The elevator doors slid open with a soft ping, the sound cutting through my thoughts like a blade. As I stepped inside my office floor, a sudden heat surged through my veins, not panic, not fear, it’s rage. Controlled, calculated, burning rage. My blood felt like it had caught fire, every pulse reminding me that something was deeply wrong.
And no, this fury wasn’t for that lowlife Aarav Malhotra. He was predictable. Weak. Manageable. Men like him always are.
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