deb told Vikram? Had he boasted about fucking her?* The memory of her moments with deb in the hotel room in goa —the stale whiskey breath, the hurried grunts against her ear in that stifling archive room. Her stomach clenched. She managed a brittle smile, her gaze darting instinctively toward Khyam. "Deb is too kind," she murmured, forcing lightness into her voice. "Though I suspect his compliments stem more from shared whisky bottles than policy victories."
Khyam’s hand settled firmly on the small of her back, a possessive anchor against the treacherous tide of Vikram’s insinuation. His touch felt like a brand through the silk. "Deb possesses… colourful enthusiasms," Khyam interjected smoothly, his voice neutral steel. "But Chandrani’s talents extend far beyond mere charm." He subtly shifted her half a step toward Prakash Malhotra, a deliberate maneuver. Prakash’s gaze, sharp and assessing, lingered on her flushed face, then dropped pointedly to the daring display of her strapless blouse. Chandrani felt exposed, raw beneath his scrutiny.
The discussion turned sharp-edged, navigating the treacherous currents of alliance-building with the Lok Janashakti Party. Prakash grunted about "ideological concessions," Vikram murmured slickly about "electoral arithmetic," and Khyam countered with "strategic pragmatism." Chandrani forced herself to contribute, her voice unnaturally bright, weaving superficial suggestions about rural women’s self-help groups – politically safe, utterly insignificant. The words felt like ash in her mouth as Prakash leaned closer, his expensive cologne cloying. "Your blouse," he remarked casually, swirling his scotch, "is distractingly unorthodox for a pious party symbol. Is that the new strategy? Titillation over policy?" Vikram chuckled softly. Chandrani’s smile froze, the blush deepening into a crimson stain of humiliation. She could feel Prakash’s gaze like fingers tracing her exposed skin.
A flicker of movement beyond Prakash’s bulky frame snagged Chandrani’s attention. Standing slightly apart, near a potted monstera dripping with emerald leaves, was a man she hadn’t noticed before. He wore a tailored Jawahar suit in deep charcoal grey, the fabric straining slightly across broad shoulders and a thick, powerful neck. He looked well into his fifties. His face was brutal terrain – a heavy brow shadowing deep-set eyes, a nose crooked from old breaks, a jaw like quarried granite, and a close-cropped beard shot through with streaks of iron grey. He wasn't conventionally handsome; he was formidable, projecting an aura of coiled, untamed energy that seemed incongruous amidst the polished politicians. He held no drink, only a thin file folder tucked under one thick arm. His gaze, heavy-lidded yet unnervingly direct, was fixed not on the centre of their group, but solely on her.
The discussion veered sharply toward the recent assassination of LJP leader Subhas Mishra at his farmhouse retreat. Vikram Sen sighed theatrically, swirling his scotch. "Such... *untidiness*. Mishra was careless. Leaving himself exposed like that?" Prakash Malhotra grunted, a sound like stones grinding together. "Careless? Or convenient? Eliminated just before the council vote?" His shrewd eyes narrowed. "One less seat to appease now, wouldn’t you say, Khyam Saab?" Khyam’s reply was smooth, dismissive. "Tragic opportunism. Common in our chaotic times." His hand tightened imperceptibly on Chandrani’s back.
Suddenly, the brutal-faced man in the charcoal Jawahar suit detached himself from the shadows of the monstera. He moved with startling quietness for his bulk, closing the distance in three strides. Without a word, but with a swift, meaningful glance at Prakash, he thrust the thin file folder into the industrialist’s waiting hand. Prakash’s thick fingers flipped it open immediately, scanning the top page. "Javed," he acknowledged the man gruffly, not looking up. Jawahar nodded once, his deep-set eyes flickering briefly—dispassionately—over Chandrani before retreating silently to his post near the foliage, a sentinel swallowed by the lobby’s artifice.
Prakash snapped the folder shut, the sound sharp as a gunshot amidst the soft murmur of the gala. His gaze, cold and speculative, pinned Khyam. "Mishra wasn't just eliminated, Khyam Saab," he stated, his gravelly voice lowered but carrying lethal clarity. "He was *cleansed*. Found in his pool. Naked. Throat slit ear-to-ear." Prakash’s thumb tapped the folder. "Forensics suggest... surgical precision. Not the usual thugs."
Vikram chuckled, swirling his drink. "My channel is running the 'tragic accidental drowning' angle," he said, flashing Chandrani a knowing smirk. "Ratings gold, naturally. But," he leaned in, lowering his voice theatrically, "*I* still don't have the scoop on the *who*. That poolside footage... suspiciously vanished."
Prakash snorted derisively. "Your gossip mill, Vikram? Amateur hour." He slapped the folder against his thigh. "*My* network is formidable. Embedded deep." He gestured sharply towards Javed, still half-hidden by the monstera's shadow. "*Javed!* Capture the moment. Faces of our... united front." His command cracked through the air. "For posterity."
Vikram's smirk faltered, replaced by irritation as Javed lumbered forward. The bulky man raised a sleek smartphone, its lens cold and impersonal. Prakash hooked an arm possessively around Chandrani’s silk-clad waist, pulling her stiffly against his side. Khyam slid smoothly into frame beside her, his politician’s smile perfectly calibrated. Vikram, caught flat-footed, scrambled to compose himself, his drink hastily handed off to a passing waiter. The flash exploded – a blinding white burst etching their forced alliance onto digital memory. Prakash leaned in, his gravelly voice a rumble vibrating through Chandrani's shoulder blade. "Proof we move *together*, Chandrani," he murmured, too close, the scent of expensive tobacco thick on his breath. "Before… complications arise."
Chandrani’s gaze locked onto Javed as he lowered the phone. The brute’s heavy-lidded eyes weren't assessing Prakash’s staged unity. They were fixed unblinkingly on *her*, tracing the exposed curve of her shoulder where the sari pallu had slipped, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the thin silk. It wasn't the leering appraisal of politicians like Deb or Prakash. This was raw, primal hunger – a predator sizing up prey. A tremor, not entirely unpleasant, shot through her. Shame coiled hot in her gut, warring with a forbidden thrill. *Enjoyed it?* The thought hissed, unbidden. Had Khyam’s degradation, Prakash’s belittlement, Vikram’s sly insinuations… had they scbangd her raw enough that *this* brute’s undisguised lust felt like… validation? Her cheeks burned anew, but she held her spine rigid, refusing to look away.
Vikram, visibly ruffled by Prakash’s command and Javed’s abrupt intrusion, stepped forward, reclaiming his discarded scotch from the waiter. His practiced smirk returned, sharper now. "Proof we move together?" He echoed Prakash’s words with deliberate irony, swirling his drink. "How very cinematic, Prakashji. Though," his gaze flickered pointedly towards Javed, who stood immobile, eyes still fixed on Chandrani, "I doubt your formidable *network* includes… paparazzi." Vikram’s chuckle held an edge. "*My* channel runs news, Prakashji. Not staged family albums." He gestured vaguely towards the buzzing gala. "The *real* story is still out there. Mishra’s killer walks free while we pose."
Khyam smoothly detached himself from Chandrani’s side, placing a reassuring hand on Vikram’s tense shoulder. "Vikram Saab," he murmured, his voice low and conciliatory, yet firm. "A moment? The Finance Minister just arrived. He’s been… unsettled by Mishra’s demise. Needs reassurance about coalition stability. Your insights on media perception would be invaluable." Khyam’s gaze swept the crowd, landing on a huddle near the champagne fountain where an anxious-looking man in a Nehru jacket fidgeted. Vikram hesitated, glancing between Prakash and Chandrani, his irritation momentarily warring with professional ambition. The lure of influencing the Finance Minister trumped bruised ego. He gave Prakash a curt nod. "Later, Prakashji. We’ll revisit… staging." With a final glance at Chandrani – lingering on her exposed shoulder – Vikram allowed Khyam to guide him away, swallowed instantly by the glittering throng.
Prakash Malhotra’s grip on Chandrani’s waist tightened possessively the moment they were alone. His head dipped close; the sudden assault of stale cigar breath and cloying sandalwood cologne made her flinch. "That husband of yours, Ashok," Prakash rumbled, his gravelly voice vibrating against her ear, thick with lecherous approval. "He's a damn fool about policy, Chandrani. But the man knows how to pick a wife." His thumb pressed deliberately against the curve of her hip, sliding lower to trace the contour beneath the silk sari. "You have a truly… *magnificent* ass." Chandrani’s smile froze into a brittle mask of polite acceptance, her spine rigid against the violation. She managed a slight, graceful nod. "You’re too kind, Prakashji," she murmured, the words ash in her mouth. Before she could pull subtly away, Prakash seized her hand, his eyes gleaming with predatory charm. "You’ll honour me with the next dance, Chandrani? Make an old man’s night?" His gaze didn’t waver, demanding acquiescence.
Chandrani’s eyes flickered instinctively beyond Prakash’s bulk, finding Javed instantly. The brute hadn’t moved. He remained rooted near the monstera, a tumbler of amber whiskey clutched in one thick hand. His stare—heavy, unblinking, utterly devoid of social grace—was locked onto her with unnerving intensity, tracing the line Prakash’s thumb had just mapped. A reckless coil of defiance sparked low in her belly. *Let him watch*. She’d endured Khyam’s calculated degradation, Vikram’s slick insinuations, Prakash’s crude pawing. This raw, untamed hunger? It felt disturbingly honest. "It would be my pleasure, Prakashji," Chandrani purred, her voice thick with false warmth, letting him lead her onto the crowded dance floor.
Prakash guided her clumsily into the swirling crush of bodies, his hand crushingly possessive on her waist. The orchestra swelled—a syrupy Bollywood ballad—and Prakash lumbered into motion. His steps were heavy, arrhythmic, his expensive shoes scbanging the polished marble. "You move like water, Chandrani," he rumbled against her temple, his breath hot and sour with expensive scotch. His hand slid lower, kneading the curve of her hip deliberately through the silk sari. "So supple. So... responsive." Chandrani forced her body to relax against the intrusive pressure, her smile fixed and dazzling under the chandelier light. "You flatter me, Prakashji," she murmured demurely, her gaze darting subtly over his shoulder. Javed hadn’t shifted. He leaned against a marble column now, sipping his whiskey slowly, his gaze never wavering from her. It wasn't admiration; it was appraisal—cold, assessing, primal.
