The gold-leafed bedroom smells of sandalwood and morning sex. Rubal blinks, adjusting his custom silk eye mask—monogrammed with his company logo, of course—onto the nightstand. His thirteen-year-old body, wiry and precise, stretches against sheets that cost more than most families earn in a year. He reaches for the tablet glowing with overnight market reports, his fingers dancing across the screen. Numbers. Growth. Conquest. Everything makes sense.
Neetu shifts beside him, her eight-foot frame a landscape of impossible curves under the thin silk. Her pink lips, still swollen from yesterday, part slightly. She doesn't need an alarm. Her body is programmed to his schedule, his needs. Perfect. He watches her chest rise and fall, the rhythm calming his trillionaire mind. This. This is the only acquisition that matters.
"Morning, beta," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep and something else. Her hand finds his thigh, nails painted the exact shade of his company's branding. Rubal smirks. Her attention to detail matches his. He sets the tablet down, the market can wait five minutes. She moves, silk sliding, positioning herself with practiced grace. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just efficiency.
Her mouth is warm. Wet. Rubal's head tilts back against the embroidered headboard. He runs a hand through her dark hair, the strands thick like expensive rope. This is his morning routine. More reliable than any algorithm. More profitable than any merger. His breath hitches. Faster. His fingers tighten in her hair. Neetu doesn't flinch. She takes everything he gives, her eyes locked on his face, watching every micro-expression. She understands him better than any board of directors.
He shudders, releasing with a sharp gasp. Neetu swallows, then slowly licks her lips, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, a gesture both crude and elegant. Rubal watches, his heart rate already returning to normal. Perfection. He picks up his tablet again. The Asian markets are up. Neetu rests her head on his stomach, her presence a comforting weight. Another day. Another victory.
Rubal threads his fingers through Neetu's dark hair, the strands thick and expensive against his skin. "Efficient," he murmurs, the word tasting like victory. He watches her eyes flutter closed, her eight-foot frame curling closer against his side. His hand rests on her head, a gesture of ownership. She understands the unspoken language of power. Better than any executive he's ever hired.
He taps twice on her shoulder. A clear, deliberate signal. No words needed. Neetu's eyes open instantly, pupils dilating with readiness. She moves without question, the silk sheets pooling around her waist as she rises. Her body obeys him before her mind even processes the command. Perfect synchronization.
"Coffee," he says, his voice still rough from sleep. "The usual." Neetu nods, her pink lips curving into a slight smile. She pads toward the door, her long legs eating up the distance. Rubal watches her go, appreciating the view. The morning light catches the gold leaf on the walls, making the room glow. His empire. His rules.
He picks up his tablet again, the screen reflecting in his eyes. Numbers climb. Stocks soar. Everything falling into place. Neetu returns moments later, carrying a porcelain cup. The coffee—dark, bitter, brewed exactly seven minutes—is steaming in her hand. She knows his preferences better than he knows them himself. She sets the cup on the nightstand, then kneels beside the bed, waiting.
Rubal takes a sip. Perfect. He runs a thumb over her cheek, her skin soft under his touch. "Good girl," he says, the praise making her shudder. This is their morning ritual. A dance of dominance and devotion. He wouldn't have it any other way. The world can wait. Right now, everything he needs is right here in this gold-leafed room.