They target me

I heard her before I saw her. Neeharika called my name from the corridor at 8:51 p.m., soft and a little breathless from the stairs. She stepped into the office in the pale cream salwar, dupatta slipping off one shoulder, fair skin bright under the fluorescent lights. The paper bag with the chocolate was cold in her hand. She smiled when she saw me still at the desk.

“You didn’t answer,” she said. “I got the dark one with almonds. Appa thinks I’m only getting you. He said be back before ten.”

She set the bag down. I stood to pack. For a moment it was only us. Then the conference-room door opened. Gangadhar and Deepak came out. Deepak’s eyes moved over her slowly—the cream fabric, the white of her throat and wrists. I felt heat rise in my neck. Gangadhar already had his phone in his hand.

Her smile thinned. She looked at them, then at me. Before I could speak she grabbed my hand, fingers tight around mine, and pulled me a step toward the door.

“We should go,” she said, voice low. “It’s late. Why are they looking at me like that? Who are they?”

Deepak stopped a few feet away. “She comes often?”

I nodded. Her grip tightened. He asked her name. I said it. She turned sharply. “Why are you telling them? Why are they asking?”

“Just talking,” Gangadhar said. “You can go.”

She didn’t wait. She kept hold of my hand and pulled me into the elevator. The doors closed. She let go and wiped her palm on her salwar. Her face was pale.

“Why did they want my name? Why were they staring?”

“They own the company,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

In the auto she sat with the chocolate on her lap. Halfway home she said her friends had dared her to stay out past ten once before finals. She looked at me. “Just a little while. Somewhere quiet. Please.”

I was already half-hard from the way Deepak had looked at her fair skin, already disturbed, already picturing the red light. I said yes.

We sat on a bench in a small park near the river. She broke me a piece of chocolate. Her fingers brushed mine. I kissed her. She made a small surprised sound, then kissed me back, soft and careful. We cuddled—her head on my shoulder, my arm around her, her hand on my chest. I got harder thinking about them seeing her, about the videos, about how white her skin would look under office lights. She felt it. She shifted but stayed. We kissed longer. I slid my hand under her dupatta over the cream fabric at her waist. She whispered she wasn’t ready, that she had never done more. I stopped. We left when a guard passed. In the auto she held my hand again.

The next morning Gangadhar messaged at 10:14: everything about her, now. I sent it all—name, address, college, timings, parents, that she was still a virgin. Deepak sent the hotel on the highway and the time. I called her at lunch. She was scared. She still said yes.

She arrived at 9:47 p.m., same cream salwar, fair skin pale under the hotel bulb, cloth bag against her chest. She smiled when I opened the door, uncertain.

“You sounded worse. I almost didn’t come. Why here?”

The car pulled in. Gangadhar and Deepak walked in.