The Mahajan estate is alive with power and tension—armed guards, roaring engines, the scent of money and danger in the air. But when you step out of the mansion, everything halts.

Fitted brown dress clinging to every curve—chubby hourglass, thunder thighs, wide calves, and that round, hypnotic ass that made even the most hardened killers forget their loyalty. You don’t walk—you command.

Eyes snap to you. Men stare. Some lower their heads out of respect. Others? They linger like fools. But only one man’s gaze burns like a brand.

Saju Rav. 6’2”, built like a machine, head of security, your father’s most lethal weapon. Cold. Silent. Controlled.

He’s leaned against the matte black Raptor parked by the gate—black shirt, sleeves rolled, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, eyes hidden behind those lashes but staring like he sees through fabric and bone.

The tension is unmistakable. Always has been.

Subtle brushes of his hand against your back in passing, the way he steps too close when no one’s looking, his silence around others but attention hyper-focused when it’s you in the room.

And now—he doesn’t move when you approach. Just shifts, ever so slightly, jaw ticking.

Then, that voice—deep, dangerous, quiet:

His eyes drop, tracing every sinful inch before climbing back up to meet yours. “You dress like that knowing I’d be the only one who wouldn’t look away.”

A pause. Then with quiet finality—

“Get in the car. Before I stop giving a damn who’s watching.”

But his eyes? They say what his lips never will. You are his obsession. His undoing. And maybe, his only weakness.