21-01-2026, 03:36 PM
Part 2 – Cracks Appear
The next three weeks passed like a slow-motion car crash.
Karthik’s office on the 14th floor of Eros Corporate Tower smelled increasingly of stale coffee and tension. The
customs hold on the 180-TEU electronics consignment had stretched from “indefinite” to “under intense
scrutiny.” Then came the bank — one of his main working-capital lenders suddenly demanded an early partial
repayment of ₹18 crore citing “revised internal risk assessment.” Two major clients (both quietly nudged by
competitors) deferred payments on outstanding invoices worth another ₹11 crore. Cash flow, once a roaring
river, shrank to a trickle.
Karthik spent nights on calls with lawyers, bankers, and angry vendors. He came home later and later, face
drawn, voice clipped. The man who used to walk through the door already unbuttoning his shirt now entered
carrying files and a laptop bag, barely looking at Shailaja before disappearing into the study.
Shailaja noticed everything.
She noticed the way his shoulders stayed rigid even in sleep. She noticed how he no longer reached for her
the moment the bedroom door closed. She noticed the new lines around his eyes and the way he rubbed his
temples when he thought she wasn’t watching.
She tried to help the only way she knew.
She woke at 5:30 a.m. to prepare his favourite filter coffee exactly the way his mother had taught her —
strong, frothy, no sugar. She ironed his shirts herself instead of leaving them for the maid. She lit extra diyas
in the pooja room and prayed longer, whispering mantras for prosperity and protection. At night she wore the
sheerest chiffon sarees she owned, hoping the sight of her body would pull him back to her.
Sometimes it worked.
One Thursday night, two weeks into the crisis, Karthik came home at 1:20 a.m. He found Shailaja waiting in
the living room in a sheer black saree, blouse so low-cut the upper curves of her areolas were faintly visible
through the fabric. She had unpinned her hair; it fell in a glossy curtain down her back.
He stopped in the doorway.
For a moment the exhaustion lifted from his face.
“Shailaja…” His voice cracked on her name.
She rose silently, walked to him, and pressed her palms to his chest. Without a word she sank to her knees on
the carpet.
Karthik exhaled sharply.
She unzipped him with trembling fingers, freed his half-hard cock, and took him into her mouth without
hesitation. She had never been this bold before their marriage; even now it was rare. But tonight she sucked
him like it was the only language left between them — slow, deep, wet, her tongue swirling around the head
every time she pulled back. One hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently; the other stroked the thick base
she couldn’t fit.
Karthik groaned, fingers sinking into her hair. He didn’t speak. He just fucked her mouth in shallow thrusts,
watching her lips stretch around him, watching tears gather at the corners of her eyes from the depth.
When he was close he pulled out, hauled her to her feet, and bent her over the back of the sofa. He hiked the
saree up to her waist, ripped her panties to the side, and drove into her in one brutal stroke.
Shailaja cried out — pain and pleasure tangled together. He didn’t wait. He fucked her hard, hips slapping
against her ass, one hand wrapped around her throat from behind, the other pinching and twisting her
nipples through the thin blouse.
“You’re mine,” he growled against her ear. “No one else gets this.”
“Yes… only you…” she gasped, pushing back to meet every thrust.
He came inside her with a choked curse, grinding deep, holding her pinned until every drop was spent.
Afterward he carried her to bed like he used to in the early years. They didn’t speak. She curled against his
chest and fell asleep listening to his heartbeat, telling herself it would be okay.
It wasn’t.
The next morning Vikram Oberoi’s black Range Rover pulled up outside the Eros Corporate Tower at exactly
9:15 a.m.
He wore a charcoal three-piece suit, lavender pocket square, Patek Philippe glinting on his wrist. At 41 he
looked dangerously polished — salt-and-pepper at the temples, jawline still sharp, eyes the colour of old whisky.
He didn’t have an appointment.
He didn’t need one.
Karthik’s secretary tried to stop him. Vikram smiled — the smile of a man who had already bought the
building — and walked past her.
Karthik looked up from his desk when the door opened without a knock.
“Vikram,” he said flatly.
“Morning, Karthik.” Vikram closed the door, took the chair opposite without being invited. “Heard you’re
having a spot of liquidity trouble.”