As Prakash clumsily spun her, Chandrani deliberately arched her back, letting the sari pallu slip further off her shoulder. The icy burn of Javed’s stare intensified, tracking the exposed skin like a laser sight. Prakash grunted appreciatively, misinterpreting the gesture. "See? Instinct," he chuckled thickly, pulling her closer until the stiff fabric of his tuxedo jacket dug into her ribs. Chandrani focused past his shoulder, locking eyes across the distance with Javed. His expression didn’t flicker. No smile, no frown. Just... observation. Raw and unblinking. She held the stare for a fraction longer than necessary, a secret thrill coiling low in her belly beneath Prakash’s pawing hands. *Let him see.*
The music shifted to a faster rhythm, forcing Prakash into ungainly shuffles. Chandrani used the momentum to subtly twist away, creating precious inches of space as she navigated his stomping feet. Her gaze darted again—Javed hadn’t moved from his column. He brought the tumbler to his lips slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers. The amber liquid caught the chandelier light. Prakash seized her waist tighter, stumbling against her momentum. "Damn politicians," he muttered sourly against her hairline, his breath humid. "All talk, no spine. Need men who *act*." His hand slid lower, dangerously close to her buttock. Chandrani stiffened, her smile tightening. She glanced back towards Javed. His jaw clenched visibly, the only crack in that granite facade. A sharp pulse of satisfaction shot through her. *Not so unmoved after all.*
She felt Prakash’s thick fingers brush the swell of her hip, dipping lower still. Chandrani braced herself for the crude squeeze she knew was coming. But her eyes remained locked with Javed’s—and she saw it. A subtle tightening around his heavy-lidded eyes, a flare in their dark depths. It wasn't jealousy; it was pure, predatory possessiveness. As Prakash’s palm clumsily cupped her buttock through the silk, Chandrani didn’t flinch. Instead, a low, forbidden heat spread beneath Prakash’s pawing hand. She arched her back slightly, pressing *into* the unwanted touch, her gaze still pinned defiantly to Javed’s. The thrill wasn't Prakash's clumsy groping; it was the raw, silent fury radiating from the brute across the floor, the way his knuckles whitened around his glass. She *wanted* him to see.
Javed’s jaw shifted. He drained the whiskey in one savage gulp, the tumbler vanishing into his suit pocket. Without breaking his stare—a silent promise etched into the brutal lines of his face—he turned abruptly and melted into the crowd, disappearing near the banquet hall entrance. The sudden absence felt like a physical blow. Chandrani’s breath hitched, the heat cooling into a sharp pang of loss. Prakash misinterpreted her shudder, chuckling wetly against her neck. "Feeling that rhythm now, hmm?" he slurred.
"Who *is* he?" Chandrani breathed, turning her head slightly within Prakash’s clumsy embrace. Her whisper was raw silk against the blaring music. "That man… Javed. He watches like a hawk circling prey."
Prakash stiffened momentarily, his pawing hand stilling on her hip. He followed her gaze towards the now-empty column, his expression hardening into grudging respect. "Javed?" A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, devoid of humour. "He’s not a hawk, Chandrani. He’s a fucking *jackal*. My jackal." Prakash leaned closer, his stale breath hot on her ear. "Need a problem erased? A rival silenced? Evidence burned before the cops even smell smoke? Javed handles it. Cleanly. Efficiently." His thumb dug into her silk-clad waist. "Men like him don’t circle prey, darling. They *consume* it."
Chandrani felt a chill prickle her spine despite Prakash’s suffocating closeness. "Murder?" The word escaped her lips softer than a sigh, barely audible over the orchestra’s crescendo.
Prakash didn’t answer. A booming gong suddenly reverberated through the Grand Ballroom, silencing conversation. The Master of Ceremonies announced dinner. Prakash released her instantly, his attention snapping toward the banquet hall entrance like a hound scenting prey. "Food," he declared, already turning. "We move."
Inside the lavish dining hall, Chandrani found herself seated beside Prakash at a long mahogany table dbangd in white damask. Khyam and Vikram flanked him opposite. Silver cloches covered steaming dishes. Prakash tore into the discussion immediately, leaning across the pristine linen. "Mishra's is gone..no more problem...but we have deb to deal with it, he holds the money and ringmaster too ", he hissed, stabbing the air with a butter knife. "LJP is fractured. Weak. We offer their regional bosses cabinet posts – Agriculture, Water Resources. Meaningless titles, real power stays here." He tapped Vikram's wrist. "Your channels spin it… grief, unity, stability." Vikram nodded, scribbling notes onto a linen napkin. Khyam remained impassive, swirling his water goblet. "And the vote?" he murmured. Prakash grinned, predatory. "Fear works faster than favors. Javed ensures… compliance."
As Prakash detailed his plan – leveraging Javed’s ‘network’ to apply pressure across vulnerable Lok Janashakti MPs – Chandrani volunteered to serve the aromatic lamb rogan josh, hoping for distraction. Rising gracefully, she lifted the heavy silver salver. Walking behind Prakash’s chair, she leaned forward to spoon fragrant curry onto his plate. The movement pulled her magenta silk sari pallu taut, dipping low at her waist. Unintentionally, a crescent of smooth skin was revealed just above the intricate gold embroidery of her blouse – the delicate curve of her navel momentarily visible. She felt it instantly: a focused, searing heat. Javed stood immobile against the nearby pillar, his tumbler of whiskey forgotten. His heavy-lidded stare, predatory and unnervingly precise, zeroed in on that exposed sliver of flesh above her sari’s border. It felt like a physical touch, intimate and invasive.
A spark of defiance flickered within Chandrani. Catching Javed’s unblinking gaze, she arched a single, questioning eyebrow – a silent challenge laced with mock annoyance. Deliberately, slowly, she adjusted her pallu with her free hand, pulling the silk upwards to meticulously cover the vulnerable spot. Her eyes, fixed on his, conveyed icy reproach: *Know your place.* She held the look for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, before smoothly turning back to serve Vikram Sen. The air crackled with unspoken tension, thick enough to choke on.
Prakash slammed a meaty fist on the pristine damask. "Enough whispers! Deb holds the purse strings *and* the LJP puppets!" he barked, flecks of lamb rogan josh spraying onto the linen. His voice cut through the clatter of silverware stilling immediately. "LJP’s carcass is picked clean. We strike *now*, while the stench of Mishra still chokes the corridors." He jabbed a thick finger towards Vikram. "Your anchors scream ‘coalition crisis’ at primetime. Plant whispers Deb orchestrated Mishra’s... cleansing." Vikram’s eyes glittered with predatory excitement as he leaned forward, napkin forgotten. "The phantom poolside footage… leaked just so? Imply Deb’s men were seen lingering?"
Chandrani remained unnaturally still beside Prakash, the phantom burn of Javed’s gaze on her covered waist still prickling her skin. She focused on the intricate gold paisley pattern of her sari border, the cloying scents of saffron and cardamom suddenly oppressive. Prakash’s gaze swung back to her, heavy and appraising. "Strategy needs rest, Chandrani." His voice dropped to a low rumble, thick with false concern masking command. "This gala drains prettier flowers than you." He signalled dismissively towards the pillar where Javed stood sentinel. "*Javed!* You’ll drop Chandrani home efficiently. My driver knows the route." Prakash’s eyes lingered on her flushed throat. "Ensure she… refreshes properly. Big days ahead."
A flicker of genuine amusement sparked within Chandrani, cutting through the fatigue and humiliation. Dropped off by Prakash's personal assassin? It was absurd, dangerous, yet perversely thrilling. This brute who consumed rivals wasn’t circling prey anymore; he was being offered the kill on a silver platter for Prakash’s convenience. She met Prakash’s expectant stare, her practised smile softening into something almost genuine. "Your thoughtfulness touches me, Prakashji," she murmured, dipping her head demurely. "Javed’s efficiency is… legendary." She lifted her gaze, catching Javed’s impassive stare across the ruined tablecloth. He hadn't flinched, hadn't acknowledged the order. But Chandrani saw the minute tightening of his jaw beneath the brutal lines of his face. Her nod was slight, deliberate. "Of course. Thank you."
The sudden silence of Prakash’s luxury sedan enveloped Chandrani the moment the heavy door clicked shut. The gala’s garish light and oppressive chatter were replaced by cool leather upholstery and the low thrum of the powerful engine. Javed occupied the driver's seat, his immense frame filling the space, radiating a contained heat Chandrani felt even from the passenger side. The partition window separating them from Prakash’s driver remained firmly closed. They were entirely alone. Chandrani shifted subtly, the silk of her sari whispering against the seat, deliberately angling her body towards him. She caught his scent – gun oil, faded tobacco, and something earthy, primal – sharp against the car’s sterile new-leather smell. An unexpected thrill coiled low in her belly. *Finally.*
"Ghaziabad," Chandrani began, her voice deliberately soft, almost melodic against the engine’s purr. She let her gaze drift over his profile – the brutal ridge of his brow, the thick corded neck disappearing into the starched collar. "That’s Prakashji’s stronghold. Is that… home for you too?" She leaned fractionally closer, the subtle shift causing her sari pallu to slip, revealing a bare shoulder gleaming faintly in the dashboard lights.
Javed’s eyes remained fixed on the rain-slicked road unfolding before them. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the exposed skin shimmering inches away. "hmmm," he stated flatly, his voice rough gravel scbanging against silence. "mere area hai." His grip on the steering wheel didn’t shift, knuckles stark white against the leather. No tremor, no flicker.
Chandrani tilted her head, shifting closer still. The scent of his sweat mingled with gun oil filled the space between them, sharp and unnerving. "Ghaziabad," she pressed, letting her voice soften, inviting. "Such a tough place. Were you always... like this?" Her gaze traced the thick scar bisecting his jawline, disappearing beneath his collar. "Strong? Capable?"
Javed’s knuckles tightened fractionally on the wheel. "Sab kuch sikha hai," he answered, low and clipped. *Learnt everything.* His eyes remained glued to the highway, rain streaking the windshield like liquid shadows. He didn't glance at her shoulder, didn't acknowledge the deliberate proximity. Chandrani felt a prickle of irritation beneath her skin. Alone in this leather cocoon, the power dynamics should have shifted. Yet his indifference felt heavier than Prakash’s pawing.
Undeterred, she let her fingers brush lightly against the cool leather of the center console, edging closer to his thigh. "And family?" she pressed, injecting warmth into her tone. "dnt you have someone at home… surely someone waits?" Her knee bumped against the gearshift, a calculated accident. The heat radiating from his body was immense, like standing near a furnace.
Javed shifted gears smoothly, the motion economical. "Kisi ko intezaar nahi karna chahiye," he replied, his voice devoid of inflection. *No one should wait.* He finally glanced sideways, a flicker so brief it might have been imagined. His dark eyes met hers – not predatory, not assessing, but utterly, chillingly blank. "Sabka apna kaam hai." *Everyone has their own work.* The dismissal was absolute. Chandrani recoiled internally, the heat in her belly cooling into sharp chagrin. Alone, powerful, deliberately inviting… and he saw only a job? Prakash's crude appraisal suddenly felt preferable.
Without warning, the sleek sedan shuddered violently. A harsh, grinding clank echoed from the engine bay. The car lurched sideways onto the highway shoulder, tires screeching protest on the wet asphalt before shuddering to a halt beneath a flickering sodium lamp. Silence crashed in, broken only by the drumming rain.
Chandrani jerked forward against her seatbelt, heart pounding. "Kya hua?" Her voice sliced through the sudden stillness. Javed flicked hazard lights on, the orange blink cutting eerie patterns in the downpour. He didn’t glance her way. "Technical snag," he stated flatly, unbuckling his belt with economical movements. "Generator coupling." The door swung open; cold, rain-lashed wind swept into the warm cabin, carrying the tang of wet earth and diesel. Javed vanished into the storm.
Chandrani hesitated only a second. The isolation was electric, charged with possibility. She stepped out, silk sari instantly plastered to her legs by the driving rain. The highway stretched empty in both directions, swallowed by darkness and the relentless drumming on asphalt. Sodium light haloed Javed’s broad back as he bent over the open hood, steam mingling with rain vapor. She moved closer, the chill forgotten beneath a reckless heat pooling low in her belly.
