The fluorescent hum of the cabin was the only sound for a long moment. Dipanwita watched the boy across the desk—Vivaan Khanna, twenty-two, batch topper, the one who'd written a memo detailing exactly how she might seduce him and left it where she'd find it. The file lay open between them, his photograph stapled to the corner, but she hadn't read a single word of it. She didn't need to. She had him memorized already.

He was looking at his hands. That was the first thing she noted—the way his gaze kept dropping to his own fingers, as if they might do something betray him. He'd been like this since he walked in, called in for a routine follow-up on his induction feedback, and now he sat across from her with his spine too straight and his collar too tight.

"So," she said, drawing the word out, letting it sit in the cold air between them. "The feedback form. You left several fields blank."

His throat moved. A swallow. "I—yes, ma'am. I wasn't sure what to write."

"Ma'am." She smiled, slow, letting her lips curve just enough to catch the lamplight. "You called me Dipanwita mummy the other night. I think we're past ma'am."

The color rose in his cheeks—a deep, spreading flush that started at his collar and climbed. She watched it happen, the way she watched everything. His hands tightened on his knees. He didn't speak.

"You can relax, shona." The pet name slipped out, deliberate, tested. She saw his fingers twitch. "This is just a conversation. Two colleagues. Nothing formal."

"I know." His voice was thinner than she remembered from the call. "I just—I didn't expect you to call me in. After everything."

"After everything." She repeated it, tasting the words. "And what is everything, Vivaan?"

He looked up then, finally, and his eyes met hers—dark, nervous, but with something underneath. Something that had written a memo about her. Something that had confessed his fantasies to her on a video call. Something that had called her Dipanwita mummy and meant it.

"You know what I mean," he said.

"I want to hear you say it." She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking. The dim lamp pooled light on the mahogany desk between them, catching the edge of his open file, the corner of his photograph. "Tell me what happened the other night."

He swallowed again. His hands moved to the edge of the file, fingers brushing the paper. "You called me. We played a game. I—" He stopped, his jaw working.

"You what?"

"I told you things." His voice dropped. "Things I'd never told anyone."

"And did you mean them?"

The silence stretched. The fluorescent hum filled it, and the distant sound of the office settling—a door closing somewhere, the whir of a server room fan. Dipanwita waited. She was good at waiting. She'd spent years learning the exact shape of a man's silence, the precise moment when it cracked.

"Yes," he said finally. "I meant them."

"Then why are you sitting there like you've done something wrong?"

He blinked, and she saw the shift—the small unclenching of his shoulders, the way his hands relaxed slightly on the file. "I don't know. I guess I thought you'd—" He stopped.

"Thought I'd what?"

"Pretend it didn't happen." His voice was steadier now. "The way people do. The way HR people do."

"I'm not like other HR people." She leaned forward, and the movement was deliberate, practiced. The neckline of her blouse dipped just slightly, and she saw his eyes flicker—down and back up, quick as a lizard's tongue. "You know that already. You wrote a memo about it."

The flush deepened. "You read that."

"I read everything." She let her smile widen, just a fraction. "You're very thorough, Vivaan. Very methodical. It's one of the things I like about you."

"You like things about me?"

"Several things." She let the words hang, watching his pulse jump in his throat. "But we're not here to talk about what I like. We're here to talk about your feedback."

She tapped the open file with one manicured nail. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.

"You left the comments section blank," she said. "All those lines. All that space. And nothing written."

"I didn't know what to say."

"You always know what to say. You wrote a memo about me, Vivaan. You can write a sentence about your induction."

He looked down at the file, at his own name printed at the top. "The induction was fine. The training was good. I learned a lot."

"That's very corporate." She picked up a pen from the desk, turned it in her fingers. "That's the kind of thing you'd write if you were trying to hide something."

His eyes snapped up. "I'm not hiding anything."

"Everyone hides something." She set the pen down, letting it roll slightly before it settled. "You hid a memo in a place where I'd find it. That's not hiding—that's showing. There's a difference."

The silence came back, thicker this time. The lamp buzzed. The cold air smelled of leather and stale coffee and something else—her perfume, expensive and deliberate, reaching across the desk.

"Tell me about your weekend," she said, and the question was soft, almost casual. "What did you do?"

He blinked at the change. "My weekend?"

"Yes. Saturday night. Sunday. What did you do?"