Karthik’s jaw tightened. “If you’ve come to gloat—”
“I’ve come to offer help.” Vikram leaned back, legs crossed. “I can release your containers tomorrow. I can
speak to the bank. I can even front you the ₹18 crore you need by end of day — clean, no strings… almost.”
Karthik laughed once, bitter. “And the price?”
Vikram studied him for a long moment.
Then he took out his phone, opened a photo, and slid it across the desk.
It was Shailaja.
Taken two Sundays ago outside the ISKCON temple in Hauz Khas. She was wearing a cream silk saree,
laughing at something off-camera, pallu slipping just enough to reveal the deep, shadowed navel Karthik had
kissed a thousand times.
Karthik’s face went white.
“You son of a bitch.”
“Language,” Vikram said mildly. “I’m offering a gentleman’s arrangement. One night. My place. She comes
willingly — or at least pretends to. In return, your consignments clear, your loans restructure, your clients stay.
Business returns to normal. You keep your empire. I get… a taste.”
Karthik lunged across the desk.
Vikram didn’t flinch. Two of his men — discreetly stationed outside — stepped in the moment the scuffle
started. They pulled Karthik back without effort.
Vikram stood, straightened his cuff.
“Think about it,” he said. “You have till Friday evening. After that the next container shipment gets ‘lost’ at
Nhava Sheva. And the bank calls in the entire facility.”
He walked to the door, paused.
“She’s beautiful when she prays, by the way. The way her lips move… quite something.”
The door clicked shut.
Karthik stood frozen behind his desk, breathing hard, staring at the photo still glowing on the screen.
That night he came home early for the first time in weeks.
Shailaja was in the kitchen, preparing dinner in a simple cotton saree, hair in a loose braid. She smiled when
she saw him — a real smile, relieved.
He didn’t smile back.
He walked straight to her, pulled her into his arms, and held her so tightly she could barely breathe.
“Karthik? What happened?”
He buried his face in her neck.
“Nothing,” he lied. “Just… I need you tonight. More than ever.”
She felt the tremor in his arms.
She felt the desperation.
And somewhere deep inside, a small, cold fear began to bloom.
End of Part 2
I will post images from 4th chapter
The next three weeks passed like a slow-motion car crash.
Karthik’s office on the 14th floor of Eros Corporate Tower smelled increasingly of stale coffee and tension. The
customs hold on the 180-TEU electronics consignment had stretched from “indefinite” to “under intense
scrutiny.” Then came the bank — one of his main working-capital lenders suddenly demanded an early partial
repayment of ₹18 crore citing “revised internal risk assessment.” Two major clients (both quietly nudged by
competitors) deferred payments on outstanding invoices worth another ₹11 crore. Cash flow, once a roaring
river, shrank to a trickle.
Karthik spent nights on calls with lawyers, bankers, and angry vendors. He came home later and later, face
drawn, voice clipped. The man who used to walk through the door already unbuttoning his shirt now entered
carrying files and a laptop bag, barely looking at Shailaja before disappearing into the study.
Shailaja noticed everything.
She noticed the way his shoulders stayed rigid even in sleep. She noticed how he no longer reached for her
the moment the bedroom door closed. She noticed the new lines around his eyes and the way he rubbed his
temples when he thought she wasn’t watching.
She tried to help the only way she knew.
She woke at 5:30 a.m. to prepare his favourite filter coffee exactly the way his mother had taught her —
strong, frothy, no sugar. She ironed his shirts herself instead of leaving them for the maid. She lit extra diyas
in the pooja room and prayed longer, whispering mantras for prosperity and protection. At night she wore the
sheerest chiffon sarees she owned, hoping the sight of her body would pull him back to her.
Sometimes it worked.
One Thursday night, two weeks into the crisis, Karthik came home at 1:20 a.m. He found Shailaja waiting in
the living room in a sheer black saree, blouse so low-cut the upper curves of her areolas were faintly visible
through the fabric. She had unpinned her hair; it fell in a glossy curtain down her back.
He stopped in the doorway.
For a moment the exhaustion lifted from his face.
“Shailaja…” His voice cracked on her name.
She rose silently, walked to him, and pressed her palms to his chest. Without a word she sank to her knees on
the carpet.
Karthik exhaled sharply.
