Page 6 of Claimed By the Maharaja
Bharat’s office was glass and stone. Clean lines with muted tones and perfect symmetry. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the industrial skyline, smoke rising in measured columns, steel glinting beneath the sun.
He sat behind his desk and tapped the digital clock once.
8:58 AM.
Two minutes early.
Imran placed the tablet down. “The media team suggests a softer statement. Something personal. About community impact.”
Bharat looked up slightly. “Personal?”
“They believe it may humanize the Jogra Maharaja image.”
Silence stretched.
“I don’t sell steel by being liked,” Bharat said. “I sell it because it’s superior.”
Imran nodded in agreement.
Bharat turned to his screen. Written data and numbers were reliable, while spoken words bent with tone and weakness.
“You may leave,” he said. “I’ll review the data.”
Imran withdrew. “I’ll update you after the call, sir.”
When the door shut, silence returned.
Bharat removed his sunglasses and placed them neatly beside his pen. The steady hum of the air conditioning filled the room.
He straightened the paper clip on his desk, adjusted it until the edges matched exactly.
Outside, protests raged. But inside, there would be precision.
A knock interrupted.
“Yes.”
Imran reappeared, his manner cautious. “Your Highness, a senior reporter is waiting in the lobby for a statement.”
“Did I preapprove it?”
“No, sir.”
“Then he can wait.”
“Of course.”
A brief pause. “Do we increase security at the eastern gate?”
“No,” Bharat said. “Let them gather. Then close the gate.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed again.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
He had inherited the Jogra steel plant from the royal estate. But in the last seven years, he had acquired ten failing plants across the country and four abroad. All of them were now profitable.
