Exams were just two weeks away, and the weight of it all pressed down on Disha like a physical force. Her small Delhi apartment felt like a battlefield—textbooks stacked in teetering towers, neon highlighters scattered like spent ammunition, half-finished notes on macroeconomics curling at the edges from nervous sweat. Supply and demand curves blurred in her exhausted vision. Aryan had watched her struggle for days, his eyes dark with that possessive hunger she both feared and craved. At exactly 8 p.m., he slammed his palm on the desk, making her jump.