The rhythm of his footsteps was enough to silence a crowd. Each strike of his polished black shoes against the marble floor echoed with the precision of a heartbeat, cold, steady, and unstoppable. The tinted glass doors of Shekhawat Enterprises opened automatically, as if the sensors had learned reverence. Inside, the hum of activity faltered, laughter thinned, and keyboards hesitated mid-click.

People didn’t turn to look at him.

They didn’t need to.

They felt him like the stillness before a storm.

Yashwant Shekhawat.

His name carried a weight akin to that of thunder.

He didn’t wear power; he was power disciplined, exact, and absolute.

Every movement of his was measured. His presence didn’t demand space; it owned it.

The light from the massive windows stretched across the marble floor, kissing the crisp line of his suit, a charcoal masterpiece tailored to fit the architecture of dominance. His tie was immaculately straight, cufflinks gleaming with quiet arrogance. His gaze, dark, unwavering, and dangerously calm, sliced through the air with clinical precision.

There was something terrifying about how calm he looked. It resembled the surface of deep water, appearing serene above but hiding deadly depths beneath. He didn’t speak as he walked down the corridor, but people instinctively stepped aside. The sound of his shoes became the only rhythm in the room, the rhythm of discipline. Yashwant was a man born from order. Chaos disgusted him. Weakness offended him. And failure: failure was a concept he refused to acknowledge existed.

When he reached his office, the automatic door slid open to a world of symmetry. Everything inside mirrored him: controlled, structured, exact. The smell of leather and oak lingered faintly. A decanter sat untouched in the corner; he didn’t drink. The real intoxication, for him, was control.

He stood before the glass wall that dominated the room, a wall that offered the entire city beneath him. The skyline shimmered, alive and restless. He watched it with an emotionless gaze, as though observing a chessboard he already owned. To see the tops of those skyscrapers, he had to lower his eyes. That irony pleased him.

His office, perched on the topmost floor of his empire, looked down upon everyone: competitors, partners, and dreamers. And that was precisely how he liked it. He turned toward his desk, where three files awaited his signature: a merger, a sponsorship proposal, and a sports collaboration deal with one of the top colleges in the country.

He flipped through them without reading much. He already knew what they contained. He had already studied them at dawn, a ritual he performed every morning before the city woke.

“Approve the merger. Drop the sponsorship.”

His voice was calm, deep, and firm, a tone honed by authority.

He paused at the last file, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“This collaboration,” he said softly, “I’ll handle myself.”

His secretary, Miss Mehra, standing a few steps away, blinked. “Sir… personally?”

Yashwant raised his gaze, and a faint smirk curved his mouth, the kind that carried both charm and threat.

“If it involves competition,” he said, “I don’t delegate... I win.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It had the precision of a polished, restrained blade capable of cutting without warning. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his finger lightly against the armrest, a habit not of nervousness but of rhythm. Everything about him was rhythm, thought, breath, and control. Inside his mind, there was no chaos. Only calculation.

He often wondered if people knew how easy they were to read, the tremor in their tone, the dart of their eyes, the way their hands fidgeted when they lied. To him, people were open books, and he was fluent in their pages.

But no one ever read him.

No one ever could.

Because Yashwant Shekhawat had mastered the art of silence, not as absence, but as weaponry. He turned his chair slightly, letting his gaze fall once more on the city. He had built his empire brick by brick, deal by deal, manipulation by manipulation, and beneath every success was the same unbreakable principle: I do not lose.

The world called it arrogance. He called it survival. His father taught him only one thing: you are a winner, and you were born to win. This is the only rule of his life. He only experienced failure once in his life: when his father died when he was 15, and he was not there during his final moments. But for him, his father is always beside him, always encouraging him to win. Whenever any victory kisses his feet, he always thinks he is tributing that victory to his father.

Now, as he stood before the city skyline, he thought of how perfectly his life had aligned.

The upcoming tender, the largest in the city, was opening tomorrow. Competitors were restless. Media houses speculated. But everyone already knew the outcome. If Yashwant Shekhawat wanted something, it became inevitable. He smiled faintly, lips curving with satisfaction. It wasn’t vanity; it was certainty.

