The day after the midterm project announcement, I threw myself into the work, the memory of Aditya Singhania’s scorn fueling my ambition.

  My project—the Revitalization Strategy for the Heritage Handloom Sector—was complex, challenging, and felt like the perfect arena to prove my worth. Jenny and I spent hours in the library, drowning in books on strategic management and marketing theory.

  A few days in, however, my momentum crashed into a brutal reality. My project centered on a specific, decades-old textile conglomerate, and I needed crucial, proprietary market data—their recent sales figures, supply chain costs, and competitor analysis within the luxury segment.

  I searched every database the college subscribed to, scoured industry journals, and even tried to find contacts through LinkedIn.

  But the information I needed was either frustratingly locked behind expensive corporate paywalls or simply didn’t exist in the public domain.

  My sheer intelligence and analytical skill, the very tools I had relied on to get me here, were powerless against this roadblock. The problem wasn't analysis; it was access. My entire project—my chance to shine—threatened to derail before it even properly began.

  I felt the familiar, cold panic start to set in. Was this it? Was my hard work going to be undone by a lack of privilege?

  The next morning, desperate, I caught Meera as she was leaving a class.

  “Meera, I need your help,” I pleaded, quickly explaining my data crisis. “I can’t find this specific market data for my project anywhere. Without it, I can’t build the financial models. I’m at a dead end.”

  Meera listened carefully, her thoughtful expression confirming the difficulty of my problem. “That kind of granular corporate data isn’t usually in the standard academic databases, Shrishti. It’s expensive, or only available through insider subscriptions.” She paused, then her face brightened. “Wait. I don’t have access myself, but I know someone who might.”

  A wave of pure, potent relief washed over me, a physical lifting of the dread I’d carried for days. Meera's words were a lifeline.

  She pulled out her phone and quickly typed a message. “His name is Vicky. He’s a senior in the Finance elective, super connected, and one of the nicest guys on campus. Give him a message; he’s usually very accommodating.”

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  I thanked her profusely, my heart lifting with a fervent hope. The rest of the day, I felt energized again, my fingers flying over my keyboard, preparing the presentation I would show Vicky.

  That evening, I messaged Vicky, concisely explaining my project and the specific data sets I needed. His response was immediate, friendly, and accommodating. He asked to meet me the next day outside the main cafeteria, assuring me he would look at my requirements.

  The next day, Vicky was exactly as Meera described: cheerful, easygoing, and completely non-intimidating. He was dressed casually, with a relaxed demeanor that was the absolute antithesis of Aditya Singhania’s cold severity.

  He listened to my project details with genuine interest, nodding encouragingly when I explained my strategic vision.

  When I explained my data problem, he simply smiled.

  “Don’t worry at all, Shrishti,” he said, his tone kind. “I can definitely help you in getting what you need. That stuff costs a fortune, but I’ve got access through a family friend’s consultancy account.” He checked his watch. “Come with me.”

  A surge of relief and gratitude flooded me. This was it. My problem was solved.

  He gestured for me to follow him, and we walked past the cafeteria and towards the quiet expanse of the campus parking area.

  I expected him to pull out a USB drive or point us toward a private computer lab. Instead, he moved directly towards a sleek, dark sedan and opened the passenger door, gesturing for me to get in.

  My steps faltered. “Where are we going, Vicky?” I asked, confused. “I thought you were going to give me the data here.”

  He smiled, a wide, easy expression that was designed to reassure. “Oh, it’s a massive file. It’s on my personal laptop, and that’s at my apartment, just a ten-minute drive away. It's much easier to download the files onto a drive there. We'll be back on campus in half an hour.”

  My mind instantly went rigid with alarm. His apartment? Going off-campus, alone, with a boy I had just met—it was the very thing my Dadu and Maa had warned me against, the first step towards "distraction" and "shame." The traditional alarms in my mind were blaring.

  But then I thought of the Midterm Project. I thought of the empty, unfillable sections of my strategy document. I thought of my father's dream, now hinging on a few proprietary market reports. I was so close, and this was the only solution.

  The academic need won out over the ingrained fear.

  With a knot of reluctance tightening in my stomach, I took a deep breath, telling myself it was just a ten-minute trip for a data file. I had come to Mumbai to be strong and smart, not to be a captive of fear.

  “Okay,” I said, hoping my voice didn't betray my inner turmoil. I closed the distance and slid hesitantly into the passenger seat. The sleek door shut behind me with a soft, expensive click.

  I looked straight ahead as he started the engine, focused entirely on the image of the data, the project, and the promise I had to keep.