"I—" He hesitated, and she saw the calculation in his eyes, the weighing of what to say. "I went out with some friends."

"Where?"

"A club. Somewhere in Gurgaon."

"Which club?"

"I don't remember the name."

"You don't remember the name of a club you went to two days ago?"

His flush deepened. "It was loud. I wasn't paying attention."

Dipanwita smiled, slow and knowing. "What were you paying attention to?"

The question hung in the air. She watched his hands tighten on the file, watched the pulse in his throat jump again. He was a terrible liar—that was one of the things she'd noted about him. All that methodical precision, all that careful planning, and he couldn't lie to save his life.

"There was a woman," he said finally. "She was—" He stopped, his jaw working.

"She was what?"

"She was wearing a black mini dress." His voice came out rough, almost reluctant. "She kept looking at me. From across the bar."

Dipanwita leaned forward, and the movement brought her perfume closer to him—jasmine and something darker, something that lingered. She saw his nostrils flare slightly, saw the unconscious tilt of his head toward her.

"And what did she look like?" she asked. "This woman in the black mini dress."

"I don't know. I didn't—" He stopped, and she saw the memory flicker across his face. "She was older. Maybe thirty-five. Maybe forty. She had dark hair. And she kept—"

"Kept what?"

"She kept looking at me. Like she knew something about me. Like she could see right through me."

"And did you talk to her?"

"No." The word came out too fast. "I mean—I wanted to. But I didn't know what to say."

"What would you have said?"

He looked at her, and something shifted in his eyes. "I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe I would have just—" He stopped, shaking his head. "This is weird. Why are you asking me about this?"

"Because I'm curious," she said simply. "Because you left your feedback blank, and I want to know what you're thinking about instead of the induction training."

"I'm not thinking about anything."

"You're thinking about her." Dipanwita's voice was soft, almost gentle. "The woman in the black mini dress. The one who kept looking at you."

His throat moved. "Maybe."

"What would you have done?" she pressed. "If she'd come over to you. If she'd sat down beside you. What would you have done, Vivaan?"

The silence stretched. The lamp buzzed. Somewhere in the building, a door closed, and the sound was distant, irrelevant.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I would have—" He stopped, and she saw the conflict on his face, the war between what he wanted to say and what he thought he should say.

"Tell me," she said, and the words were honeyed, deliberate. "You can tell me anything, shona. You know that already."

The pet name landed. She saw it in the way his fingers loosened on the file, in the way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

"I would have bought her a drink," he said. "And I would have—" He swallowed. "I would have let her take me somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we could be alone."

"And what would you have done there?"

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do." Her voice was low, intimate, pulling him in. "You know exactly what you would have done. You've thought about it. You've thought about it every night since."

His eyes met hers, and she saw the truth there—the hunger he'd been trying to hide, the same hunger that had driven him to write that memo, to leave it where she'd find it, to confess his darkest fantasies to her on a video call.

"I would have kissed her," he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "And I would have—" He stopped, his jaw working.

"What?"

"I would have let her use me." The words came out in a rush, like he couldn't hold them back anymore. "I would have let her do whatever she wanted. I would have—" He stopped, breathing hard.

Dipanwita felt the heat rise in her chest—not the familiar heat of control, but something rawer. Something that had been buried under years of scripts and strategies. This boy had written her a map to his own undoing, and now he was sitting across from her, confessing his fantasies like a man at confession.

"What would you have let her do?" she asked, and her voice was silk. "Tell me, Vivaan. Tell me what you wanted her to do to you."

His hands were trembling on the file. "She would have—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "She would have called me names. She would have—" He broke off, shaking his head. "This is wrong. I shouldn't be telling you this."

"Why not?"

"Because you're—" He gestured helplessly. "You're my boss. You're the HR head. You're supposed to be—"

"Supposed to be what?"

"Professional." The word came out almost bitter. "Distant. Untouchable."

"And yet." Dipanwita let the word hang, let it fill the space between them. "Here we are."

She leaned forward, and the movement brought her closer to him—close enough that she could see the tremor in his hands, the rapid pulse in his throat. Her perfume reached him, jasmine and something darker, and she saw his nostrils flare again.

"What if I told you," she said, and her voice was low, intimate, "that woman could be me?"

