The moment the clock struck six, his eyes opened without the need for an alarm. Instantly awake, he sat up straight, running both hands through his hair and pushing it back. He stood and moved toward the tall glass window beside his bed. Outside, the first signs of the morning had already begun the quiet buzz of life, the faint movement of people starting their day.

Soon, there was a soft knock on his door. Yashwant rubbed his hands together, pressing them over his face two or three times before walking toward the door. As he opened it, a small trolley stood outside. Without saying a word, he picked up his glass of warm water and drank it quietly. His sharp eyes briefly moved across the corridor, observing everything around him through the corner of his gaze. The servant stood with his head bowed, waiting for him to put the glass down.

No one was ever allowed to enter Yashwant’s room; it was a strict rule. He disliked any kind of unnecessary presence in his personal space. Just then, from the adjoining room, another servant arrived, pushing a wheelchair. As soon as Yashwant saw it, his expression softened instantly. He smiled, walked forward, and in the next moment, he went down on his knees before the chair. His head bowed low as he gently held both feet of the woman sitting there and kissed them with deep reverence. It was his mother, Gauri Shekhawat.

Gauri immediately bent down, cupped her son’s face in her hands, and pressed a kiss on his forehead.

“How many years have passed, duggu and still this habit of yours hasn’t gone away,” she said softly. “I’ve told you so many times, don’t touch my feet like that. You are my life.”

Yashwant smiled faintly, his voice steady but filled with warmth.

“And you’re my God, Maa. Now go and look after your temple and your elder son. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Gauri smiled lovingly as the servant turned the wheelchair around and began to push her toward the temple room.

Without wasting a second, Yashwant walked back into his room and rushed into the washroom. It was part of his morning ritual; after taking his mother’s blessings, he always bathed before joining her for prayers. This routine had never changed.

Within a short while, Yashwant came down wearing only a white dhoti. His mother had already completed setting up everything for the morning prayer by that point. As he placed the lamps filled with ghee in front of the idol, he looked toward his mother and smiled gently. Gauri’s eyes reflected nothing but love as she gazed at him.

He was only eight years old when she had first taught him how to pray, and he still remembered how he used to watch his father standing before the deities, wearing just a simple dhoti, performing every ritual with quiet devotion. Even as a child, he had promised himself that one day he would do the same, pray exactly like his father.

The little boy who once stood watching silently had now grown into a twenty-eight-year-old man, yet every morning, he still performed the rituals the same way his father once did. For him, prayer wasn’t a tradition; it was discipline, the purest start to his day.

After carefully lighting the lamps and arranging the flowers, he stood beside his mother. Together, they began their prayers, chanting softly as the gentle flicker of light filled the room. The idol of Krishna, adorned in beautifully designed clothes made by Yashwant himself, glowed radiantly under the warm light of the lamps. When the prayers ended, Yashwant sat back down near his mother’s feet, holding her hands between his palms, his expression affectionate yet firm.

“Now please go back to your room and rest, Maa,” he said gently. “I’ve told you so many times that you don’t have to wake up this early.”

Gauri smiled, brushing her fingers affectionately over his hair.

“And how many times have I told my son the same thing?” she replied. “You don’t listen either.”

For a second, both of them looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

Yashwant stood, leaned forward, and in one swift motion, lifted his mother in his arms. Gauri laughed softly as he carried her to the sofa in the living area and carefully sat her down. He placed her feet in his lap, gently pressing them with his hands as one of the maids arrived with a glass of milk and soaked almonds for Gauri.

Gauri watched her son silently. There was pride, peace, and emotion in her eyes, the kind only a mother carries for her child. Her gaze drifted toward the clock. It was almost seven.

“You have to go jogging. ” she said in a loving but firm tone. “Go now, and when you come back, we’ll have coffee together.”

Yashwant nodded obediently, still pressing her feet. Then, after a few moments, he stood up and went upstairs to change. His routine was fixed and unchangeable.

Every morning, after spending this short, peaceful time with his mother, Yashwant followed his daily schedule with the same precision he applied to his business.

Three days a week, he went to the gym.

Three days, he jogged outdoors.

And Sundays—those were sacred.

On Sundays, Yashwant Shekhawat belonged only to his mother. No phone calls, no meetings, no distractions.

