Harshad lay beside shivangi on the sofa, his body humming with a satisfaction so profound it felt like a new state of being. The air was thick with the scent of their sweat and sex, a primal perfume that clung to their skin. Shivangi’s fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest, her touch soft but possessive. The quiet was a living thing, punctuated only by their slowing breaths.

Harshad had won. The trophy was just a piece of metal. This—shivangi warmth, her surrender, the taste of her still on his lips—was the real prize.