She unzipped him with trembling fingers, freed his half-hard cock, and took him into her mouth without
hesitation. She had never been this bold before their marriage; even now it was rare. But tonight she sucked
him like it was the only language left between them — slow, deep, wet, her tongue swirling around the head
every time she pulled back. One hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently; the other stroked the thick base
she couldn’t fit.
Karthik groaned, fingers sinking into her hair. He didn’t speak. He just fucked her mouth in shallow thrusts,
watching her lips stretch around him, watching tears gather at the corners of her eyes from the depth.
When he was close he pulled out, hauled her to her feet, and bent her over the back of the sofa. He hiked the
saree up to her waist, ripped her panties to the side, and drove into her in one brutal stroke.
Shailaja cried out — pain and pleasure tangled together. He didn’t wait. He fucked her hard, hips slapping
against her ass, one hand wrapped around her throat from behind, the other pinching and twisting her
nipples through the thin blouse.
“You’re mine,” he growled against her ear. “No one else gets this.”
“Yes… only you…” she gasped, pushing back to meet every thrust.
He came inside her with a choked curse, grinding deep, holding her pinned until every drop was spent.
Afterward he carried her to bed like he used to in the early years. They didn’t speak. She curled against his
chest and fell asleep listening to his heartbeat, telling herself it would be okay.
It wasn’t.
The next morning Vikram Oberoi’s black Range Rover pulled up outside the Eros Corporate Tower at exactly
9:15 a.m.
He wore a charcoal three-piece suit, lavender pocket square, Patek Philippe glinting on his wrist. At 41 he
looked dangerously polished — salt-and-pepper at the temples, jawline still sharp, eyes the colour of old whisky.
He didn’t have an appointment.
He didn’t need one.
Karthik’s secretary tried to stop him. Vikram smiled — the smile of a man who had already bought the
building — and walked past her.
Karthik looked up from his desk when the door opened without a knock.
“Vikram,” he said flatly.
“Morning, Karthik.” Vikram closed the door, took the chair opposite without being invited. “Heard you’re
having a spot of liquidity trouble.”
Karthik’s jaw tightened. “If you’ve come to gloat—”
“I’ve come to offer help.” Vikram leaned back, legs crossed. “I can release your containers tomorrow. I can
speak to the bank. I can even front you the ₹18 crore you need by end of day — clean, no strings… almost.”
Karthik laughed once, bitter. “And the price?”
Vikram studied him for a long moment.
Then he took out his phone, opened a photo, and slid it across the desk.
It was Shailaja.
Taken two Sundays ago outside the ISKCON temple in Hauz Khas. She was wearing a cream silk saree,
laughing at something off-camera, pallu slipping just enough to reveal the deep, shadowed navel Karthik had
kissed a thousand times.
Karthik’s face went white.
“You son of a bitch.”
“Language,” Vikram said mildly. “I’m offering a gentleman’s arrangement. One night. My place. She comes
willingly — or at least pretends to. In return, your consignments clear, your loans restructure, your clients stay.
Business returns to normal. You keep your empire. I get… a taste.”
Karthik lunged across the desk.
Vikram didn’t flinch. Two of his men — discreetly stationed outside — stepped in the moment the scuffle
started. They pulled Karthik back without effort.
Vikram stood, straightened his cuff.
“Think about it,” he said. “You have till Friday evening. After that the next container shipment gets ‘lost’ at
Nhava Sheva. And the bank calls in the entire facility.”
He walked to the door, paused.
“She’s beautiful when she prays, by the way. The way her lips move… quite something.”
The door clicked shut.
Karthik stood frozen behind his desk, breathing hard, staring at the photo still glowing on the screen.
That night he came home early for the first time in weeks.
Shailaja was in the kitchen, preparing dinner in a simple cotton saree, hair in a loose braid. She smiled when
she saw him — a real smile, relieved.
He didn’t smile back.
He walked straight to her, pulled her into his arms, and held her so tightly she could barely breathe.
“Karthik? What happened?”
He buried his face in her neck.
“Nothing,” he lied. “Just… I need you tonight. More than ever.”
She felt the tremor in his arms.
She felt the desperation.
And somewhere deep inside, a small, cold fear began to bloom.
End of Part 2
I will post images from 4th chapter
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)