Riya had been working at the firm for nearly six months when the pressure from Mr. Malhotra began to tighten like a noose. He was sixty-two, silver hair neatly combed back, thick glasses perched on his nose, and a soft belly that strained the buttons of his expensive shirts. As department head he controlled her probation reports, her project assignments, and the quiet notes he kept in a leather folder that never left his desk. Everyone knew he stayed late. The office emptied by seven most evenings, the cleaning staff came and went, and by eight the long corridor outside his glass-walled cabin fell silent.

She had stayed that night because he had asked her to revise the quarterly numbers one more time. “Just a few adjustments, Riya. Your future here depends on accuracy.” His voice was calm, almost paternal. She had nodded, kept her eyes on the spreadsheet, and tried not to notice how his gaze lingered on the open collar of her blouse when he leaned over her shoulder.