"Engine trouble?" Her voice cut through the downpour, sharper than intended. Javed didn’t straighten, his silhouette rigid against the glare. tiny rain drops plastered his hair against his skull, traced rivulets down the thick cords of his neck. Chandrani edged alongside, letting the sodden pallu cling heavily to her hips. She saw his focus remain locked on the engine block, fingers probing dark metal, utterly absorbed. Frustration pricked her skin, hotter than the steam. This wasn’t indifference; it was *challenge*. Deliberately, slowly, she hooked a wet finger beneath the top edge of her sari’s dbangd fabric where it met her midriff blouse. With agonizing slowness, she slid the silk downward – not much, just an inch. Enough for the soaked magenta to cling lower, revealing the deliberate hollow dip above her waistband. Enough to expose the intricate henna tracery encircling her navel, gleaming wetly under the sodium glare.
His hands froze. The rhythmic drumming of rain on the hood filled the sudden stillness. He didn't turn his head, but Chandrani saw the tension coil through his shoulders, the minute tightening where neck met jaw. She leaned in, close enough that her breath misted the cold chrome beside his knuckles. Her whisper cut through the storm's roar: "Generator coupling? Or..." She paused, letting her gaze trace the scar disappearing into his collar. "...something harder to handle?" Her lips curved, a ghost of a smile inches from his rain-slicked arm. Her fingertip brushed the exposed skin just above her navel – a deliberate touch, cold and inviting. "Are you sure *you* can handle it?"
A low rumble escaped him, swallowed instantly by the wind. "Sab handle kar sakta hu," he growled, turning his head fractionally. His eyes, dark and fathomless, finally locked onto hers. Not cold now. Burning. *Everything*. His gaze didn't flicker downward, remained fixed on her face with unsettling intensity. He gestured sharply towards the engine bay's depths. "Rod slip ho gaya." *Rod slipped.* "Bonnet hold karo." *Hold the bonnet.* He didn't ask. Ordered.
Chandrani stepped forward, her silk plastered to her body. The engine's heat radiated against her thighs. The bonnet, slick with rain and grease, felt massive. She pressed her palms flat against the cold metal edge, leaning her slight weight against it to keep it raised. The posture pulled her torso taut, forcing her arms high above her head. Instantly, the sodden silk sleeves of her blouse rode up, exposing the deep, shadowed hollows beneath her arms. The damp fabric clung awkwardly, pulling tight against her ribs. She felt the sodium light spill into the vulnerable curves, the cool air hitting the sensitive skin. She didn't flinch. She waited.
Javed bent low, his shoulder nearly brushing her hip. He reached deep into the engine bay with a thick wrench. The wrench clanged against metal, echoing sharply in the rainy stillness. Chandrani heard the wet rasp of his breath beside her ear. She felt his gaze flicker upwards, past the wrench, past the steaming engine block. It wasn't a glance; it was a slow, deliberate scorching trail. It traced the trembling line of her sari border where it met her exposed waist, lingered for a suffocating moment, then climbed higher, settling on the exposed flesy armpits of her left arm. His stare felt like physical pressure against that intimate curve – hot, intrusive, utterly consuming. He didn't look away. He ogled. Raw. Unapologetic. Possessive.
Chandrani shifted her grip subtly on the slick bonnet edge, deliberately flexing the muscles of her raised arm. The movement deepened the hollow, stretching the thin skin tauter, glistening under the sodium light. A droplet of rainwater traced a slow, icy path down the vulnerable skin. Javed’s wrench froze mid-turn. His breathing hitched, audible even over the drumming rain. His knuckles whitened around the wrench handle. Chandrani tilted her head slightly, catching his rapt gaze locked onto her armpit. A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips. "Kya dekha ja raha hai itni gahrai se, Javed?" she murmured, her voice low, husky, carrying effortlessly through the storm. *What are you staring at so intently?* She paused, letting the question hang, thick with implication. "Kya pehle kabhi aurat ki baagal nahi dekhi?" *Haven't you seen a woman's armpit before?* She arched her brow, the challenge sharp and glittering in her eyes.
He didn't answer. His gaze didn't waver. Instead, he slowly straightened, abandoning the wrench deep within the engine bay. Rain plastered his shirt to broad shoulders, outlining thick muscle. He turned fully towards her, his movements deliberate, predatory. Chandrani kept her palms pressed firmly against the cold bonnet, maintaining her exposed posture. She felt the raw hunger radiating from him, hotter than the steam rising from the engine block. He took a single step closer, invading her space. His rough scent – gun oil, wet earth, sweat – enveloped her, sharp and primal against the rain-fresh air. His eyes, dark and burning, finally left the intimate hollow and travelled up her arm, tracing the line of her throat, settling on her defiant face. Inches separated them. She felt the heat of his breath mingle with the cool rain on her skin.
"This car," Chandrani breathed, her voice a low purr cutting through the drumming rain. She tilted her head towards the sleek sedan, its hazard lights blinking feebly beneath the sodium glare. "So… *fucked*." A cold droplet traced a path down her exposed side. "Stranded here, ass up in the dark, on this lonely highway." She shifted her weight slightly, the movement pulling the sodden silk tighter across her hips. Her gaze locked back onto his, challenging. "You should hurry, Javed." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, edged with dark suggestion. "Fix it fast. Or…" She paused, letting the implication hang thickly in the storm-lashed air. "...someone else might come along. Someone who sees an… opportunity." Her eyes dropped pointedly to his broad hands, then flicked back up, gleaming. "Someone who might decide to fuck this broken ass… *properly*."
Javed’s stare remained fixed on her face, a furnace burning behind the stillness. He didn’t move towards the engine. Instead, his gaze slid downwards, slow and deliberate, tracing the wet silk clinging to her torso. It lingered over the deliberate exposure above her waistband, the intricate henna gleaming wetly, then travelled lower still to where the sari pooled, heavy and suggestive, between her thighs. His jaw tightened audibly. A low growl vibrated deep in his chest, barely audible over the rain's roar. It wasn’t anger. It was raw, uncontained hunger.
"You," he rasped, the word rough as sandpaper. His voice dropped, thick with contemptuous irony. "Your ass..." He gestured vaguely towards her hips, his knuckles white. "...bahut valuable hai. Big politicians ka... dessert." A sneer twisted his scarred lips. "Prakash Malhotra... Khyam... Vikram Sen. Unki plate mein hi rakha hai." *Reserved on their plate.* He took a half-step closer, invading her space. The heat radiating off him was suffocating. "Mera kaam hai... ensure koi chhota michwa... touch na kare." *Ensure no small-time rat touches it.* His dark eyes burned into hers, devoid of Prakash’s crude lechery, replaced by chilling possession. "After all..." He paused, letting the words hang heavy. "...*you* are the impending President of the Women's Wing." He spat the title like venom. "But..." He leaned in, his breath hot against her rain-chilled ear. "...danger... woh alag cheez hai." *Danger… that’s something else.*
Chandrani didn’t recoil. The absurdity, the terrifying power-play, sent a jolt of reckless adrenaline through her veins. She laughed, low and throaty, the sound carrying over the drumming rain. Her body arched subtly against the cold bonnet edge, emphasizing the curve he’d just condemned. "Danger?" she echoed, her voice dripping with mocking sweetness. Her eyes, glittering with defiance, locked onto his. "Kya danger, Javed?" *What danger?* She tilted her head, letting her gaze travel deliberately down his soaked shirt, lingering meaningfully at his belt. "Kya tum..." she paused, her whisper slicing through the storm’s roar, "...kya tum mujhe *abhi* bang karne wale ho?" *Are you going to bang me now?* A slow, deliberate smile curved her rain-slicked lips. Her voice dropped lower, husky, charged. "Kya tum mera... ass... *fuck* karoge?" *Will you fuck my ass?*
The raw vulgarity hung suspended between them, stark against the storm. Chandrani saw the flare in Javed’s eyes—not shock, but a visceral eruption of primal heat mixed with fury. His breath hitched audibly. His hand, still slick with engine grease, shot out. Not to strike, not to grab her throat. It clamped hard onto her hip, fingers digging possessively through the soaked silk, pulling her violently towards him. Her back slammed against the cold, wet flank of the sedan. Rainwater sprayed her face as his immense frame caged her in. The bonnet crashed shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
“Karne ka mann bahut karta hai, Madam President,” Javed rasped, his voice thick with suppressed lust and bitter sarcasm. His breath, hot and smelling of tobacco, fanned across her rain-slicked lips. His hips pressed flush against hers, pinning her to the car. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal burn through the layers of fabric. “Par…” His gaze raked down her body with brutal intensity. “…gaadi ka engine dead ho gaya.” *The car engine is dead.* . “Mechanic ko call karna padega.” *Need to call mechanic.* He released her hip abruptly, leaving a deep imprint on the silk, and pulled a sleek, black phone from his pocket.
As Javed punched numbers, the sudden chirp of Chandrani’s personal phone sliced through the storm’s drumbeat. Ashok’s name flashed on the screen. Relief warred with sharp irritation. She slid the answer button. “Ashok?” Her tone was breathless, deliberately strained.
“Chandrani, it’s past midnight! Where are you?” Ashok’s voice crackled, thick with exhaustion.
Chandrani leaned against the car’s rain-slicked flank, watching Javed’s silhouette as he barked Hindi into his phone a few paces away. The mechanic’s name—Raju—drifted through the downpour. “Still… at Prakashji’s dinner,” she lied smoothly, injecting a flutter of faux fatigue into her tone. The sodium light caught the violent imprint of Javed’s grip on her hip silk. “So many discussions. I’ll stay at Manju’di’s tonight—her place is closer.” She paused, letting the drumming rain fill the silence. “How… how is babai?”
Ashok’s sigh rattled down the line. “Fell asleep with his story book again. Asked for you twice.” His voice softened. “Don’t push yourself, Chandrani. Politics can wait.”
Chandrani watched Javed snap his phone shut, the harsh lines of his face illuminated by a passing truck’s headlights. “Politics never sleeps,” she murmured, forcing lightness into her voice. “Give babai my kiss. Goodnight.” She ended the call before Ashok could probe further, slipping her phone back into her blouse. The lie settled cold in her stomach. Manju’di lived halfway across the city.
Javed stalked back towards her, rainwater dripping from his jawline. “Raju will come. but cant tell when.” His eyes flicked to the dark imprint on her hip silk, then away. The predatory hunger had banked, replaced by coiled impatience. Restless energy radiated off him as he paced the narrow shoulder, boots splashing in puddles.
“Could be hours,” he growled, gesturing vaguely towards the highway’s ink-black expanse swallowed by the storm. His gaze landed on a cluster of faint, hazy lights shimmering like distant fireflies low in the darkness beyond a scrubby embankment. “Small settlement. Shanties. Temporary shelters.” He stated it flatly, a neutral assessment. “Dry shelter. Chai. Better than standing here.” He didn’t look at her, his posture rigidly turned away. A muscle jumped in his scarred jaw. He wasn’t suggesting; he was reporting options. Waiting was unbearable.
