"I want you to help Ms. Roy with Political Science."

Prof. Shetty's words felt like the grim toll of a bell announcing my execution.

A wave of cold panic swept over me as I sat frozen in the cramped office, staring at the man behind the desk. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Of all the cruel twists fate could deal me, this was beyond even my wildest and scariest nightmares.

Rudra Pratap Rajvardhan. My tutor.

Next to me, he was the picture of composure, his face completely neutral. Not a twitch, not a raised eyebrow. Nothing to indicate he cared about the horrific injustice of what was being proposed—or inflicted, really.

"It's clear you have the potential, Mukti," Prof. Shetty continued, as if his words weren't digging my grave deeper with each passing second. "But you need direction. And since this is an important subject for your semester, I believe Mr. Rajvardhan can provide that guidance."

Was he serious? I couldn't even look at Rudra without feeling like I'd been dropped into a gladiator pit, and now I was supposed to sit with him, willingly, and learn?

"Rudra," Shetty went on, oblivious to the silent implosion happening in my head, "this will be good practice for you as well. You've been working on your theory paper, and teaching Mukti will help sharpen your understanding. By explaining the concepts to someone else, you'll also reinforce your own knowledge."

Great. So I was going to be reduced to some kind of guinea pig for his benefit.

Shetty adjusted his glasses and glanced between us. "You're both adults," he said with an air of finality. "I'll leave the specifics of your arrangement up to you. But to ensure your workflow isn't disrupted, I'm assigning you two as partners for the semester group project as well. Rudra, you'll submit your theory for grading, and Mukti, you'll present the project to the class."

Every word felt like another nail in my coffin.

By the time he finished speaking, my brain had completely flatlined.

"Mukti," Shetty said, snapping me out of my daze, "I really want you to take this seriously. You're capable of much more than you're showing."

Capable of what? Of not combusting under the weight of my life spiraling out of control?

"I trust you'll both make this work," he concluded, pushing his chair back. "Good luck."

He stood, gathered his papers, and left the office, presumably heading off to his next class.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The room felt suffocatingly small as the silence between us grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension. I finally managed to look at him, and my stomach sank.

There it was. That smirk. That sinister, insufferable smirk curling up at the corner of his lips, as if he'd been handed the best toy to play with.

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but he cut me off before I could.

"I've got football after classes," he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. "So if you want to pass this one, see you at my house."

It took me a second to process what he'd just said. "Your house?" I repeated, my voice breaking in disbelief. "Why not the library?"

He leaned closer, the smirk never leaving his face, his voice dropping to that vile, taunting tone. "Agar score karna hai toh jaise main bolunga waisa karna padega... hmm?"

("If you want to score, you'll have to do exactly as I say... hmm?")

My breath hitched. My stomach churned. This man was the worst.

"Rudra," I started, my voice a desperate, shaky attempt at reasoning, "aapke paas mera number bhi nahi hai—"

("You don't even have my number...")

He cut me off again, waving his phone lazily in the air. "Class group."

And then he was gone, leaving the office with a self-assured swagger that made me want to scream.

I sat there for a moment, paralyzed with the weight of what had just happened.

This was my life now. Trapped under the thumb of the most arrogant, insufferable person on the planet.

The realization hit me like a freight train: he wasn't going to help me. He was going to make me miserable.

Way to go, Mukti. Way to go.

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The rest of the day was a foggy, shapeless blur.

I went through the motions, attending classes and scribbling half-hearted notes, but my mind was elsewhere. Each tick of the clock felt like an ominous countdown. I hadn't seen him all day—no midnight umber eyes boring into me, no smirks curling at the edges of his lips.

The absence didn't ease my tension. If anything, it made it worse. The not knowing. The anticipation. Political Science wasn't even on today's schedule, which only thickened the suspense. It felt as though the universe had conspired to stretch my anxiety to its breaking point.

When the dismissal bell finally rang, I rushed to pack my things, hoping to disappear into my dorm room before fate—or Rudra —could intervene.

As I slung my bag over my shoulder, my phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

I hesitated before unlocking it, a pit already forming in my stomach. The message was simple, cold, and unceremonious:

A location.

My blood ran cold. I didn't need to ask who it was from.

And, of course, the address wasn't on campus.

"Obviously," I muttered under my breath, gripping my phone tightly. "Ye Bruce Wayne ki aulaad dorm mein thodi rahega."

("Like this heir of Bruce Wayne is really going to stay in a dorm.")

There was no getting out of it, was there?

I trudged back to my dorm, every step heavy with dread. Inside, I paced in short, frantic bursts, debating whether to cancel or lie about being sick. But the thought of crossing him made my stomach churn. He would have some clever, cutting response, some way to make my life worse than it already was.

Sighing in defeat, I opened my closet.

I chose the safest, least attention-grabbing outfit I could find: a soft, cashmere loungewear set, layered with a trench coat for warmth. I slipped on my sturdy winter shoes and packed my study materials in a tote bag. The ensemble screamed don't notice me, but nothing about this night would be subtle, would it?

Taking a deep breath, I stepped outside.

My heart nearly stopped.

A sleek, black car sat idling just outside my dorm. A suited driver stepped out as soon as he saw me, his face polite but unreadable.

"Ms. Roy," he said with a slight bow, his tone formal. "I'm Viren. Mr. Rajvardhan expects you this evening."

I blinked, my brain scrambling to process the scene in front of me.

HE SENT A CAR?

What the hell was my life?

Before I could fully absorb the absurdity of the situation, my gaze shifted slightly—and caught on a figure standing just a few meters away.

Tarun.

My breath hitched. He was leaning against a lamppost, his arms crossed, his dark eyes boring into me.

What was he doing here?

For a moment, my mind flashed back to the events of the night before, the way his betrayal had shattered me. The weight of it all pressed against my chest, but I quickly shook it off. Whatever reason he had for being there, I didn't have the strength to face him now.

My pulse thundered as I lowered my gaze and climbed into the car. I refused to look back, even as the door shut behind me.

The car's interior was plush, a little too luxurious for my liking. The leather seat felt cold beneath me, and the soft hum of the engine only amplified the turmoil in my mind.

Viren slid into the driver's seat, and the car began to move.

As we pulled away from the dorm, I leaned my head back against the seat, staring at the blurred city lights through the window.

What the hell was I doing?

And what kind of night awaited me at the Rajvardhan house?