The glass tower of Rathore Enterprises stood like a silent beast in South Mumbai—intimidating, cold, and untouchably powerful.

Meher Kapoor paused outside the entrance, her palms clammy as she adjusted the dupatta draped over her pale blue kurti. Her heart pounded not just from nervousness, but from something inexplicable. A pull. An unease that felt... primal.

She was here for a job interview—junior interior designer position under Veer Raj Rathore himself. She’d heard the whispers. That he was ruthless. Unapproachable. A control freak. And dangerously, sinfully gorgeous.

As she stepped into the lavish marble lobby, the air shifted. Colder. Quieter.

“Miss Kapoor?” a voice called.

She turned. A woman in a crisp saree and high bun gestured toward the private elevator. “Mr. Rathore will see you now.”

Already?

The elevator doors closed behind her like a trap. It rose silently, gliding toward the topmost floor. Meher glanced at her reflection—soft doe-like eyes, lips pressed nervously, hair tied back neatly. Innocence, most would call her. But today she needed to be more.

The doors slid open.

His office was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Dominant black and charcoal decor. No hint of warmth.

And standing beside his desk, dressed in a tailored black suit, was Veer Rathore.

Her breath caught.

He looked up, eyes locking with hers. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just watched.

And undressed her with a gaze as calm as winter—yet as devastating as wildfire.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice deep and languid. “That’s... refreshing.”

Meher stepped in, barely whispering, “I prefer being early, sir.”

He didn’t invite her to sit. Just circled her, like a wolf assessing prey.

“You’re the girl who designed the Kaul art studio in Bandra, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” He stopped behind her. Close. She could feel his breath near her shoulder. “That space felt... intimate.”

“Design is personal, sir,” she said, surprised at her own voice not shaking.

His hand brushed a stray lock of her hair back.

She froze.

“Don’t flinch,” he said softly. “Not unless I tell you to.”

Her heart thudded.

“Do you know why I called you up here personally?”

“No, sir.”

He walked to his desk, unbuttoning his coat slowly. “Because I don’t let strangers into my home. And this job... involves my home.”

She nodded, gripping her file tighter.

“Drop the portfolio,” he ordered. “And come closer.”

Meher hesitated.

“Now.”

She obeyed. The distance between them evaporated.

Veer’s fingers reached out—not to touch her—but to tilt her chin up with a single knuckle.

“You’re not what I expected,” he murmured. “Your eyes. They don’t beg... but they feel everything.”

She didn’t dare reply.

Then came the words that shattered all pretense.

> "Remove your dupatta."

Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled.

“Excuse me?”

“I want to see how you handle discomfort. How you behave when control is taken. If you can work under me... you’ll learn to obey.”

“This isn’t professional—”

“It’s not. I’m not interested in resumes, Miss Kapoor. I’m interested in what’s underneath.”

Silence.

The room crackled with tension. Her chest rose and fell faster now. His eyes stayed on her. No apologies. Just raw, unfiltered hunger.

And still... she lowered her hands, unpinned the edge of her dupatta, and let it slide down her arms.

His nostrils flared. He didn’t blink.

“You’re braver than you look,” he said after a pause.

She swallowed.

“And stupider,” he added. “Because you just walked into a lion’s den without knowing the rules.”

“Am I hired?” she whispered, stunned by her own submission.

A smirk touched his lips.

> “You were hired the moment I saw you. I just needed to know if you could be bent.”

The word bent rolled off his tongue like sin.

He stepped closer again—so close, she could smell his cologne—dark, musky, addictive.

“I’ll need you at my mansion twice a week. We’ll start with the private lounge. You’ll have full access... and no excuses.”

She nodded, barely breathing.

“And Meher?” he said, his voice low, threatening and erotic all at once.

“Yes?”

> “Don’t ever wear anything that hides your throat from me again.”

She left his office half an hour later. Her lips dry. Her body trembling. Her mind reeling.

She should have felt violated. Insulted. Furious.

But a

ll she could feel was warmth pooling between her thighs.

And fear.

Because she wanted him to look at her like that again.