Chandrani leaned back against the cold, rain-lashed sedan, the scent of wet earth and Javed’s lingering gun oil sharp in her nostrils. The sodden silk clung to her thighs. She tilted her head, studying the distant flicker of the slum lights through the curtain of rain. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips as she deliberately echoed his earlier phrasing. “Dry shelter? Chai?” Her voice was husky, laced with deliberate ambiguity. She shifted her weight, letting the wet silk pull taut against her hips. “Or something... else entirely?” She paused, letting the drumming rain fill the silence. Her eyes, dark and glittering, locked onto his profile. “Kya tumhare dimaag mein... wohi chal raha hai, Javed?” *Is that what's running through your mind?* She took a half-step closer, invading his space. The rain plastered stray hairs to her temples. “Kya tum mujhe uss jhopadpatti mein le ja kar... bang karne wale ho?” *Are you taking me to that slum to bang me?*Her gaze dropped pointedly, lingering below his belt before snapping back up. " main kyu jau hmm?"
Javed leaned against the rust-streaked sedan, rainwater dripping from his sharp jawline onto the grease-stained collar of his uniform. His knuckles, scarred and thick, tapped a slow rhythm against the wet metal. In the flickering sodium light, his gaze drifted toward the distant cluster of slum fires shimmering like dying stars through the monsoon curtain.
"Out here," he murmured, his voice rough gravel under the rain's roar. "Alone. Broken car like ripe fruit." His eyes slid sideways to Chandrani, soaking silk plastered to her hips. "Anyone could come. Truck drivers." A pause. "Loaders." Another. "*Thugs*." The last word landed like a brick. He pushed off the car, boots splashing mud as he took a step closer. The scent of wet earth and sharp sweat thickened the air. " fancy car, fancy woman..." He gestured vaguely at her silhouette. "...akeli." His stare dropped pointedly to the dark wet patch where the sari clung between her thighs. "ek nahin..harami kutte or suawro ka jhund" His voice dropped to a low growl. "Line banake..ek ek karke." A slow, deliberate lick of his lips. "*apki gand marenge."
Chandrani didn't flinch. She leaned back harder against the cold metal, the chill seeping through the silk. Her laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. "Is that your fantasy, Javed? Or... a threat?" She arched her neck, exposing the rain-slicked column of her throat. "Thinking of joining the line?" Her gaze traced the jagged scar disappearing into his collar. "Or just... watching?.."
" main socha ap meri gand bachoge ..na ki marte hue dekhoge"
Javed stared at Chandrani intently for a moment, his eyes burning holes into hers. Without a word, he turned abruptly. "Chalo." His voice was clipped, final. He strode towards the embankment, boots sinking into the mud, not looking back. Chandrani hesitated, the shroud of rain swallowing him. Then she followed, silk tangling around her ankles, climbing the slippery slope towards the distant haze of kerosene lamps. The shanty town materialized out of the gloom – a maze of corrugated tin and tarpaulin, stinking of sewage and woodsmoke. Javed moved with predatory familiarity, turning down narrow alleys where shadows swallowed the feeble light. He stopped before a low, rust-streaked door and hammered twice with his fist – sharp, authoritative knocks that echoed in the dripping stillness.
The door scbangd open. A gaunt young man peered out, eyes widening at Javed before flickering nervously over Chandrani’s soaked, clinging finery. Javed barked a few low words in rapid Hindi Chandrani couldn’t catch. The young man nodded vigorously, ducking back inside. Javed gestured curtly with his chin towards the dark doorway. His eyes met Chandrani’s – a silent command, devoid of warmth. Chandrani stepped past him into the cramped gloom. A single kerosene lantern hissed on a rickety wooden table, casting long, dancing shadows. A neatly folded cot hugged one wall; a makeshift partition of stained sackcloth screened a tiny area barely large enough to crouch in – the ‘neck-height washroom’. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, stale tobacco, and something vaguely medicinal.
Chandrani stood rigidly by the cot. Outside, the rain muffled voices but sharpened whispers. She strained to hear. Javed’s low rumble. Then the other man’s voice, hesitant, curious: "*Saab, yeh... rand hai kya? Abhi... chodne wale ho?*" *Sir, is she... a whore? You going to fuck her now?* The words punched Chandrani’s gut. Not shock, but a bizarre, unnerving resonance. *Rand*. Whore. Prakash’s crude dessert plate. Khyam’s calculating gaze. Vikram’s smirk. Her carefully traded intimacies for political leverage. Wasn’t she exactly that? A high-profile courtesan trading flesh for power? Favors instead of cash? Tonight, it felt undeniable.
The door groaned open. Javed loomed in the doorway, rainwater dripping onto the packed-earth floor. He ignored the young man hovering behind him. His eyes, shadowed and intense, scanned Chandrani’s soaked form. She met his gaze squarely, refusing to wipe the rainwater trickling down her neck into her damp blouse. The kerosene light flickered across his scarred jaw, hardening its lines. His silence was heavier than Prakash’s lechery. He stepped inside, shutting the door with a definitive click. The bolt scbangd home. The sound echoed in the cramped space. Alone. The predatory stillness returned. Chandrani felt it coil around her ribs, tightening her breath. She saw the calculation in his eyes – the hunter assessing trapped prey.
Her mind raced. Vikram’s mocking praise. Prakash’s groping hands. Khyam’s detached assessment. *Rand*. Whore. Was she anything else? Power wasn’t seized with clean hands. Favors traded – whispered secrets for votes, strategic silences for patronage, *this body* leveraged for alliances. Cash never changed hands; the currency was position, influence, survival. Tonight, under flickering kerosene light smelling faintly of kerosene and desperation, the facade felt shatter-thin.
She moved away from the cot, touching the rough sackcloth partition hiding the neck-height washroom. A tin mug sat beside a cracked bucket. Her fingers trembled. Outside, Javed’s growl was punctuated by the young man’s hesitant murmurs. *“…chodne wale ho?”* The brutal bluntness resonated. She couldn’t hear Javed’s reply. Chandrani glanced back at the cot. Narrow, sturdy, covered with coarse grey wool. A threadbare pillow lay against the wall. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
A slow, reckless smile curved her lips. He’d bolt that door. He’d face her. And then? That raw hunger radiating off him earlier, hotter than steam… it hadn’t vanished. It lay coiled beneath his icy control. She knew that look. Prakash leered; Khyam assessed. Javed possessed. And possession demanded claiming. Fighting him? Futile. Pointless. The highway confrontation, the storm, the desperate tension—all arrows pointed here. Logic screamed surrender. Why deny the inevitable heat crackling between them? She traced the cold metal frame of the cot. He’d strip the clinging saree away. Push her down onto the scratchy wool. Her skin prickled.
The scbang of the bolt cut through her spiraling thoughts. Javed filled the doorway again, silhouetted against the dim alley light. Rainwater dripped from his shoulders, pooling on the packed earth floor. He held a small, unlabeled glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. His eyes, dark pits in the kerosene gloom, swept over her sodden form. "Paoge?" he asked flatly, his voice rough. Alcohol? Chandrani’s gaze flickered to the bottle. Liquid courage? Liquid submission? She lifted her chin, a brittle defiance sparking. "Tum peete ho toh… theek hai." *If you drink… it’s fine.* A deliberate ambiguity. Acceptance? Permission? Challenge?
Javed grunted, unscrewing the cap. He took a swift, deep swallow, the harsh fumes hitting the air – cheap country liquor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. They flickered pointedly down her body, lingering on the damp patches clinging to her skin beneath the wet silk. "Fresh ho jao," he stated, his tone devoid of inflection, a simple command. *Get freshened up.* He gestured curtly towards the sackcloth partition screening the washroom alcove. "Naha lo." *Bathe.*
Chandrani blinked, momentarily thrown. Freshening up? In *this* cramped, dirt-floored shack? With him standing there, reeking of liquor and possession? Her gaze flicked between the crude partition and his impassive face. Was this a bizarre courtesy? Or a cruel setup? "You mean… *this*?" she asked, gesturing towards the flimsy curtain, her voice tight with disbelief. "That washroom?"
Javed’s stare didn’t waver. He raised the bottle again, took another long, burning sip. "Haan," he rasped, the single syllable dropping like a stone. "Jaldi karo." *Hurry up.*
Chandrani paused mid-stride near the suite’s elevator. The mirrored doors slid open, casting back their reflections—his fury coiled tight, hers unnervingly serene. She turned slowly, her deep red lips curling into a wicked smile. Her kohl-rimmed eyes locked onto his, gleaming with deliberate mischief. One hand rose gracefully, adjusting an invisible strand of hair, while the other remained poised near the elevator button. She let him stew in the silence for a beat—long enough for his knuckles to bleach white around the clutch of his whisky glass.
"Oh, Khyam Saab," she purred, her voice dripping with theatrical nostalgia. "Such a sensitive question." Her fingers tapped thoughtfully against her lips. "Duty? Always." She leaned in conspiratorially, the scent of her sandalwood perfume mingling with the lingering tang of betrayal. "But savor?" A low, husky laugh escaped her. "Only once." Her gaze drifted past him, as if recalling a distant shore. "Goa. My bachelorette trip, years ago." She paused, savoring the tension thickening the air between them. "Met this Nigerian diplomat—tall as a mahogany tree, shoulders like granite." Her tongue flicked out, tracing her upper lip. "He took me against the balcony railing of Taj Fort Aguada." Her eyes snapped back to Khyam’s frozen expression, sparkling with cruel delight. "Monsoon winds howling, waves crashing *right* below us." She shivered dramatically. "*That* man didn’t talk. Didn’t bargain. Just... impaled."
Khyam’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "Impaled?" he echoed, the word brittle.
"Mm." Chandrani hummed, stepping into the elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in mirrored silence. Her reflection smiled—serene, untouchable. "Like a butterfly pinned to velvet." She tapped the 'Lobby' button. "He didn’t ask for my future husband’s policies or my father’s connections. Just lifted my skirt and..." Her hand mimed a swift, brutal thrust. "*Silence*. Only salt spray and my silk tearing." She sighed, the sound dripping with false wistfulness. "Shame piyali interrupted. Barged onto the balcony demanding dessert." Her laugh was ice shattering. "Poor girl thought I was seasick."
Khyam leaned against the brass railing, swirling his near-empty tumbler. "Such a pity," he sneered, the words sharp as cut glass. "All that... vigor. Cut short." He eyed her with theatrical regret. "Leaving your business, unfinished." His gaze traced the swell of her breasts beneath the sleeveless blouse. "Must have been... frustrating."
Chandrani didn't look at him. Her reflection in the elevator mirror held a ghost of a smile, brittle and knowing. "Not at all," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr that vibrated faintly in the enclosed space. She tilted her head just slightly, a cascade of dark hair brushing the silk at her shoulder. "He finished. Thoroughly." Her reflection's gaze met Khyam's in the polished steel. "He fucked my *brain* out. With that magnificent ten-inch cock." A faint tremor ran through her, not shame, but remembered intensity. "Took me again and again." Her voice thickened, intimate. "Against the railing. On the balcony tiles. On the soaking wet chaise lounge... till dawn painted the Arabian Sea gold." She chuckled softly, darkly. "Had to limp back to my suite." Her reflection arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Khyam's sneer vanished, replaced by a sharp calculation. He leaned closer, his whisper slicing through the elevator's hum. "Your husband. Ashok." His eyes tracked her reflection's reaction with predatory intensity. "Wasn't he... suspicious? Of the limp?"
