Mansi gripped the steering wheel tighter as the Mercedes glided through the morning traffic, her mind a whirlwind of fury, betrayal, and cold calculation. The "bank work" excuse had been a convenient lie—her real destination was the office of Detective Vikram Singh, a grizzled ex-cop turned private investigator she had used before for discreet matters. His reputation was ironclad: thorough, ruthless, and utterly confidential. He operated out of a nondescript building in the heart of the city, the kind of place that blended into the urban sprawl, perfect for clients who didn't want to be seen.
She parked in the underground lot, slipped on oversized sunglasses to hide her eyes, and took the elevator up to the fifth floor. The office was sparse: a wooden desk piled with files, a flickering fluorescent light, and walls lined with faded certificates from his police days. Vikram was already waiting, a burly man in his late 50s with salt-and-pepper hair, a thick mustache, and sharp eyes that missed nothing. He stood as she entered, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
"Mrs. Arora," he said in his gravelly voice, shaking her hand firmly. "Long time. Coffee?"
Mansi shook her head, removing her sunglasses and sitting down. Her voice was steady, but her eyes burned with intensity. "No time for pleasantries, Vikram. I need your best work—fast, discreet, and no questions about why."
Vikram leaned back, pulling out a notepad and pen. "Shoot. What's the case?"
Mansi took a deep breath, leaning forward, her modest salwar-kameez doing nothing to hide the faint hickeys peeking above the dupatta. She decided on full transparency—Vikram had handled worse for her in the past, from tracking cheating associates to digging dirt on business rivals. No point in sugarcoating.
"It's about my live-in servant, Ashraful. He came through an agency—told me he's an orphan, no family, clean background. But I just learned from a reliable source that it's all lies. He's from Saharanpur, has a full family there, and they're deep into criminal shit: murder, kidnapping, arms smuggling. There's even a murder case on him—police manhunt. He's been hiding in my house for months."
Vikram's mustache twitched, but he scribbled notes without flinching. "Got it. And this 'reliable source'—who is he?"
Mansi met his gaze evenly. "Arif Mohammad—one of Ashraful's friends. I... spent the weekend with him. Sexually. Don't judge—I'm a widow, I have needs. Ashraful introduced me to his circle; they're all young, hung guys I hooked up with for fun. Arif spilled everything last night after we... finished. He says he's the real orphan, no family, and he's clean."
Vikram raised an eyebrow but kept writing. "Sexual affairs with the servant and his friends? That's... bold. Anything else I need to know? Motives? Threats?"
Mansi leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Ashraful's been fucking me every day—me and my maid Pushpa. Threesomes, everything. I thought he was harmless, just a horny orphan kid with a big dick. But if he's a criminal... I want every intricate detail. Family records, police files, photos, addresses in Saharanpur—everything. And check Arif too. If he's clean like he says, I might... replace Ashraful with him. Permanently."
Vikram nodded, no judgment in his eyes—just professional detachment. "Understood. Timeline?"
"ASAP. 48 hours max for preliminary report. Money's no issue—double your fee if it's thorough."
Vikram stood, shaking her hand again. "Done. I'll start with police contacts in Saharanpur and agency background checks. Stay low—don't confront Ashraful yet. If he's on the run, he could be dangerous."
Mansi slipped her sunglasses back on. "I know how to handle men, Vikram. Just get me the truth."
She left the office, heart pounding but resolve like steel. In the car, she dialed her lawyer discreetly, whispering instructions for a contingency plan: eviction papers, police involvement if needed. By the time she reached home for "lunch," her mind was set.
If Ashraful was guilty, jail awaited.
And Arif? He'd be her new live-in toy—clean, loyal, and all hers.
The malikan was back in full control.
Mansi didn’t blink. “7 din theek hai. Paise double. Bas ek shart: 48 hours mein jo bhi mile, mujhe pehle dikhao. Agar murder ka solid proof bhi ek photo ya witness statement mein milta hai, main usi din action lungi.”
Vikram nodded slowly, impressed by the steel in her voice. “Done. Ab details do. Ashraful ka full name, Aadhaar number agar hai, agency ka contract copy, uski photos, phone number, aur uske saare doston ke numbers aur photos bhi.”
Mansi opened her Hermès bag, pulled out a sleek black envelope, and slid it across the desk.
Inside:
Printed colour photos of Ashraful (shirtless, sleeping, some from her own bedroom CCTV).
Screenshots of his WhatsApp chats with his number clearly visible.
A list of six names and numbers (Ashraful + the five boys: Kishan, Sunil, Lalan, Arif, and the fifth one she hadn’t tasted yet).
Individual candid photos of each boy she had secretly clicked during meet-ups.
A USB drive containing short video clips (just faces and voices, nothing explicit) for voice identification.
“Sab kuch yahan hai,” she said coolly. “Ashraful ka number toh aapko pata hi hai, woh mere ghar ka landline bhi use karta hai kabhi-kabhi. Arif ka number specially highlight kiya hai. Usko bhi check karo (clean hona chahiye, lekin 100 % sure hona hai).”
Vikram whistled low as he flipped through the photos. “Kaam karne mein aap bhi detective lagti hain, madam.” He pocketed the envelope and USB. “48 hours mein pehla report aapke WhatsApp pe encrypted file mein. 7 din mein full dossier, hard copy aur digital dono. Aur haan… tab tak Ashraful ke saath careful rahiyega. Agar woh dangerous hai toh aap akeli mat rahiyega raat ko.”
Mansi stood, adjusted her dupatta, and gave him a small, icy smile. “Main akeli nahi hoon, Vikram ji. Mere paas Pushpa hai… aur meri planning hai. Bas 48 ghante. Phir dekhna kya hota hai.”
She turned and walked out, heels clicking like the ticking of a countdown.
Vikram watched her go, shook his head with a half-smile, and muttered to himself: “Ye aurat dangerous hai… lekin is baar uska shikaar bhi dangerous hai.”
He picked up the phone and started dialling his old police contacts in Saharanpur.
The 48-hour clock had just begun.
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