His eyes widened. The color drained from his face, then rushed back, deeper than before. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"The black mini dress," she continued, and the words were honey, slow and deliberate. "The club. The endless drinks. The woman who keeps looking at you like she knows something about you." She paused, letting it sink in. "What if I told you I could be that woman, Vivaan?"

He stared at her. His hands were frozen on the file, his breath coming shallow and quick.

"You're—" He stopped, swallowed. "You're serious."

"I'm always serious, shona." She reached into her drawer and pulled out a key card—sleek, black, unmarked. She set it on the mahogany desk, and the sound it made was soft, almost intimate. "The club's private lounge. Tonight at eleven."

She slid it across the desk. The card moved through the pool of lamplight, catching the glow, and came to rest in front of him.

He looked at it. Then at her. Then back at the card.

"I don't—" He stopped. "What would happen there?"

"You'd find out." She smiled, slow and knowing. "If you're brave enough to come."

His hand moved, almost without his permission. She watched it—the way his fingers trembled as they reached for the card, the way he hesitated at the last moment, hovering over the black plastic like it might burn him.

Then his fingers closed over it.

The card disappeared into his palm, and she saw his throat move as he swallowed. His hand was still trembling, but he didn't let go.

"Tonight at eleven," she repeated, and the words were a promise. "Don't be late, shona."

He nodded, wordless. His eyes met hers, and she saw the shift—the moment he stopped being the batch topper, the finance hire, the boy who wrote memos about her. He was something else now. Something hungry.

She watched him swallow, his hand still closed over the card. And she knew the hunt had begun.

He didn't move. The card sat in his palm, black plastic against his skin, and she watched him hold it like it was something alive. The lamp caught the edge of it, a thin gleam, and she thought about how many men had held things she gave them—key cards, numbers, promises. None of them had ever looked at the object like it might bite.

"You're not going to ask me what to wear," he said. It wasn't a question.

Dipanwita let the silence stretch, let it do the work. "Would you like me to tell you?"

"No." The word came fast, almost defensive. Then, softer: "I just—I want to know what to expect."

"That's the thing about expectations, shona." She picked up her pen again, turned it between her fingers. "They ruin everything. You had expectations about tonight—that it would be a routine follow-up, that you'd write something bland on the form and leave. And look where you are now."

He looked down at the card. His thumb moved over the edge of it, back and forth, a nervous rhythm she could almost hear.

"What if I don't come?"

The question hung in the cold air. She'd been asked it before, in different words, by different boys. What if I don't? What if I say no? What if I walk away? The answer was always the same, delivered in different wrappers. But this one felt different. He wasn't asking because he wanted her to talk him out of it. He was asking because he wanted to know what it would cost him.

"Then you don't come," she said. "And tomorrow you'll sit at your desk, and I'll walk past, and we'll both pretend this conversation never happened. You'll write your feedback. I'll approve your probation. And every time you see me in the corridor, you'll wonder."

She set the pen down. The sound was soft, deliberate.

"You'll wonder what would have happened if you'd been brave. You'll wonder what she would have done to you. You'll wonder if the woman in the black mini dress had your name on her lips."

His throat moved. She watched the swallow travel down his neck, watched his fingers tighten on the card.

"That's what not coming costs you," she said. "Not the job. Not your reputation. Just the rest of your life, wondering."

He was quiet for a long moment. The fluorescent hum filled the cabin, and somewhere in the building a lift chimed, distant and irrelevant. She could see him thinking—she could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, the methodical precision that had written that memo, that had mapped out his own seduction in careful bullet points.

"You knew," he said finally. "When you found the memo. You knew I'd be here. You knew I'd take the card."

"I knew you'd want to." She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking. "Wanting and doing are very different things, Vivaan. You've wanted a lot of things. You've done very few of them."

His jaw tightened. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" She tilted her head, studying him. "You wrote a memo about how to seduce you. You left it where I'd find it. You confessed your fantasies to me on a video call. And yet you're still sitting there, holding the card like it might burn you, asking me what to expect."

"I'm not asking what to expect." His voice was steadier now, and she saw something shift in his posture—a straightening of the spine, a leveling of the gaze. "I'm asking what you want."

The question caught her off guard. Not the words—she'd been asked variations of them a hundred times. But the way he asked it. Direct. Unflinching. Like he wasn't afraid of the answer.