Chandrani’s expression didn’t flicker. Only her fingers tightened infinitesimally on her clutch. "He noticed," she admitted, her tone brisk, detached. "Two days before the wedding." She gave a brittle shrug. "Told him I twisted my ankle dancing barefoot on Fort Aguada’s wet tiles." A ghost of her earlier mocking smile touched her lips. "Easier to explain than... well." Her gaze slid pointedly towards his own trousers. "*You* understand." The elevator chimed softly, signalling their descent's end. The polished steel doors slid open, revealing the opulent chaos of the Grand Imperial lobby—a kaleidoscope of glittering saris, sharp tuxedos, and the ceaseless murmur of power brokering. The scent of tuberose garlands and expensive perfume washed over them.
She didn’t step out immediately. Instead, she turned fully to face Khyam, blocking the threshold. Her posture was suddenly rigid, the brittle defiance replaced by something colder, harder—a blade sheathed in silk. The bright lobby lights etched sharp lines around her eyes. "Khyam Saab," she began, her voice low, stripped of all theatrics. "*As I said earlier*." Her gaze pinned him, unwavering. "I know my duty. I know I must spread my legs... frequently... for the aspiration i harbour..." The vulgar words hung flatly between them, devoid of shame. "For the party. For my chair.." Her chin lifted fractionally. "But I understand the game. I know *what* to do. And *when* to do it."
She took a half-step closer, close enough for Khyam to see the faint tremor in the gold thread of her sari pallu. "So stop worrying," she commanded, her whisper slicing through the distant gala hum.
"And in return?" Her voice dropped to a raw scbang. "You protect me. Shield tme." ." She swallowed hard, the movement stark in her throat. "And you deliver what you promised." Her gaze locked onto his, desperate. "The Presidency of the Women's Wing. My *seat*. Uncontested. Secured before Durga Puja."
Khyam watched her, his expression unreadable granite beneath the lobby's blinding chandeliers. he nodded.
He guided Chandrani through the swirling vortex of sequins and power suits toward Prakash Malhotra and Vikram Sen—two pillars in the Grand Imperial's glittering pantheon. Prakash, bulky in his Savile Row tuxedo, stood like a fortified bank vault, his eyes shrewdly assessing Chandrani’s approach. Vikram, lean and perpetually amused, swirled an amber drink, his gaze lingering on the daring décolletage of her sleeveless blouse.
"Chandrani, resplendent as ever," Prakash murmured, his deep voice a gravelly purr. He clasped her hand briefly, fingers brushing her knuckles—an assessment disguised as courtesy. Vikram grinned, teeth flashing white. "Deb was raving about you earlier, Chandrani," he said, his tone playful yet sharp as a stiletto. "Couldn’t stop praising your… *persuasiveness*. Said only Chandrani could turn a policy debate into a captivating spectacle." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Almost made me jealous I wasn’t the one being… *convinced*."
Chandrani felt the blush bloom hot across her cheeks, a treacherous flush she couldn’t suppress. Deb’s praise? The word "persuasiveness" echoed, heavy with innuendo. *Had Deb told Vikram? Had he boasted about fucking her?* The memory of her moments with deb in the hotel room in goa —the stale whiskey breath, the hurried grunts against her ear in that stifling archive room. Her stomach clenched. She managed a brittle smile, her gaze darting instinctively toward Khyam. "Deb is too kind," she murmured, forcing lightness into her voice. "Though I suspect his compliments stem more from shared whisky bottles than policy victories."
Khyam’s hand settled firmly on the small of her back, a possessive anchor against the treacherous tide of Vikram’s insinuation. His touch felt like a brand through the silk. "Deb possesses… colourful enthusiasms," Khyam interjected smoothly, his voice neutral steel. "But Chandrani’s talents extend far beyond mere charm." He subtly shifted her half a step toward Prakash Malhotra, a deliberate maneuver. Prakash’s gaze, sharp and assessing, lingered on her flushed face, then dropped pointedly to the daring display of her strapless blouse. Chandrani felt exposed, raw beneath his scrutiny.
The discussion turned sharp-edged, navigating the treacherous currents of alliance-building with the Lok Janashakti Party. Prakash grunted about "ideological concessions," Vikram murmured slickly about "electoral arithmetic," and Khyam countered with "strategic pragmatism." Chandrani forced herself to contribute, her voice unnaturally bright, weaving superficial suggestions about rural women’s self-help groups – politically safe, utterly insignificant. The words felt like ash in her mouth as Prakash leaned closer, his expensive cologne cloying. "Your blouse," he remarked casually, swirling his scotch, "is distractingly unorthodox for a pious party symbol. Is that the new strategy? Titillation over policy?" Vikram chuckled softly. Chandrani’s smile froze, the blush deepening into a crimson stain of humiliation. She could feel Prakash’s gaze like fingers tracing her exposed skin.
A flicker of movement beyond Prakash’s bulky frame snagged Chandrani’s attention. Standing slightly apart, near a potted monstera dripping with emerald leaves, was a man she hadn’t noticed before. He wore a tailored Jawahar suit in deep charcoal grey, the fabric straining slightly across broad shoulders and a thick, powerful neck. He looked well into his fifties. His face was brutal terrain – a heavy brow shadowing deep-set eyes, a nose crooked from old breaks, a jaw like quarried granite, and a close-cropped beard shot through with streaks of iron grey. He wasn't conventionally handsome; he was formidable, projecting an aura of coiled, untamed energy that seemed incongruous amidst the polished politicians. He held no drink, only a thin file folder tucked under one thick arm. His gaze, heavy-lidded yet unnervingly direct, was fixed not on the centre of their group, but solely on her.
The discussion veered sharply toward the recent assassination of LJP leader Subhas Mishra at his farmhouse retreat. Vikram Sen sighed theatrically, swirling his scotch. "Such... *untidiness*. Mishra was careless. Leaving himself exposed like that?" Prakash Malhotra grunted, a sound like stones grinding together. "Careless? Or convenient? Eliminated just before the council vote?" His shrewd eyes narrowed. "One less seat to appease now, wouldn’t you say, Khyam Saab?" Khyam’s reply was smooth, dismissive. "Tragic opportunism. Common in our chaotic times." His hand tightened imperceptibly on Chandrani’s back.
Suddenly, the brutal-faced man in the charcoal Jawahar suit detached himself from the shadows of the monstera. He moved with startling quietness for his bulk, closing the distance in three strides. Without a word, but with a swift, meaningful glance at Prakash, he thrust the thin file folder into the industrialist’s waiting hand. Prakash’s thick fingers flipped it open immediately, scanning the top page. "Javed," he acknowledged the man gruffly, not looking up. Jawahar nodded once, his deep-set eyes flickering briefly—dispassionately—over Chandrani before retreating silently to his post near the foliage, a sentinel swallowed by the lobby’s artifice.
Prakash snapped the folder shut, the sound sharp as a gunshot amidst the soft murmur of the gala. His gaze, cold and speculative, pinned Khyam. "Mishra wasn't just eliminated, Khyam Saab," he stated, his gravelly voice lowered but carrying lethal clarity. "He was *cleansed*. Found in his pool. Naked. Throat slit ear-to-ear." Prakash’s thumb tapped the folder. "Forensics suggest... surgical precision. Not the usual thugs."
Vikram chuckled, swirling his drink. "My channel is running the 'tragic accidental drowning' angle," he said, flashing Chandrani a knowing smirk. "Ratings gold, naturally. But," he leaned in, lowering his voice theatrically, "*I* still don't have the scoop on the *who*. That poolside footage... suspiciously vanished."
Prakash snorted derisively. "Your gossip mill, Vikram? Amateur hour." He slapped the folder against his thigh. "*My* network is formidable. Embedded deep." He gestured sharply towards Javed, still half-hidden by the monstera's shadow. "*Javed!* Capture the moment. Faces of our... united front." His command cracked through the air. "For posterity."
Vikram's smirk faltered, replaced by irritation as Javed lumbered forward. The bulky man raised a sleek smartphone, its lens cold and impersonal. Prakash hooked an arm possessively around Chandrani’s silk-clad waist, pulling her stiffly against his side. Khyam slid smoothly into frame beside her, his politician’s smile perfectly calibrated. Vikram, caught flat-footed, scrambled to compose himself, his drink hastily handed off to a passing waiter. The flash exploded – a blinding white burst etching their forced alliance onto digital memory. Prakash leaned in, his gravelly voice a rumble vibrating through Chandrani's shoulder blade. "Proof we move *together*, Chandrani," he murmured, too close, the scent of expensive tobacco thick on his breath. "Before… complications arise."
Chandrani’s gaze locked onto Javed as he lowered the phone. The brute’s heavy-lidded eyes weren't assessing Prakash’s staged unity. They were fixed unblinkingly on *her*, tracing the exposed curve of her shoulder where the sari pallu had slipped, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the thin silk. It wasn't the leering appraisal of politicians like Deb or Prakash. This was raw, primal hunger – a predator sizing up prey. A tremor, not entirely unpleasant, shot through her. Shame coiled hot in her gut, warring with a forbidden thrill. *Enjoyed it?* The thought hissed, unbidden. Had Khyam’s degradation, Prakash’s belittlement, Vikram’s sly insinuations… had they scbangd her raw enough that *this* brute’s undisguised lust felt like… validation? Her cheeks burned anew, but she held her spine rigid, refusing to look away.
Vikram, visibly ruffled by Prakash’s command and Javed’s abrupt intrusion, stepped forward, reclaiming his discarded scotch from the waiter. His practiced smirk returned, sharper now. "Proof we move together?" He echoed Prakash’s words with deliberate irony, swirling his drink. "How very cinematic, Prakashji. Though," his gaze flickered pointedly towards Javed, who stood immobile, eyes still fixed on Chandrani, "I doubt your formidable *network* includes… paparazzi." Vikram’s chuckle held an edge. "*My* channel runs news, Prakashji. Not staged family albums." He gestured vaguely towards the buzzing gala. "The *real* story is still out there. Mishra’s killer walks free while we pose."
Khyam smoothly detached himself from Chandrani’s side, placing a reassuring hand on Vikram’s tense shoulder. "Vikram Saab," he murmured, his voice low and conciliatory, yet firm. "A moment? The Finance Minister just arrived. He’s been… unsettled by Mishra’s demise. Needs reassurance about coalition stability. Your insights on media perception would be invaluable." Khyam’s gaze swept the crowd, landing on a huddle near the champagne fountain where an anxious-looking man in a Nehru jacket fidgeted. Vikram hesitated, glancing between Prakash and Chandrani, his irritation momentarily warring with professional ambition. The lure of influencing the Finance Minister trumped bruised ego. He gave Prakash a curt nod. "Later, Prakashji. We’ll revisit… staging." With a final glance at Chandrani – lingering on her exposed shoulder – Vikram allowed Khyam to guide him away, swallowed instantly by the glittering throng.
