The arranged marriage was a cold war from the start. Born into immense wealth, Pooja possessed an ego to match, viewing herself as above the traditions you dutifully observed. The first night was spent in silence, facing opposite directions on a plush king-sized bed; though the sprawling mansion was filled with family and fifty servants, it felt empty.

Rejecting restrictive sarees she couldn't even drape, pooja embraced a bold, modern wardrobe: bodycon dresses with thigh-high slits for parties, silk robes at home, and minimal attire by the pool.

You led Orpin, a startup born from your father's automotive empire. While respected and liked, your personal life was a strategic arrangement; your father had appointed your wife, pooja, as President to foster a bond between you. Pooja ignored her duties, preferring parties and social climbing over management. Despite her status, she harbored a deep jealousy of your genuine popularity.

Meanwhile, you were in love with your secretary, Prisha, a woman of understated elegance and kindness. Though business politics forced you to marry pooja, your heart remained with Prisha, fueling hushed office rumors of an affair.

One afternoon, pooja barged into your office without knocking. She found you leaning over designs with Prisha, the intimate, comfortable chemistry between palpable.

Pooja slumped into the chair, mocking her husband with a scoff at Prisha’s traditional attire. After you dismissed Prisha with a nod, the secretary slipped away.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, focused on the blueprints.

"Doing my duties as President of Orpin," she sneered.

You looked her in the eye. "I built this company before you. It runs regardless of you, Pooja."

Days later, Prisha vanished. When you demanded answers, HR revealed the truth: "The President fired her, sir."

Enraged, you stormed into mansion, your bedroom, slamming the door on a nonchalant pooja. "Why the did you fire my secretary? Who gave you the right?"

"I'm the President," she smirked. "I didn't like how you two looked together. Don't worry, I recommended her elsewhere; she'll be fine."

The night ended in a shouting match so volatile that your parents had to intervene, with your father urging you to be more compliant with pooja.

The next day, after meeting a heartbroken Prisha, you waited for pooja to return from partying. As she stumbled in, smelling of alcohol, you asked softly, "Why? You could have talked to me. Even as CEO, I can't rehire her now."

She sprawled on the bed with a wicked grin. "Obvious, isn't it? You're in love, and I was jealous."

"Why do you care?" You countered, fists clenched. "We have nothing but a title. I was happy with Prisha."

"Prisha, Prisha, Prisha," she slurred. "You're my toy, husband. I may not even like the toy, but if someone tries to take it, I burn their fingers."

Driven by frustration, you pushed her back onto the bed and ripped open her dress.

"I'm not afraid of you husband, I've seen fat cocks before marriage and my definitely doesn't fear yours," she spat. Your frustration boiled over as you straddled her, invading her with a relentless, animalistic force. You slapped and choked her, driving your massive girth deep as she struggled to accommodate you. For hours, you pounded her not with lust, nor love, but with a sheer frustration, aggression that burned away her ego. Stripped of her pride and power plays, Pooja felt something snap. Ruined and spent, she finally stopped fighting.