"What do I want?" She repeated the words, letting them sit in the air between them. "I want to see you walk into that lounge tonight. I want to see you take off your jacket and loosen your tie and realize that you're not the topper anymore. I want to see what you do when no one's grading you."

"And then what?"

"Then I want to see if you're as brave as your memo."

He held her gaze. The card was still in his hand, but his fingers had stopped trembling. Something had settled in him—something that looked almost like resolve.

"What if I am?" he asked. "What if I'm braver than you think?"

Dipanwita felt the heat rise in her chest. Not the familiar heat of control, but something rawer. Something that made her want to cross the room and test him right now, here, on the mahogany desk with the file still open between them.

"Then you'll be very interesting, shona."

He didn't smile. He didn't blush. He just looked at her, and for a moment she saw the boy who'd written that memo—the one who'd studied her, mapped her, understood her. The one who'd known exactly what she'd want to hear and written it down like a love letter to his own undoing.

"I'll be there," he said. "Eleven o'clock."

He stood up. The chair scraped against the floor, and he didn't reach for the file or the feedback form. He just stood there, holding the card, looking down at her with something in his eyes she couldn't quite name.

"Don't be late," she said.

"I'm never late." He tucked the card into his pocket, and she watched his hand press against it once, as if checking it was still there. "I'm the topper. I'm always on time."

He walked to the door, and she watched the way his shoulders moved under his shirt, the way his spine held itself straight. He was nervous—she could see it in the slight tension in his neck, the way his hand hovered over the door handle for a beat too long. But he didn't look back. He just opened the door and walked out, and the fluorescent hum of the cabin swallowed the silence he left behind.

Dipanwita sat in the dim light, listening to the distant sounds of the office settling. The lamp buzzed. The leather creaked as she shifted. The file lay open on the desk, his photograph staring up at her—the same boy who'd just walked out, but younger, softer, a version of him that hadn't yet written a memo about her.

She reached for her phone, scrolled to his number. Saved as "Topper" now. She'd renamed it after the call, after he'd called her Dipanwita mummy and meant it. The name felt right. He was the topper. He was always on time.

She typed a message, then deleted it. Typed another, deleted that too. She wanted to tell him something—she wasn't sure what. Something about the lounge. Something about what she'd do to him when he walked in. Something about the way he'd looked at her when he'd asked what she wanted, like he actually wanted to know.

In the end she typed three words and hit send.

Wear the tie.

The reply came before she could set the phone down. Which one?

She smiled, slow, letting it spread across her face in the dim light. This was the part she loved—the back and forth, the testing, the way a boy who'd written a memo about her was now asking her which tie to wear.

The blue one. The one that brings out your eyes.

I don't have a blue one.

Then buy one.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then: You're going to make me buy a tie for you.

I'm going to make you do a lot of things, shona.

She watched the dots hover. She imagined him standing somewhere—the parking lot, maybe, or the bus stop—looking at his phone with that methodical intensity, weighing his response like it was a question on an exam.

I'll be there at eleven. With the tie.

I know you will.

She set the phone down and leaned back in her chair, letting the silence settle around her. The cabin was cold, the lamp was dim, and somewhere in the building the night shift was starting—new voices, new faces, new boys who'd never heard her say their names.

But Vivaan Khanna had heard her say his. He'd heard her call him shona, and he'd heard her claim him as mine, and he'd walked out of her cabin with a key card in his pocket and a promise on his lips.

She thought about the lounge. The private room with its dim lights and leather seats, the bar in the corner, the door that locked from the inside. She thought about how he'd look when he walked in—the blue tie, the nervous swallow, the way his hands would tighten at his sides like they'd done in her cabin.

She thought about what she'd do to him.

The thought was warm, spreading through her chest like something she'd been holding for a long time. She'd spent years breaking boys who thought they were immune. She'd spent years scripting and rehearsing and watching for the flicker of arousal she could exploit. But this one was different. This one had written her a map to his own undoing, and he'd handed it to her with both hands.

She checked the time. Eight forty-seven. Three hours and thirteen minutes.

She picked up the file, closed it, and slid it into the drawer. The photograph of Vivaan Khanna disappeared into the darkness, and she thought about how she'd see the real thing soon enough. The boy who'd written a memo about her. The topper who was never late.

The boy who was going to walk into that lounge at eleven o'clock wearing a blue tie he'd bought because she'd asked him to.

