The elevator doors slid open with a muted ding, and silence fell over the twenty-sixth floor of Malhotra Enterprises. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, footsteps halted, and even the sound of typing faded into an unnatural stillness.

Rudra Malhotra had arrived. And everyone stopped.

He stepped out, tall and sharp in a black tailored suit, the kind that made even air seem to obey him. His eyes—cold, dark, and merciless—swept the corridor once. Nobody dared to meet them. Heads bowed, backs straightened, and breaths were held. The sound of his polished shoes against the marble floor echoed like a threat, steady and unhurried.

Rudra didn’t need to raise his voice. He didn’t need to remind anyone of who he was. His presence alone was enough. The man was power, wrapped in precision, bound by discipline, and carved in ice.

“Good morning, sir,” his secretary stammered, rushing to keep up with his long strides. Rudra didn’t bother to respond. He pushed open the frosted glass doors of his office, the initials RM etched in silver at the center, and walked in without a pause. The doors closed behind him with a heavy, final thud.

Inside, his office was as stark as the man himself—sleek glass walls, dark wood furniture, and not a single personal photograph in sight. Everything was sharp lines and muted colors, untouched by warmth.

The intercom buzzed.

“Sir, the board members are waiting for you in the conference room.”

Rudra pressed the button. “Let them wait.” His voice was low, deep, and cutting, leaving no room for questions.

He stood by the tall windows, overlooking the city that lay beneath him like a chessboard. People thought of him as untouchable, unmovable, someone who never bent to anyone’s will. And they weren’t wrong. No one controlled Rudra Malhotra. No one touched him—not his employees, not his so-called allies, not even his family.

There was a knock at the door. Sharp, nervous.

“Enter,” Rudra said flatly.

One of the junior managers shuffled in, holding a file. His hands shook slightly as he placed it on Rudra’s desk. “S-sir, the quarterly reports—”

“Leave,” Rudra interrupted, not even glancing at him. The man fled as quickly as he entered.

Rudra finally sat at his desk, fingers brushing over the crisp file. His expression never shifted, his movements precise. He was a man made of rules, and everyone knew one thing for certain—Rudra Malhotra feared nothing, and no one.

Outside, employees whispered nervously, relieved the storm was behind closed doors. Inside, Rudra flipped open the file with calm disinterest, the weight of the empire on his shoulders—an empire he carried with iron control.

For Rudra, control was everything.

And in his world, control meant no one could ever come close enough to touch him.

to be continued...

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author :-

(my first time writing so....apologise in advance😑😭😭😭, kinda nervous 😁. Chapter 2 (Meeting Scene) with that twist of funny fear hope you enjoy 🤘🤘

The elevator doors slid open with a muted ding, and silence fell over the twenty-sixth floor of Malhotra Enterprises. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, footsteps halted, and even the sound of typing faded into an unnatural stillness.

Rudra Malhotra had arrived.

He stepped out, tall and sharp in a black tailored suit, the kind that made even air seem to obey him. His eyes—cold, dark, and merciless—swept the corridor once. Nobody dared to meet them. Heads bowed, backs straightened, and breaths were held. The sound of his polished shoes against the marble floor echoed like a threat, steady and unhurried.

Rudra didn’t need to raise his voice. He didn’t need to remind anyone of who he was. His presence alone was enough. The man was power, wrapped in precision, bound by discipline, and carved in ice.

“Good morning, sir,” his secretary stammered, rushing to keep up with his long strides. Rudra didn’t bother to respond. He pushed open the frosted glass doors of his office, the initials RM etched in silver at the center, and walked in without a pause. The doors closed behind him with a heavy, final thud.

Inside, his office was as stark as the man himself—sleek glass walls, dark wood furniture, and not a single personal photograph in sight. Everything was sharp lines and muted colors, untouched by warmth.

The intercom buzzed.

“Sir, the board members are waiting for you in the conference room.”

Rudra pressed the button. “Let them wait.” His voice was low, deep, and cutting, leaving no room for questions.

He stood by the tall windows, overlooking the city that lay beneath him like a chessboard. People thought of him as untouchable, unmovable, someone who never bent to anyone’s will. And they weren’t wrong. No one controlled Rudra Malhotra. No one touched him—not his employees, not his so-called allies, not even his family.

There was a knock at the door. Sharp, nervous.

“Enter,” Rudra said flatly.

One of the junior managers shuffled in, holding a file. His hands shook slightly as he placed it on Rudra’s desk. “S-sir, the quarterly reports—”

“Leave,” Rudra interrupted, not even glancing at him. The man fled as quickly as he entered.

Rudra finally sat at his desk, fingers brushing over the crisp file. His expression never shifted, his movements precise. He was a man made of rules, and everyone knew one thing for certain—Rudra Malhotra feared nothing, and no one.

Outside, employees whispered nervously, relieved the storm was behind closed doors. Inside, Rudra flipped open the file with calm disinterest, the weight of the empire on his shoulders—an empire he carried with iron control.

For Rudra, control was everything.

And in his world, control meant no one could ever come close enough to touch him.

The conference room was already filled when Rudra walked in. The long oval table gleamed under the lights, and the board members sat frozen in their seats like students waiting for exam results.

The air was thick. Too thick. Nobody dared to cough.

Rudra didn’t sit immediately. He walked around the table once, his polished shoes clicking on the floor, his sharp gaze sliding over each face. A few throats bobbed nervously, a few hands clenched under the table.

He stopped at the head of the table, sat down slowly, and opened the project file. The silence was suffocating.

“Quarter Four project,” Rudra said, his voice deep and controlled. “Status?”

He’s the man everyone fears.

Cold. Untouchable. Ruthless.

Until a soft café owner dares to smile at him.

Rudra Malhotra doesn’t do love—or warmth.

But Ayaan Sen’s touch feels like caffeine for his frozen heart.

A secret relationship brews between power and tenderness,

and suddenly, the man who commands empires

can’t even control his heartbeat.