In the throbbing veins of Delhi's nocturnal elite, where champagne flowed like illicit desires and shadows concealed the filthiest secrets, Ajay Sinha delivered his final, venomous strike against Virat Rawat. The party at Ajay's mansion was a decadent orgy of power—crystal glasses clinking, laughter masking betrayals, and the air heavy with perfume and unspoken lust. Ajay, with his saccharine smile, personally handed Virat a spiked cocktail, laced with a potent aphrodisiac cocktail that would turn the good man into a raging beast of forbidden hunger. "To alliances," Ajay toasted, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent as Virat drank, oblivious. As the drug coursed through Virat's veins, igniting a firestorm in his loins—his cock hardening traitorously, vision blurring with red-hot need—Ajay whispered directions to a disoriented Virat: "Upstairs, my friend... the room at the end. A surprise awaits." Virat stumbled away, his body a furnace of illicit craving, drawn like a moth to the flame of destruction.