After changing into his jogger’s outfit, he came downstairs again. Standing by the doorway, he looked toward his mother; she was watching him from across the hall, her eyes full of affection. He smiled, blew her a flying kiss, and ran out.

Gauri’s smile lingered as she watched him disappear through the main gate. She stayed there, eyes following him until he vanished completely from sight, as if every morning, she needed to see him leave safely before she could breathe fully again.

******

The sound of rubber pounding against the polished wooden floor pierced the morning air.r. It was sharp. Steady. Ruthless.

Yashwant Shekhawat was on the basketball court, sleeves rolled up, the faint sheen of sweat glinting under the floodlights. The air was thick, not just with competition, but with tension.

Six boys stood opposite him, all younger, all nervous. They had been challenged to a friendly match. But everyone knew nothing was friendly when it came to Yashwant Shekhawat.

He didn’t play for enjoyment.

He played to dominate.

The whistle blew. The ball bounced once, twice, and the world narrowed for him. Every muscle in his body moved with controlled aggression, precision born from obsession. His movements were smooth, but his energy was wild a storm caged in discipline.

The first shot was released quickly, creating a clean arc through the air before making a swish sound as it went straight into the basket. The boys barely had time to register. He was already in motion again, intercepting, blocking, and twisting his body like the court itself bent to his will.

The second shot followed, quicker and sharper, the ball slicing through space before finding its way into the net again. A murmur rippled through the spectators. Yashwant’s eyes, dark and burning with focus, didn’t even flicker. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t smile. He just wore an expression that made the air itself feel heavy.

The boys were trying harder now, faster passes, and desperate movements, but he was reading them like an open book. Every attempt they made, he crushed it with clinical ease. And then came the third. He dribbled once, twice, slipped between two defenders, like liquid fire, and shot. The ball flew clean, effortless, and straight through the hoop.

He scored three goals in a row.

Back-to-back.

Flawless.

The court went silent. Yashwant stood there, chest rising steadily, expression unreadable. His jaw flexed slightly as he wiped the sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. The boys stared at him, panting, defeated, their confidence shattered.

A faint, dangerous smile curved on his lips.

“Is that it?” he said finally, his tone calm but cutting. I thought I asked for competition, not charity.”

One of the boys stammered, “Sir… we were just…”

Yashwant’s eyes snapped toward him. Cold. Sharp. Absolutely. The boy instantly went silent. He took a slow step forward, the basketball still spinning casually on his fingertip.

“You can lose,” he said quietly, “but don’t look like you were meant to lose.”

He let the ball drop, catching it again with perfect control.

“If you’re standing in front of me,” he continued, his voice low and measured, “then play like you have the right to be here. Otherwise, clear the court.”

The words weren’t loud, but they struck like thunder. Even the sound of the wind seemed to fade. The boys exchanged uneasy glances, part fear, part shame, but none dared to reply. His dominance wasn’t just physical. It was psychological.

He didn’t humiliate people by shouting.

He did it by existing.

Yashwant turned away, exhaling slowly, controlling his breathing. For him, even the rhythm of his breath had to be perfect.

From the stands, a pair of eyes had been watching him quietly. Unblinking. Focused.

Those eyes had been there since the match began, observing the smooth precision of his movements, the fierce determination in his eyes, and the effortless control that defined his every shot. The person behind those eyes had only stayed back to watch a game, nothing more. But now, they found themselves rooted in place, unable to look away.

There was something magnetic about the way he played, not gentle, not graceful, but powerful, controlled, and relentless. His confidence was raw, his presence unshakable. He didn’t just play basketball; he commanded it. When he made that final shot and walked off the court, the faint sound of the ball bouncing behind him faded slowly.

Those same eyes followed him for a brief moment, silently, unknowingly admiring the man whose game spoke louder than his arrogance ever could. And then, without realizing it, a small smile appeared faint, instinctive, and impressed.

Not for the man.

But for the game.

*****

The music was low, the lights dim, and the air inside the private lounge shimmered with perfume, laughter, and sin. Yashwant Shekhawat sat on the velvet couch, one arm resting lazily over the backrest. A glass of whiskey glinted in his hand, untouched; he never drank, but he liked holding it. Power looked better that way.