Prakash Malhotra’s grip on Chandrani’s waist tightened possessively the moment they were alone. His head dipped close; the sudden assault of stale cigar breath and cloying sandalwood cologne made her flinch. "That husband of yours, Ashok," Prakash rumbled, his gravelly voice vibrating against her ear, thick with lecherous approval. "He's a damn fool about policy, Chandrani. But the man knows how to pick a wife." His thumb pressed deliberately against the curve of her hip, sliding lower to trace the contour beneath the silk sari. "You have a truly… *magnificent* ass." Chandrani’s smile froze into a brittle mask of polite acceptance, her spine rigid against the violation. She managed a slight, graceful nod. "You’re too kind, Prakashji," she murmured, the words ash in her mouth. Before she could pull subtly away, Prakash seized her hand, his eyes gleaming with predatory charm. "You’ll honour me with the next dance, Chandrani? Make an old man’s night?" His gaze didn’t waver, demanding acquiescence.
Chandrani’s eyes flickered instinctively beyond Prakash’s bulk, finding Javed instantly. The brute hadn’t moved. He remained rooted near the monstera, a tumbler of amber whiskey clutched in one thick hand. His stare—heavy, unblinking, utterly devoid of social grace—was locked onto her with unnerving intensity, tracing the line Prakash’s thumb had just mapped. A reckless coil of defiance sparked low in her belly. *Let him watch*. She’d endured Khyam’s calculated degradation, Vikram’s slick insinuations, Prakash’s crude pawing. This raw, untamed hunger? It felt disturbingly honest. "It would be my pleasure, Prakashji," Chandrani purred, her voice thick with false warmth, letting him lead her onto the crowded dance floor.
Prakash guided her clumsily into the swirling crush of bodies, his hand crushingly possessive on her waist. The orchestra swelled—a syrupy Bollywood ballad—and Prakash lumbered into motion. His steps were heavy, arrhythmic, his expensive shoes scbanging the polished marble. "You move like water, Chandrani," he rumbled against her temple, his breath hot and sour with expensive scotch. His hand slid lower, kneading the curve of her hip deliberately through the silk sari. "So supple. So... responsive." Chandrani forced her body to relax against the intrusive pressure, her smile fixed and dazzling under the chandelier light. "You flatter me, Prakashji," she murmured demurely, her gaze darting subtly over his shoulder. Javed hadn’t shifted. He leaned against a marble column now, sipping his whiskey slowly, his gaze never wavering from her. It wasn't admiration; it was appraisal—cold, assessing, primal.
As Prakash clumsily spun her, Chandrani deliberately arched her back, letting the sari pallu slip further off her shoulder. The icy burn of Javed’s stare intensified, tracking the exposed skin like a laser sight. Prakash grunted appreciatively, misinterpreting the gesture. "See? Instinct," he chuckled thickly, pulling her closer until the stiff fabric of his tuxedo jacket dug into her ribs. Chandrani focused past his shoulder, locking eyes across the distance with Javed. His expression didn’t flicker. No smile, no frown. Just... observation. Raw and unblinking. She held the stare for a fraction longer than necessary, a secret thrill coiling low in her belly beneath Prakash’s pawing hands. *Let him see.*
The music shifted to a faster rhythm, forcing Prakash into ungainly shuffles. Chandrani used the momentum to subtly twist away, creating precious inches of space as she navigated his stomping feet. Her gaze darted again—Javed hadn’t moved from his column. He brought the tumbler to his lips slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers. The amber liquid caught the chandelier light. Prakash seized her waist tighter, stumbling against her momentum. "Damn politicians," he muttered sourly against her hairline, his breath humid. "All talk, no spine. Need men who *act*." His hand slid lower, dangerously close to her buttock. Chandrani stiffened, her smile tightening. She glanced back towards Javed. His jaw clenched visibly, the only crack in that granite facade. A sharp pulse of satisfaction shot through her. *Not so unmoved after all.*
She felt Prakash’s thick fingers brush the swell of her hip, dipping lower still. Chandrani braced herself for the crude squeeze she knew was coming. But her eyes remained locked with Javed’s—and she saw it. A subtle tightening around his heavy-lidded eyes, a flare in their dark depths. It wasn't jealousy; it was pure, predatory possessiveness. As Prakash’s palm clumsily cupped her buttock through the silk, Chandrani didn’t flinch. Instead, a low, forbidden heat spread beneath Prakash’s pawing hand. She arched her back slightly, pressing *into* the unwanted touch, her gaze still pinned defiantly to Javed’s. The thrill wasn't Prakash's clumsy groping; it was the raw, silent fury radiating from the brute across the floor, the way his knuckles whitened around his glass. She *wanted* him to see.
Javed’s jaw shifted. He drained the whiskey in one savage gulp, the tumbler vanishing into his suit pocket. Without breaking his stare—a silent promise etched into the brutal lines of his face—he turned abruptly and melted into the crowd, disappearing near the banquet hall entrance. The sudden absence felt like a physical blow. Chandrani’s breath hitched, the heat cooling into a sharp pang of loss. Prakash misinterpreted her shudder, chuckling wetly against her neck. "Feeling that rhythm now, hmm?" he slurred.
"Who *is* he?" Chandrani breathed, turning her head slightly within Prakash’s clumsy embrace. Her whisper was raw silk against the blaring music. "That man… Javed. He watches like a hawk circling prey."
Prakash stiffened momentarily, his pawing hand stilling on her hip. He followed her gaze towards the now-empty column, his expression hardening into grudging respect. "Javed?" A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, devoid of humour. "He’s not a hawk, Chandrani. He’s a fucking *jackal*. My jackal." Prakash leaned closer, his stale breath hot on her ear. "Need a problem erased? A rival silenced? Evidence burned before the cops even smell smoke? Javed handles it. Cleanly. Efficiently." His thumb dug into her silk-clad waist. "Men like him don’t circle prey, darling. They *consume* it."
Chandrani felt a chill prickle her spine despite Prakash’s suffocating closeness. "Murder?" The word escaped her lips softer than a sigh, barely audible over the orchestra’s crescendo.
Prakash didn’t answer. A booming gong suddenly reverberated through the Grand Ballroom, silencing conversation. The Master of Ceremonies announced dinner. Prakash released her instantly, his attention snapping toward the banquet hall entrance like a hound scenting prey. "Food," he declared, already turning. "We move."
Inside the lavish dining hall, Chandrani found herself seated beside Prakash at a long mahogany table dbangd in white damask. Khyam and Vikram flanked him opposite. Silver cloches covered steaming dishes. Prakash tore into the discussion immediately, leaning across the pristine linen. "Mishra's is gone..no more problem...but we have deb to deal with it, he holds the money and ringmaster too ", he hissed, stabbing the air with a butter knife. "LJP is fractured. Weak. We offer their regional bosses cabinet posts – Agriculture, Water Resources. Meaningless titles, real power stays here." He tapped Vikram's wrist. "Your channels spin it… grief, unity, stability." Vikram nodded, scribbling notes onto a linen napkin. Khyam remained impassive, swirling his water goblet. "And the vote?" he murmured. Prakash grinned, predatory. "Fear works faster than favors. Javed ensures… compliance."
As Prakash detailed his plan – leveraging Javed’s ‘network’ to apply pressure across vulnerable Lok Janashakti MPs – Chandrani volunteered to serve the aromatic lamb rogan josh, hoping for distraction. Rising gracefully, she lifted the heavy silver salver. Walking behind Prakash’s chair, she leaned forward to spoon fragrant curry onto his plate. The movement pulled her magenta silk sari pallu taut, dipping low at her waist. Unintentionally, a crescent of smooth skin was revealed just above the intricate gold embroidery of her blouse – the delicate curve of her navel momentarily visible. She felt it instantly: a focused, searing heat. Javed stood immobile against the nearby pillar, his tumbler of whiskey forgotten. His heavy-lidded stare, predatory and unnervingly precise, zeroed in on that exposed sliver of flesh above her sari’s border. It felt like a physical touch, intimate and invasive.
A spark of defiance flickered within Chandrani. Catching Javed’s unblinking gaze, she arched a single, questioning eyebrow – a silent challenge laced with mock annoyance. Deliberately, slowly, she adjusted her pallu with her free hand, pulling the silk upwards to meticulously cover the vulnerable spot. Her eyes, fixed on his, conveyed icy reproach: *Know your place.* She held the look for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, before smoothly turning back to serve Vikram Sen. The air crackled with unspoken tension, thick enough to choke on.
Prakash slammed a meaty fist on the pristine damask. "Enough whispers! Deb holds the purse strings *and* the LJP puppets!" he barked, flecks of lamb rogan josh spraying onto the linen. His voice cut through the clatter of silverware stilling immediately. "LJP’s carcass is picked clean. We strike *now*, while the stench of Mishra still chokes the corridors." He jabbed a thick finger towards Vikram. "Your anchors scream ‘coalition crisis’ at primetime. Plant whispers Deb orchestrated Mishra’s... cleansing." Vikram’s eyes glittered with predatory excitement as he leaned forward, napkin forgotten. "The phantom poolside footage… leaked just so? Imply Deb’s men were seen lingering?"
Chandrani remained unnaturally still beside Prakash, the phantom burn of Javed’s gaze on her covered waist still prickling her skin. She focused on the intricate gold paisley pattern of her sari border, the cloying scents of saffron and cardamom suddenly oppressive. Prakash’s gaze swung back to her, heavy and appraising. "Strategy needs rest, Chandrani." His voice dropped to a low rumble, thick with false concern masking command. "This gala drains prettier flowers than you." He signalled dismissively towards the pillar where Javed stood sentinel. "*Javed!* You’ll drop Chandrani home efficiently. My driver knows the route." Prakash’s eyes lingered on her flushed throat. "Ensure she… refreshes properly. Big days ahead."
A flicker of genuine amusement sparked within Chandrani, cutting through the fatigue and humiliation. Dropped off by Prakash's personal assassin? It was absurd, dangerous, yet perversely thrilling. This brute who consumed rivals wasn’t circling prey anymore; he was being offered the kill on a silver platter for Prakash’s convenience. She met Prakash’s expectant stare, her practised smile softening into something almost genuine. "Your thoughtfulness touches me, Prakashji," she murmured, dipping her head demurely. "Javed’s efficiency is… legendary." She lifted her gaze, catching Javed’s impassive stare across the ruined tablecloth. He hadn't flinched, hadn't acknowledged the order. But Chandrani saw the minute tightening of his jaw beneath the brutal lines of his face. Her nod was slight, deliberate. "Of course. Thank you."
The sudden silence of Prakash’s luxury sedan enveloped Chandrani the moment the heavy door clicked shut. The gala’s garish light and oppressive chatter were replaced by cool leather upholstery and the low thrum of the powerful engine. Javed occupied the driver's seat, his immense frame filling the space, radiating a contained heat Chandrani felt even from the passenger side. The partition window separating them from Prakash’s driver remained firmly closed. They were entirely alone. Chandrani shifted subtly, the silk of her sari whispering against the seat, deliberately angling her body towards him. She caught his scent – gun oil, faded tobacco, and something earthy, primal – sharp against the car’s sterile new-leather smell. An unexpected thrill coiled low in her belly. *Finally.*
"Ghaziabad," Chandrani began, her voice deliberately soft, almost melodic against the engine’s purr. She let her gaze drift over his profile – the brutal ridge of his brow, the thick corded neck disappearing into the starched collar. "That’s Prakashji’s stronghold. Is that… home for you too?" She leaned fractionally closer, the subtle shift causing her sari pallu to slip, revealing a bare shoulder gleaming faintly in the dashboard lights.