Behind him, Miss Mehra entered again, holding a file, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She hesitated for a moment before approaching.

“Sir,” she began, her tone intentionally low and smooth, “you don’t have any important meetings today.”

Her eyes flickered toward his, her fingers brushing the top button of her blouse. “If you’d like… I can help you relax.”

Yashwant turned slowly gaze swept over her with detached interest, not desire. He took a step closer, and her breath caught. His knuckles brushed her jaw lightly, his finger tracing the line of her throat down to her collarbone. Her eyes fluttered closed. He softly traces his finger to her valley. And then his hand moved. Faster than she could register, his fingers wrapped around her throat. He pushed her gently but firmly against the glass wall, his voice was calm, too calm.

“I told you before,” he said quietly, “I don’t mix distraction with discipline.”

“I… I’m sorry, sir…” She stammered, her eyes wide.

He didn’t release her immediately. His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. Then, with the same controlled precision, he buttoned her blouse back up, one button at a time. When he finally let go, she stumbled back, breathless, confused.

Yashwant walked past her, picked up his phone, and said simply,

“Prepare Miss Mehra’s termination letter. Her time here is over. And next time, hire someone prettier but smarter.”

Miss Mehra froze. Her face drained of color. She had been his secretary for two months. And for one of those months, she had been his distraction. But Yashwant Shekhawat didn’t believe in distractions for long. He used them, and when they started thinking they mattered, he removed them.

She took a hesitant step toward him. “Sir… please. I made a mistake. I…”

He turned to face her fully this time. His expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped lower.

“When I say I don’t want something near me, Miss Mehra, it means I no longer want to breathe the same air it occupies. Take your compensation and leave quietly. Because if I hear another word…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. He signed a check and slid it across the table. Twenty lakhs. Silence filled the room again. She took the check with trembling hands, confusion flickering through her eyes. How could a man who was engaging with her yesterday in a wild desire look at her like a stranger today?

Yashwant tilted his head slightly, a smile ghosting across his lips, charming, cruel, and effortless.

“You served your purpose,” he said softly. “Now serve your silence.”

He walked away, leaving her standing there trembling, humiliated, holding a check that felt heavier than gold. When the door closed behind him, she finally exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest. He terrified her. But a part of her still wanted to go back. She quickly moved out and collected her things from the table because she would rather not face him again, and she knew that in any case, if she came across him the next time, she would vanish from the city. He just wants to move out from this building, from this street, and from this city as soon as possible.

That was the danger of Yashwant Shekhawat; even his cruelty carried magnetism.

In the elevator, his reflection stared back at him in the mirrored walls. Sharp jawline, steady eyes, perfect composure a man carved out of discipline. He adjusted his cufflinks, smoothing the invisible creases from his sleeve. In his head, there was no noise, no guilt. Just the quiet satisfaction of control.

This was who he was, the man who ruled through restraint. The man who never begged, never apologized, and never lost.

His life was built on three pillars: discipline, dominance, and detachment. He didn’t need chaos. He created order. As the elevator doors opened to the private parking area, his black car awaited, polished, silent, and obedient. His driver stood at attention, eyes lowered, hands clasped. Yashwant stepped in without a word. The door closed. The car began to move. He looked out of the tinted window at the city that was his. Everything he saw was his reflection, controlled, efficient, silent. He liked it that way.

******

With the first ray of sunlight brushing against his skin, Yashwant’s eyes opened. The world outside was just beginning to wake, but his mind was already alert, sharp, and aware. His gaze drifted to the side; she was still there, asleep, tangled in silk sheets and shadows. A faint, crooked smile appeared on his face. For a brief moment, the memory of the night before flickered behind his eyes, the heat, the surrender, the way she had tried so hard to please him. It made him smirk, not with affection, but with quiet satisfaction.

Running both hands through his hair, he exhaled slowly, regaining composure. Then, his expression hardened. Pleasure was temporary. Control was permanent.