A girl sat beside him, but he was not interested in her. Somewhere else, he was catching someone. He looked at the girl. The silent invitation in her gaze was unmistakable. Yashwant’s lips curved slightly. He didn’t need to move. He simply tilted his head, the faintest nod. Within seconds, she was walking toward him, her heels clicking against the marble, her confidence trembling just enough to betray excitement. Yashwant leaned back, watching her with calm detachment.

He didn’t chase. He was the kind of man the world came to. And whenever it did, He never said no.

“Hello, Mr. Shekhawat. I am Riya Agnihotri… Rohan Agnihotri’s wife. I just want to discuss our deal with you. Can I have a few minutes?”

Yashwant’s gaze flicked over her, slow and deliberate, as though measuring the weight of her words against the heat in her eyes. He set the untouched whiskey on the low table, the crystal chiming once against glass. Without a word, he rose, tall and unhurried, with the kind of movement that made the room feel smaller. He extended a hand, palm up, an unspoken command. Riya placed her fingers in his; they were cool, trembling just enough to betray her.

He led her through a side door, down a corridor lit only by sconces that bled gold onto the walls. The click of her heels echoed his measured stride. At the end, a heavy door. He pushed it open with one shoulder, revealing a room bathed in crimson light, silk drapes, a wide chaise, and mirrors on every wall that multiplied their reflections into infinity.

The door shut behind them with a soft, final click. Yashwant turned the lock. Riya’s breath hitched. She opened her mouth to speak about the deal, about Rohan, about anything, but the words died as he stepped forward, crowding her space without touching her. The air between them crackled. He smelled of sandalwood and smoke; she smelled of jasmine and nerves.

His hand lifted, slow, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was feather-light, but it burned. Her lips parted. He watched the movement like a predator savoring the first drop of blood.

Then he kissed her.

Not gentle. Not asking.

His mouth claimed hers with raw, unrestrained hunger, teeth scraping, and tongue demanding entrance. Riya gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound, one hand fisting in her hair to tilt her head back, exposing the column of her throat. His other hand gripped her waist, fingers digging into silk and skin, pulling her flush against the hard length of his body.

She moaned low and desperate, and the sound snapped something inside him. He walked her backward until her spine met the mirrored wall, the cool glass a shock against her bare shoulders. His mouth left hers only to drag down her neck, teeth grazing the frantic pulse beneath her jaw. She arched, nails raking down his back through the crisp shirt, shredding buttons in her frenzy to feel skin.

Yashwant growled against her collarbone and spun her around to face the mirror. Her reflection stared back, lips swollen, eyes wild, and dress askew. Behind her, his eyes were black with lust. He pressed against her from behind, letting her feel every inch of what she’d awakened. One hand slid up her thigh, bunching silk, fingers finding the lace edge of her panties and tearing them aside with a single, savage rip.

Riya cried out, her forehead pressing against the mirror as his fingers plunged into her, two at once, curling, stroking, and ruthless. She was slick, aching, and clenching around him as he worked her with merciless precision. His other hand yanked the zipper of her dress down; fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but heels and the ruins of her underwear.

He spun her again and lifted her effortlessly, and her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to the chaise. He dropped her onto the silk, following her down, mouth latching onto a breast, sucking hard enough to leave marks. She writhed, hips bucking, begging in broken whispers, "Please, now, inside me," but he only laughed, dark and filthy, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

His belt clinked open. The sound of his zipper was obscene in the quiet room. He didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes, just freed himself, thick and heavy, and drove into her in one brutal thrust. Riya screamed, her back bowing off the chaise. He didn’t give her time to adjust; he pulled out and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that rattled the mirrors. Each thrust shook her body, her breasts bouncing, her moans turning to sobs of pleasure. Sweat slicked their skin; the room filled with the wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh, her cries, and his guttural groans.

He flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her hips up, and took her from behind, deeper, harder, one hand fisted in her hair, the other slapping her ass in sharp, stinging bursts that made her clench around him. She came first, shattering with a keening wail, walls pulsing around his cock. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside her with a roar that echoed off the walls.

They collapsed together, panting, trembling. Mirrors reflected them from every angle tangled, ruined, utterly spent. Yashwant’s hand rested possessively on the small of her back, thumb tracing lazy circles over the marks he’d left. After a long moment, he leaned down, lips brushing her ear.

“The deal,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction, “can wait.”