The principal’s office smelled of old books, jasmine incense, and authority. Mrs. Sharma—late 30s, strict bun, always in crisp sarees that somehow managed to hug her surprisingly full figure—sat behind the massive teak desk, hands folded, eyes sharp behind thin gold frames.

Ananya stood in front, skirt smoothed down as best she could, though the faint sticky trail of Rohan’s library cum still clung to her inner thighs. Priya flanked her on the left, Vikram on the right. Rohan waited outside the door—Mrs. Sharma had insisted on “private consultations” first.