MEET THE SRIVASTAVA's👨👩👦👦
Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the Srivastavas, a family that stands as a shining testament to the embodiment of nobility and regal stature. In their presence, you will find a blend of prestige, opul...
In the gilded depths of Delhi's elite corridors, nestled within the marble-and-gold spine of the Dhanraj Group of Hotels, sat Kamal Dhanraj—the man who did not speak unless it shook the ground beneath. The meeting room around him wasn't just opulent; it was built like a sanctum of intimidation. Vaulted ceilings wore frescoes aged with grace, the chandelier above him dripped crystals like frozen daggers of light, and the walls whispered a legacy laced with manipulation.
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At the head of the grand obsidian-and-oak table, Kamal sat with the serenity of a storm's eye. His maroon suit—tailored with cruel precision—clung to his broad frame like sin to the soul. The hue was no accident; it mirrored old blood, spilled not in war, but in silence, in betrayals forged behind closed doors. Beneath the tailored shell, a black turtleneck cloaked his throat like a shadow that refused to lift—an abyss from which no truth ever returned unscathed.
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He was not loud. He did not need to be.
His stillness unsettled more than rage ever could. The glint of a silver watch at his wrist ticked like a countdown, not to time—but to someone's downfall. A dark pocket square peeked from his chest, almost mocking the civility of business while housing the chaos of his mind. His eyes, glacial and ancient, scanned the room like they had already seen how every hand would fold, every alliance would crumble.
Kamal Dhanraj was not just the father of Yazmin—he was her blueprint refined, her venom distilled. Where she plotted with passion, Kamal calculated with detachment. His words were silk sewn with thorns, and his presence alone could curdle courage. Men twice his age deferred to him. Women steered clear of his shadows.
He did not build empires. He absorbed them.
The agenda on the table was laced with venom. A thick dossier, marked with glaring red tabs, detailed the festering lawsuit now threatening to stain the polished name of one of Kamal Dhanraj's crown jewels—The Opal Chateau. Antitrust violations, labor law infractions, embezzlement... serious charges, enough to rip apart any empire not forged in fire and fed with blood. But Kamal didn't flinch. His face was a sculpture in stillness, carved from contempt, while the world outside his towering glass office watched unaware.