Javed’s eyes remained fixed on the rain-slicked road unfolding before them. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the exposed skin shimmering inches away. "hmmm," he stated flatly, his voice rough gravel scbanging against silence. "mere area hai." His grip on the steering wheel didn’t shift, knuckles stark white against the leather. No tremor, no flicker.
Chandrani tilted her head, shifting closer still. The scent of his sweat mingled with gun oil filled the space between them, sharp and unnerving. "Ghaziabad," she pressed, letting her voice soften, inviting. "Such a tough place. Were you always... like this?" Her gaze traced the thick scar bisecting his jawline, disappearing beneath his collar. "Strong? Capable?"
Javed’s knuckles tightened fractionally on the wheel. "Sab kuch sikha hai," he answered, low and clipped. *Learnt everything.* His eyes remained glued to the highway, rain streaking the windshield like liquid shadows. He didn't glance at her shoulder, didn't acknowledge the deliberate proximity. Chandrani felt a prickle of irritation beneath her skin. Alone in this leather cocoon, the power dynamics should have shifted. Yet his indifference felt heavier than Prakash’s pawing.
Undeterred, she let her fingers brush lightly against the cool leather of the center console, edging closer to his thigh. "And family?" she pressed, injecting warmth into her tone. "dnt you have someone at home… surely someone waits?" Her knee bumped against the gearshift, a calculated accident. The heat radiating from his body was immense, like standing near a furnace.
Javed shifted gears smoothly, the motion economical. "Kisi ko intezaar nahi karna chahiye," he replied, his voice devoid of inflection. *No one should wait.* He finally glanced sideways, a flicker so brief it might have been imagined. His dark eyes met hers – not predatory, not assessing, but utterly, chillingly blank. "Sabka apna kaam hai." *Everyone has their own work.* The dismissal was absolute. Chandrani recoiled internally, the heat in her belly cooling into sharp chagrin. Alone, powerful, deliberately inviting… and he saw only a job? Prakash's crude appraisal suddenly felt preferable.
Without warning, the sleek sedan shuddered violently. A harsh, grinding clank echoed from the engine bay. The car lurched sideways onto the highway shoulder, tires screeching protest on the wet asphalt before shuddering to a halt beneath a flickering sodium lamp. Silence crashed in, broken only by the drumming rain.
Chandrani jerked forward against her seatbelt, heart pounding. "Kya hua?" Her voice sliced through the sudden stillness. Javed flicked hazard lights on, the orange blink cutting eerie patterns in the downpour. He didn’t glance her way. "Technical snag," he stated flatly, unbuckling his belt with economical movements. "Generator coupling." The door swung open; cold, rain-lashed wind swept into the warm cabin, carrying the tang of wet earth and diesel. Javed vanished into the storm.
Chandrani hesitated only a second. The isolation was electric, charged with possibility. She stepped out, silk sari instantly plastered to her legs by the driving rain. The highway stretched empty in both directions, swallowed by darkness and the relentless drumming on asphalt. Sodium light haloed Javed’s broad back as he bent over the open hood, steam mingling with rain vapor. She moved closer, the chill forgotten beneath a reckless heat pooling low in her belly.
"Engine trouble?" Her voice cut through the downpour, sharper than intended. Javed didn’t straighten, his silhouette rigid against the glare. tiny rain drops plastered his hair against his skull, traced rivulets down the thick cords of his neck. Chandrani edged alongside, letting the sodden pallu cling heavily to her hips. She saw his focus remain locked on the engine block, fingers probing dark metal, utterly absorbed. Frustration pricked her skin, hotter than the steam. This wasn’t indifference; it was *challenge*. Deliberately, slowly, she hooked a wet finger beneath the top edge of her sari’s dbangd fabric where it met her midriff blouse. With agonizing slowness, she slid the silk downward – not much, just an inch. Enough for the soaked magenta to cling lower, revealing the deliberate hollow dip above her waistband. Enough to expose the intricate henna tracery encircling her navel, gleaming wetly under the sodium glare.
His hands froze. The rhythmic drumming of rain on the hood filled the sudden stillness. He didn't turn his head, but Chandrani saw the tension coil through his shoulders, the minute tightening where neck met jaw. She leaned in, close enough that her breath misted the cold chrome beside his knuckles. Her whisper cut through the storm's roar: "Generator coupling? Or..." She paused, letting her gaze trace the scar disappearing into his collar. "...something harder to handle?" Her lips curved, a ghost of a smile inches from his rain-slicked arm. Her fingertip brushed the exposed skin just above her navel – a deliberate touch, cold and inviting. "Are you sure *you* can handle it?"
A low rumble escaped him, swallowed instantly by the wind. "Sab handle kar sakta hu," he growled, turning his head fractionally. His eyes, dark and fathomless, finally locked onto hers. Not cold now. Burning. *Everything*. His gaze didn't flicker downward, remained fixed on her face with unsettling intensity. He gestured sharply towards the engine bay's depths. "Rod slip ho gaya." *Rod slipped.* "Bonnet hold karo." *Hold the bonnet.* He didn't ask. Ordered.
Chandrani stepped forward, her silk plastered to her body. The engine's heat radiated against her thighs. The bonnet, slick with rain and grease, felt massive. She pressed her palms flat against the cold metal edge, leaning her slight weight against it to keep it raised. The posture pulled her torso taut, forcing her arms high above her head. Instantly, the sodden silk sleeves of her blouse rode up, exposing the deep, shadowed hollows beneath her arms. The damp fabric clung awkwardly, pulling tight against her ribs. She felt the sodium light spill into the vulnerable curves, the cool air hitting the sensitive skin. She didn't flinch. She waited.
Javed bent low, his shoulder nearly brushing her hip. He reached deep into the engine bay with a thick wrench. The wrench clanged against metal, echoing sharply in the rainy stillness. Chandrani heard the wet rasp of his breath beside her ear. She felt his gaze flicker upwards, past the wrench, past the steaming engine block. It wasn't a glance; it was a slow, deliberate scorching trail. It traced the trembling line of her sari border where it met her exposed waist, lingered for a suffocating moment, then climbed higher, settling on the exposed flesy armpits of her left arm. His stare felt like physical pressure against that intimate curve – hot, intrusive, utterly consuming. He didn't look away. He ogled. Raw. Unapologetic. Possessive.
Chandrani shifted her grip subtly on the slick bonnet edge, deliberately flexing the muscles of her raised arm. The movement deepened the hollow, stretching the thin skin tauter, glistening under the sodium light. A droplet of rainwater traced a slow, icy path down the vulnerable skin. Javed’s wrench froze mid-turn. His breathing hitched, audible even over the drumming rain. His knuckles whitened around the wrench handle. Chandrani tilted her head slightly, catching his rapt gaze locked onto her armpit. A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips. "Kya dekha ja raha hai itni gahrai se, Javed?" she murmured, her voice low, husky, carrying effortlessly through the storm. *What are you staring at so intently?* She paused, letting the question hang, thick with implication. "Kya pehle kabhi aurat ki baagal nahi dekhi?" *Haven't you seen a woman's armpit before?* She arched her brow, the challenge sharp and glittering in her eyes.
He didn't answer. His gaze didn't waver. Instead, he slowly straightened, abandoning the wrench deep within the engine bay. Rain plastered his shirt to broad shoulders, outlining thick muscle. He turned fully towards her, his movements deliberate, predatory. Chandrani kept her palms pressed firmly against the cold bonnet, maintaining her exposed posture. She felt the raw hunger radiating from him, hotter than the steam rising from the engine block. He took a single step closer, invading her space. His rough scent – gun oil, wet earth, sweat – enveloped her, sharp and primal against the rain-fresh air. His eyes, dark and burning, finally left the intimate hollow and travelled up her arm, tracing the line of her throat, settling on her defiant face. Inches separated them. She felt the heat of his breath mingle with the cool rain on her skin.
"This car," Chandrani breathed, her voice a low purr cutting through the drumming rain. She tilted her head towards the sleek sedan, its hazard lights blinking feebly beneath the sodium glare. "So… *fucked*." A cold droplet traced a path down her exposed side. "Stranded here, ass up in the dark, on this lonely highway." She shifted her weight slightly, the movement pulling the sodden silk tighter across her hips. Her gaze locked back onto his, challenging. "You should hurry, Javed." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, edged with dark suggestion. "Fix it fast. Or…" She paused, letting the implication hang thickly in the storm-lashed air. "...someone else might come along. Someone who sees an… opportunity." Her eyes dropped pointedly to his broad hands, then flicked back up, gleaming. "Someone who might decide to fuck this broken ass… *properly*."
Javed’s stare remained fixed on her face, a furnace burning behind the stillness. He didn’t move towards the engine. Instead, his gaze slid downwards, slow and deliberate, tracing the wet silk clinging to her torso. It lingered over the deliberate exposure above her waistband, the intricate henna gleaming wetly, then travelled lower still to where the sari pooled, heavy and suggestive, between her thighs. His jaw tightened audibly. A low growl vibrated deep in his chest, barely audible over the rain's roar. It wasn’t anger. It was raw, uncontained hunger.
"You," he rasped, the word rough as sandpaper. His voice dropped, thick with contemptuous irony. "Your ass..." He gestured vaguely towards her hips, his knuckles white. "...bahut valuable hai. Big politicians ka... dessert." A sneer twisted his scarred lips. "Prakash Malhotra... Khyam... Vikram Sen. Unki plate mein hi rakha hai." *Reserved on their plate.* He took a half-step closer, invading her space. The heat radiating off him was suffocating. "Mera kaam hai... ensure koi chhota michwa... touch na kare." *Ensure no small-time rat touches it.* His dark eyes burned into hers, devoid of Prakash’s crude lechery, replaced by chilling possession. "After all..." He paused, letting the words hang heavy. "...*you* are the impending President of the Women's Wing." He spat the title like venom. "But..." He leaned in, his breath hot against her rain-chilled ear. "...danger... woh alag cheez hai." *Danger… that’s something else.*
Chandrani didn’t recoil. The absurdity, the terrifying power-play, sent a jolt of reckless adrenaline through her veins. She laughed, low and throaty, the sound carrying over the drumming rain. Her body arched subtly against the cold bonnet edge, emphasizing the curve he’d just condemned. "Danger?" she echoed, her voice dripping with mocking sweetness. Her eyes, glittering with defiance, locked onto his. "Kya danger, Javed?" *What danger?* She tilted her head, letting her gaze travel deliberately down his soaked shirt, lingering meaningfully at his belt. "Kya tum..." she paused, her whisper slicing through the storm’s roar, "...kya tum mujhe *abhi* bang karne wale ho?" *Are you going to bang me now?* A slow, deliberate smile curved her rain-slicked lips. Her voice dropped lower, husky, charged. "Kya tum mera... ass... *fuck* karoge?" *Will you fuck my ass?*
The raw vulgarity hung suspended between them, stark against the storm. Chandrani saw the flare in Javed’s eyes—not shock, but a visceral eruption of primal heat mixed with fury. His breath hitched audibly. His hand, still slick with engine grease, shot out. Not to strike, not to grab her throat. It clamped hard onto her hip, fingers digging possessively through the soaked silk, pulling her violently towards him. Her back slammed against the cold, wet flank of the sedan. Rainwater sprayed her face as his immense frame caged her in. The bonnet crashed shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
“Karne ka mann bahut karta hai, Madam President,” Javed rasped, his voice thick with suppressed lust and bitter sarcasm. His breath, hot and smelling of tobacco, fanned across her rain-slicked lips. His hips pressed flush against hers, pinning her to the car. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal burn through the layers of fabric. “Par…” His gaze raked down her body with brutal intensity. “…gaadi ka engine dead ho gaya.” *The car engine is dead.* . “Mechanic ko call karna padega.” *Need to call mechanic.* He released her hip abruptly, leaving a deep imprint on the silk, and pulled a sleek, black phone from his pocket.
