In a world where love can turn to ashes, two souls once intertwined found themselves shattered by rejection. Mayra Chaudhary, a shy and tender-hearted girl, was deeply in love with Vihaan Chandra Sekhar-a charming college student who chose the thril...
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Morning light filtered through the tall, glass windows of my penthouse, casting a soft glow on the polished marble floors. My day began with the same level of precision and control I demanded from every aspect of my life. The routine, the rituals—I held onto them, if only to remind myself of the woman I had become. A woman with power. A woman who commanded respect and fear. I would make sure nothing—not even a lingering thought of Vihaan—interfered with my focus. Nothing just me , motivating myself to not remember that jerk asshole .
Today, my outfit reflected the confidence I projected: a sleek black suit with a crisp, tailored fit, offset by red accents that added a sharp edge to the look. My heels clicked against the floor with authority as I stepped out of my penthouse and headed to my car, my driver greeting me with the deference I had come to expect.
When we arrived at the imposing black building that housed my office, I took a moment to appreciate it. Bold, sharp lines dominated the architecture, and tinted windows shielded the inside from prying eyes. The entrance was marked by a stark, matte black door framed by polished metal. Everything about this place radiated power and control—a place where only the strongest survived.
Inside, the sleek, black and red interior was a reflection of my personality. The floors were polished to a gleaming shine, with deep red carpets in certain areas adding an opulent touch. The walls were decorated with abstract art pieces in crimson and jet black, each selected to create an atmosphere of sophistication with an underlying intensity. It was a place designed to keep people on edge, a reminder that nothing was soft or easy here.
As I entered my office, I was greeted by the hushed voices of my staff, who were well-aware of my reputation. My assistant , was already at her post, her eyes snapping up the moment she sensed my arrival.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she greeted me, passing a sleek leather folder with today’s agenda.
“Morning, ,” I responded, barely glancing at the documents before I began skimming through the list of tasks. My day was meticulously planned—meetings, strategy discussions, and decision-making tasks. The more I kept myself occupied, the less time I had to let stray thoughts linger on things, or people, I wanted to forget.
In my office, everything was a study in contrasts. The walls were painted a deep, dark black, offset by flashes of red in the furniture—a plush leather couch, a sleek glass desk with metallic accents, and a single crimson orchid in a black vase on my desk. My chair, a custom leather piece with a high back and angular design, gave me the perfect vantage point from which to oversee everything.
I spent the morning engrossed in work. Meetings with department heads, reviews of project progress, and endless streams of paperwork filled my hours. My team knew better than to make mistakes under my watch. And if they did, they were reminded why “Venom” wasn’t just a name.
Every so often, I could hear the faint murmurs of my staff exchanging stories of my past actions, tales that had morphed into something legendary within these walls. Words like “ruthless” and “intimidating” floated through the hallways, fueling the reputation I had cultivated with painstaking care.
