Vicky started the engine, and the car purred out of the campus and onto a wide, fast road.

  Very soon, we were in a posh residential area, a landscape of gleaming high-rise buildings that seemed to pierce the Mumbai sky. I looked around in silent awe. This wasn't the Mumbai of busy markets and local trains; this was the Mumbai I had only ever seen in films—slick, wealthy, and intimidatingly modern.

  Vicky stopped the car in front of a particularly tall, glass-fronted building. He turned off the ignition and looked at me with an easy, expectant smile.

  "Come on," he said, opening his door. "Let's go get those files."

  My heart pounded a desperate, internal alarm. I gripped the strap of my canvas bag, the fabric of my modest salwar kameez feeling suddenly too thin.

  "You bring the laptop, Vicky," I said, trying to keep my voice light and steady. "I'll wait here."

  He chuckled, a sound that grated on my nerves.

  "Shrishti, be practical. It's a massive file. I need to boot up my system, connect you to the private network, and check what formats you need. It'll take ten minutes, and the security guard won't let you sit in the lobby. If you want the data for your project, you have to come with me to my apartment."

  The casual pressure was intense, but the refusal was absolute. Every single protective instinct Dadu and Maa had ever instilled in me screamed in protest. I straightened my spine.

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  "No, Vicky. I won't come to your apartment."

  His smile vanished instantly. His face hardened, losing all its easygoing cheer.

  "Shrishti, you are insulting me," he said, his voice now low and laced with cold offense.

  "I am trying to help you save your project, and this is how you repay me?"

  "No, Vicky," I repeated, standing my ground. "I won't come."

  His eyes narrowed with anger at my stubbornness. He looked away, staring straight through the windshield. "Get out," he said sternly.

  I didn't hesitate. I didn't argue or plead. The moment he gave the order, I unclipped the seatbelt and pushed open the heavy door. I stepped onto the wide footpath, my silk shoes clicking on the expensive pavement.

  Vicky didn't spare me a glance. He put the car in gear and drove right through the high security gates, disappearing into the building's underground parking area.

  I was left standing in the middle of a deserted, upscale street, completely alone.

  I looked around. There were no auto-rickshaws, no local buses, just silent, looming high-rise towers and the occasional luxury car gliding by. I knew immediately I wouldn't find any public conveyance here. I was stranded. I had no idea how to get back to the campus, let alone the hostel.

  The sun was setting, its final, fiery light reflecting off the glass towers, and my heart was sinking with it. My panic was quickly dissolving into self-recrimination. How could I have been so na?ve?

  I walked, my thoughts racing, furious at Vicky, furious at my own trusting desperation for the data. I was walking on a wide, beautifully paved road, but it felt like the loneliest place on earth.

  Just as the shadows deepened and my fear peaked, a sleek, dark luxury car—far more imposing than Vicky's—glided to a silent stop right beside me.

  The window slid down, and the cold reality of my situation hit me with the force of a tidal wave.

  "Get in, Junior."

  My breath hitched. I knew that voice. I knew that chilling, detached tone. I looked at the person in the driving seat and silently cursed myself for ever leaving campus today.

  “It was Aditya Singhania.”