He rose from the bed, his movements calm and deliberate, and reached for his trousers. Within seconds, he disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of cold water hitting marble filled the air the one ritual that truly grounded him. The chill against his skin, the silence, the solitude this was his kind of peace.

No interruptions. No noise. No attachments. By the time he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she had already woken up.

“Good morning, Yashwant…” Her voice carried the lazy confidence of someone who thought she mattered. Without looking at her, he spoke flatly.

“You have a flight tonight. You should focus on packing, not on chasing distractions.”

She laughed softly, stretching under the sheets. “The party was just an excuse, and you know it. I wasn’t going to leave this city without meeting the one man who could actually keep up with me.”

Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were bold. She stood, completely unashamed, walking toward him with deliberate grace. Her fingers trailed lightly along his chest before she leaned in to press a kiss against his jaw.

“I’ll be gone for months,” she whispered. “But the next time we meet… you’ll remember this.”

Her fingertip traced a slow, playful line down the center of his chest, stopping just above the towel. Mischief danced in her eyes she was testing his restraint, knowing exactly how dangerous that game could be. Yashwant met her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he stepped forward, caging her between himself and the wardrobe.

“You shouldn’t tempt me,” he said quietly, his tone like velvet lined with steel.

“Because once I lose control, it’s never gentle. And you…” His eyes flicked downward briefly before meeting hers again. “You have a flight to catch.”

She laughed again, breathless but fearless. “God… I’m going to miss you.”

He smiled faintly, cold, detached, and final. He removed the towel, roll the protection on his length with sinful smile on his face and, without any warning, thrust himself into her with great force.

“I won’t.”

Her body trembles in his iron grip, every brutal thrust slamming deeper, stretching her slick walls until she feels split open from the inside. Yashwant’s hips piston with relentless force, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room like a war drum. He yanks her flush against his chest, her small breasts crushed to his sweat-slicked muscle, nipples scraping raw with each violent jolt.

“Take it,” he growls, teeth grazing her earlobe before biting down hard enough to draw a sharp cry. His cock spears her again and again, thick veins dragging along her clenching channel, the head battering her cervix until stars burst behind her eyes.

She can’t breathe, can’t think, and only feels the savage stretch, the burn, and the obscene fullness that makes her thighs quake. Her moans fracture into desperate sobs, saliva dripping from her open mouth as her head lolls against his shoulder.

Yashwant’s hand snakes between them, fingers finding her swollen clit and pinching viciously. “Scream louder,” he snarls, grinding the nub in tight, merciless circles. Her body convulses, pussy spasming around his shaft as the first orgasm rips through her like a blade.

But he doesn’t slow. If anything, he fucks her harder, through the clenching aftershocks, through her broken pleas, until her voice cracks and her vision blurs with tears. His balls slap her ass with every punishing stroke, the scent of sex and sweat thick in the air.

“Look at me,” he commands, fisting her hair and wrenching her face to his. His dark eyes burn with feral hunger, lips curled in a snarl. Another thrust. Another. Her second climax crashes over her without warning, juices gushing down his shaft, soaking his thighs. Still, he doesn’t stop, only flips her onto her stomach, yanks her hips up, and drives back in with a guttural roar.

The headboard slams the wall in rhythm with his hips, her fingers clawing the sheets as he splits her open from behind. One hand clamps her throat, squeezing just enough to make her gasp; the other cracks across her ass, leaving a blazing red handprint.

“Beg,” he demands, voice ragged. “Beg me to break you.”

She can’t form words, only choked, filthy whimpers as he angles deeper, hitting that spot that makes her vision white out. Her body betrays her, hips rocking back to meet each savage thrust, chasing the pain-laced pleasure only he can give.

Yashwant leans over her, chest to her back, teeth sinking into her shoulder as he empties himself with a primal snarl. Hot spurts flood her, marking her insides as thoroughly as his bruises mark her skin. He stays buried deep, cock twitching with aftershocks, and whispers against her ear.

“We’re just getting started.”