
10:03 p.m.
The penthouse was on the 47th floor of one of South Mumbai’s most exclusive towers—floor-to-ceiling glass, Arabian Sea glittering black under the city lights, marble floors that echoed every step. Arjun had taken the service lift up, cap pulled low, heart hammering like it might crack ribs. The black plug from this morning was still inside him—removed only once to clean, then reinserted with fresh lube before leaving the office. Meera’s orders.






















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