As Javed punched numbers, the sudden chirp of Chandrani’s personal phone sliced through the storm’s drumbeat. Ashok’s name flashed on the screen. Relief warred with sharp irritation. She slid the answer button. “Ashok?” Her tone was breathless, deliberately strained.
“Chandrani, it’s past midnight! Where are you?” Ashok’s voice crackled, thick with exhaustion.
Chandrani leaned against the car’s rain-slicked flank, watching Javed’s silhouette as he barked Hindi into his phone a few paces away. The mechanic’s name—Raju—drifted through the downpour. “Still… at Prakashji’s dinner,” she lied smoothly, injecting a flutter of faux fatigue into her tone. The sodium light caught the violent imprint of Javed’s grip on her hip silk. “So many discussions. I’ll stay at Manju’di’s tonight—her place is closer.” She paused, letting the drumming rain fill the silence. “How… how is babai?”
Ashok’s sigh rattled down the line. “Fell asleep with his story book again. Asked for you twice.” His voice softened. “Don’t push yourself, Chandrani. Politics can wait.”
Chandrani watched Javed snap his phone shut, the harsh lines of his face illuminated by a passing truck’s headlights. “Politics never sleeps,” she murmured, forcing lightness into her voice. “Give babai my kiss. Goodnight.” She ended the call before Ashok could probe further, slipping her phone back into her blouse. The lie settled cold in her stomach. Manju’di lived halfway across the city.
Javed stalked back towards her, rainwater dripping from his jawline. “Raju will come. but cant tell when.” His eyes flicked to the dark imprint on her hip silk, then away. The predatory hunger had banked, replaced by coiled impatience. Restless energy radiated off him as he paced the narrow shoulder, boots splashing in puddles.
“Could be hours,” he growled, gesturing vaguely towards the highway’s ink-black expanse swallowed by the storm. His gaze landed on a cluster of faint, hazy lights shimmering like distant fireflies low in the darkness beyond a scrubby embankment. “Small settlement. Shanties. Temporary shelters.” He stated it flatly, a neutral assessment. “Dry shelter. Chai. Better than standing here.” He didn’t look at her, his posture rigidly turned away. A muscle jumped in his scarred jaw. He wasn’t suggesting; he was reporting options. Waiting was unbearable.
Chandrani leaned back against the cold, rain-lashed sedan, the scent of wet earth and Javed’s lingering gun oil sharp in her nostrils. The sodden silk clung to her thighs. She tilted her head, studying the distant flicker of the slum lights through the curtain of rain. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips as she deliberately echoed his earlier phrasing. “Dry shelter? Chai?” Her voice was husky, laced with deliberate ambiguity. She shifted her weight, letting the wet silk pull taut against her hips. “Or something... else entirely?” She paused, letting the drumming rain fill the silence. Her eyes, dark and glittering, locked onto his profile. “Kya tumhare dimaag mein... wohi chal raha hai, Javed?” *Is that what's running through your mind?* She took a half-step closer, invading his space. The rain plastered stray hairs to her temples. “Kya tum mujhe uss jhopadpatti mein le ja kar... bang karne wale ho?” *Are you taking me to that slum to bang me?*Her gaze dropped pointedly, lingering below his belt before snapping back up. " main kyu jau hmm?"
Javed leaned against the rust-streaked sedan, rainwater dripping from his sharp jawline onto the grease-stained collar of his uniform. His knuckles, scarred and thick, tapped a slow rhythm against the wet metal. In the flickering sodium light, his gaze drifted toward the distant cluster of slum fires shimmering like dying stars through the monsoon curtain.
"Out here," he murmured, his voice rough gravel under the rain's roar. "Alone. Broken car like ripe fruit." His eyes slid sideways to Chandrani, soaking silk plastered to her hips. "Anyone could come. Truck drivers." A pause. "Loaders." Another. "*Thugs*." The last word landed like a brick. He pushed off the car, boots splashing mud as he took a step closer. The scent of wet earth and sharp sweat thickened the air. " fancy car, fancy woman..." He gestured vaguely at her silhouette. "...akeli." His stare dropped pointedly to the dark wet patch where the sari clung between her thighs. "ek nahin..harami kutte or suawro ka jhund" His voice dropped to a low growl. "Line banake..ek ek karke." A slow, deliberate lick of his lips. "*apki gand marenge."
Chandrani didn't flinch. She leaned back harder against the cold metal, the chill seeping through the silk. Her laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. "Is that your fantasy, Javed? Or... a threat?" She arched her neck, exposing the rain-slicked column of her throat. "Thinking of joining the line?" Her gaze traced the jagged scar disappearing into his collar. "Or just... watching?.."
" main socha ap meri gand bachoge ..na ki marte hue dekhoge"
Javed stared at Chandrani intently for a moment, his eyes burning holes into hers. Without a word, he turned abruptly. "Chalo." His voice was clipped, final. He strode towards the embankment, boots sinking into the mud, not looking back. Chandrani hesitated, the shroud of rain swallowing him. Then she followed, silk tangling around her ankles, climbing the slippery slope towards the distant haze of kerosene lamps. The shanty town materialized out of the gloom – a maze of corrugated tin and tarpaulin, stinking of sewage and woodsmoke. Javed moved with predatory familiarity, turning down narrow alleys where shadows swallowed the feeble light. He stopped before a low, rust-streaked door and hammered twice with his fist – sharp, authoritative knocks that echoed in the dripping stillness.
The door scbangd open. A gaunt young man peered out, eyes widening at Javed before flickering nervously over Chandrani’s soaked, clinging finery. Javed barked a few low words in rapid Hindi Chandrani couldn’t catch. The young man nodded vigorously, ducking back inside. Javed gestured curtly with his chin towards the dark doorway. His eyes met Chandrani’s – a silent command, devoid of warmth. Chandrani stepped past him into the cramped gloom. A single kerosene lantern hissed on a rickety wooden table, casting long, dancing shadows. A neatly folded cot hugged one wall; a makeshift partition of stained sackcloth screened a tiny area barely large enough to crouch in – the ‘neck-height washroom’. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, stale tobacco, and something vaguely medicinal.
Chandrani stood rigidly by the cot. Outside, the rain muffled voices but sharpened whispers. She strained to hear. Javed’s low rumble. Then the other man’s voice, hesitant, curious: "*Saab, yeh... rand hai kya? Abhi... chodne wale ho?*" *Sir, is she... a whore? You going to fuck her now?* The words punched Chandrani’s gut. Not shock, but a bizarre, unnerving resonance. *Rand*. Whore. Prakash’s crude dessert plate. Khyam’s calculating gaze. Vikram’s smirk. Her carefully traded intimacies for political leverage. Wasn’t she exactly that? A high-profile courtesan trading flesh for power? Favors instead of cash? Tonight, it felt undeniable.
The door groaned open. Javed loomed in the doorway, rainwater dripping onto the packed-earth floor. He ignored the young man hovering behind him. His eyes, shadowed and intense, scanned Chandrani’s soaked form. She met his gaze squarely, refusing to wipe the rainwater trickling down her neck into her damp blouse. The kerosene light flickered across his scarred jaw, hardening its lines. His silence was heavier than Prakash’s lechery. He stepped inside, shutting the door with a definitive click. The bolt scbangd home. The sound echoed in the cramped space. Alone. The predatory stillness returned. Chandrani felt it coil around her ribs, tightening her breath. She saw the calculation in his eyes – the hunter assessing trapped prey.
Her mind raced. Vikram’s mocking praise. Prakash’s groping hands. Khyam’s detached assessment. *Rand*. Whore. Was she anything else? Power wasn’t seized with clean hands. Favors traded – whispered secrets for votes, strategic silences for patronage, *this body* leveraged for alliances. Cash never changed hands; the currency was position, influence, survival. Tonight, under flickering kerosene light smelling faintly of kerosene and desperation, the facade felt shatter-thin.
She moved away from the cot, touching the rough sackcloth partition hiding the neck-height washroom. A tin mug sat beside a cracked bucket. Her fingers trembled. Outside, Javed’s growl was punctuated by the young man’s hesitant murmurs. *“…chodne wale ho?”* The brutal bluntness resonated. She couldn’t hear Javed’s reply. Chandrani glanced back at the cot. Narrow, sturdy, covered with coarse grey wool. A threadbare pillow lay against the wall. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
A slow, reckless smile curved her lips. He’d bolt that door. He’d face her. And then? That raw hunger radiating off him earlier, hotter than steam… it hadn’t vanished. It lay coiled beneath his icy control. She knew that look. Prakash leered; Khyam assessed. Javed possessed. And possession demanded claiming. Fighting him? Futile. Pointless. The highway confrontation, the storm, the desperate tension—all arrows pointed here. Logic screamed surrender. Why deny the inevitable heat crackling between them? She traced the cold metal frame of the cot. He’d strip the clinging saree away. Push her down onto the scratchy wool. Her skin prickled.
The scbang of the bolt cut through her spiraling thoughts. Javed filled the doorway again, silhouetted against the dim alley light. Rainwater dripped from his shoulders, pooling on the packed earth floor. He held a small, unlabeled glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. His eyes, dark pits in the kerosene gloom, swept over her sodden form. "Paoge?" he asked flatly, his voice rough. Alcohol? Chandrani’s gaze flickered to the bottle. Liquid courage? Liquid submission? She lifted her chin, a brittle defiance sparking. "Tum peete ho toh… theek hai." *If you drink… it’s fine.* A deliberate ambiguity. Acceptance? Permission? Challenge?
Javed grunted, unscrewing the cap. He took a swift, deep swallow, the harsh fumes hitting the air – cheap country liquor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. They flickered pointedly down her body, lingering on the damp patches clinging to her skin beneath the wet silk. "Fresh ho jao," he stated, his tone devoid of inflection, a simple command. *Get freshened up.* He gestured curtly towards the sackcloth partition screening the washroom alcove. "Naha lo." *Bathe.*
Chandrani blinked, momentarily thrown. Freshening up? In *this* cramped, dirt-floored shack? With him standing there, reeking of liquor and possession? Her gaze flicked between the crude partition and his impassive face. Was this a bizarre courtesy? Or a cruel setup? "You mean… *this*?" she asked, gesturing towards the flimsy curtain, her voice tight with disbelief. "That washroom?"
Javed’s stare didn’t waver. He raised the bottle again, took another long, burning sip. "Haan," he rasped, the single syllable dropping like a stone. "Jaldi karo." *Hurry up.*
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