She stood up, smoothed her saree, and walked to the window. The city sprawled beyond the glass, a million lights flickering in the dark, and somewhere out there Vivaan Khanna was buying a tie.

She smiled, and the reflection in the glass smiled back.

The hunt had begun. But this time, she thought, the prey might just hunt her back.

She picked up her phone again. The screen glowed in the dim cabin, and she could still see his last message hovering there—I'll be there at eleven. With the tie. Her thumb moved before she could think about it, typing the words she'd been holding since he walked out.

One more thing.

She watched the dots appear almost instantly. He was still in the building. Still close enough that her message reached him before he'd even reached the parking lot. She imagined him stopping mid-stride, that methodical brain already running through possibilities.

What?

She smiled, slow, savoring the moment before she sent it. This was the part she loved—the moment before the ask, when the boy had no idea what was coming. The power of the unknown.

Buy a box of condoms. The biggest you can find.

The dots hovered. Disappeared. Hovered again. She could almost see him standing in the fluorescent light of the lobby, phone in hand, that sharp mind trying to parse what she meant. Whether she was joking. Whether she was serious. Whether he was brave enough to ask.

What flavor?

She laughed out loud, the sound sharp in the empty cabin. The question was so perfectly him—not refusing, not flinching, just asking for specifications like it was a problem set. Like he could solve her if he just had enough data.

"You can guess, shona," she murmured to the empty room.

You can guess.

That's not helpful.

I'm not in the business of being helpful.

No. You're in the business of making boys buy condoms they don't know how to use.

The words hit her low in the belly, a pulse of heat that surprised her with its intensity. She'd been called a lot of things—predator, huntress, the HR lady who ate boys alive. But this was different. This was him pushing back, teasing her, meeting her game with a game of his own.

You'll figure it out. You're the topper.

And if I get it wrong?

Then you'll learn.

She set the phone down, but her hands were trembling slightly. Not from the cold of the cabin, but from something else. Something that had been building in her since the moment he'd walked in and asked her what she wanted, his eyes holding hers with that unflinching directness.

She thought about the lounge. The private room with its dim lights and leather seats. The bar in the corner. The door that locked from the inside. She thought about Vivaan walking in wearing a blue tie he'd bought because she'd asked him to, a box of condoms in his pocket that he'd chosen without knowing what she planned.

She thought about what she'd do to him.

The thought was warm, spreading through her chest like something she'd been holding for a long time. She'd spent years breaking boys who thought they were immune. She'd spent years scripting and rehearsing and watching for the flicker of arousal she could exploit. But this one was different. This one had written her a map to his own undoing, and he'd handed it to her with both hands.

She checked the time. Eight-fifty-one. Two hours and nine minutes.

She stood up, smoothed her saree, and walked to the window. The city sprawled beyond the glass, a million lights flickering in the dark, and somewhere out there Vivaan Khanna was buying condoms. She smiled, and the reflection in the glass smiled back.

The hunt had begun. But this time, she thought, the prey might just hunt her back.

She turned from the window and crossed to the door, her heels clicking against the floor. The office was quiet, the night shift already settled into their cubicles, heads down, keyboards clicking. She walked past them without a glance, out to the elevator, and pressed the button for the parking garage.

Her car was a silver Mercedes, parked in her reserved spot. She slid into the driver's seat and sat for a moment, the leather cool against her back, the engine purring to life. The lounge was twenty minutes away, but she didn't want to arrive early. She wanted him there first, waiting, wondering.

She wanted him to feel the weight of the wait.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced down. Vivaan.

You never answered my question. What flavor?

She smiled, typing one-handed as she pulled out of the garage.

Surprise me.

That's a lot of pressure for a topper.

Good. I like you under pressure.

She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and drove. The streets of Gurgaon slid past in a blur of streetlights and neon, and she let her mind drift to the lounge. It was a place she knew well—a private members-only bar on the top floor of a hotel, the kind of place where the lights were always low and the drinks were always strong. She'd been there before, with other boys, other nights. But this time felt different.

This time, the boy had written her a map.

She pulled into the hotel's underground parking and sat in the car for a moment, composing herself. The cool air of the garage smelled like concrete and exhaust. She checked her phone. No new messages. He was here already, or he was on his way, or he was standing somewhere in the lobby with a box of condoms and a blue tie, wondering if he'd guessed the right flavor.

