The drive back from the university basement was a blur of high-speed turns and the suffocating scent of sex and ozone lingering in the Audi’s cabin. Vikram’s jaw was a jagged line of stone, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel, pushing the car through the midnight streets of Mumbai like a man possessed. Riya sat beside him, her torn lace top barely held together by his discarded navy blazer, her thighs still sticky with the drying evidence of their basement encounter. She should have been terrified, but the "Firecracker" inside her was thriving on the chaos. The risk of the recording hadn't broken her; it had turned her into something even more desperate, even more addicted.

When they reached the penthouse, Vikram didn't even wait for the elevator doors to fully open before he hauled her out by the arm. He dragged her into the sanctuary of his home, the heavy door slamming shut with a finality that made the glass walls rattle.