She smiled at the thought.

The elevator ride to the top floor was slow, the glass walls showing her the city spread out below. She watched the lights flicker and thought about how many of them were windows, and how many of those windows held secrets like hers. How many women were standing at windows right now, thinking about boys they'd claimed.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

The lounge was exactly as she remembered it—dim, intimate, the bar glowing amber in the corner. The leather booths were empty, the dance floor bare. A single figure sat at the bar, his back to her, his shoulders straight under a crisp white shirt.

He was wearing the blue tie.

She walked toward him, her heels muffled by the thick carpet. He didn't turn. He didn't move. He just sat there, a glass of water in front of him, waiting.

"You're early," she said, sliding onto the stool beside him.

He turned to look at her, and she saw it—the nervous swallow, the way his hands tightened around the glass. But his eyes were steady, holding hers with that same unflinching directness he'd had in her cabin.

"You said not to be late."

"I said not to be late. I didn't say anything about being early."

He almost smiled. Almost. "I like to be prepared."

"Prepared?" She let the word hang in the air between them. "Did you bring what I asked?"

He reached into his pocket and set a box on the bar between them. She glanced at it—extra large, ribbed, and the label said "Strawberry." She picked it up, turned it over in her hands, and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Strawberry?"

"You said to guess."

"And you guessed strawberry."

"It's the most popular flavor." He said it like it was a statistical fact, like he'd researched it, like he'd weighed the options and arrived at the most logical conclusion. "I assumed you'd want the one most likely to be well-received."

She laughed, low and genuine. "You're adorable, shona."

His jaw tightened at the pet name, but he didn't correct her. He just watched her, waiting, like he knew there was more coming.

"But I didn't ask you to bring them for me," she said, setting the box back on the bar. "I asked you to bring them for the strangers."

His eyes flickered. Just for a moment. A crack in the composure.

"Strangers?"

"You didn't think it was just going to be us, did you?" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I told you, shona. Dipanwita bhabhi is going to make strangers use those condoms tonight. And you're going to watch."

She watched his throat move as he swallowed. His hands were still around the glass, but his knuckles had gone white.

"How many?" he asked.

"How many what?"

"How many strangers?"

She smiled, slow, savoring the question. "I haven't decided yet. Maybe three. Maybe more. Depends on how brave you are."

"And if I'm not brave?"

"Then you'll learn." She reached out and ran a finger along the edge of the box, feeling the foil crinkle under her touch. "You wrote me a memo, Vivaan. You told me exactly how to seduce you. You told me you wanted to be claimed. You told me you wanted to call me Dipanwita mummy and mean it." She looked up at him, her eyes holding his. "So I'm giving you what you asked for. I'm going to claim you. I'm going to make you watch while strangers use me. And when it's over, you're going to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you next."

He was breathing harder now. She could see it in the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hands had released the glass and were gripping the edge of the bar instead.

"And if I don't want to watch?"

"Then you'll leave." She said it simply, without heat. "You'll walk out that door, and you'll never call me Dipanwita mummy again. You'll go back to being the topper, the boy who wrote a memo about winning. And you'll wonder, for the rest of your life, what it would have been like to stay."

She watched him process it. Watched the war happening behind his eyes—the topper who never failed, the boy who'd mapped her, the man who'd walked into her cabin and asked what she wanted.

"I'll stay," he said.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

She smiled, and it was the smile of a woman who had won something she hadn't even known she was fighting for. "Good. Then let's get you a drink."

She signaled the bartender, ordered two whiskies, and watched Vivaan pick up the box of strawberry condoms and slide it back into his pocket. He was nervous—she could see it in the slight tremor of his hand, the way he kept glancing at the door. But he was here. He'd come. He'd bought the tie and the condoms and the courage to face her.

She thought about the night ahead. The strangers she'd call. The way Vivaan would watch, his eyes dark with want, his hands gripping the edge of the couch. The way she'd feel his gaze on her skin like a physical touch.

She thought about what she'd do to him when it was over.

The thought was warm, spreading through her chest like something she'd been holding for a long time. She'd spent years breaking boys who thought they were immune. But this one was different. This one had written her a map to his own undoing, and he'd handed it to her with both hands.

She raised her glass. "To the topper."

He raised his. "To Dipanwita bhabhi."

They drank, and the night stretched out before them, dark and full of promise.