The address led Arjun to a sleek high-rise in Bandra—all glass and steel, expensive and modern.
Dr. Myra Kapoor's clinic occupied the entire fifteenth floor.
Of course it did.
Myra always had impeccable taste.
The elevator ride felt eternal.
Arjun checked his reflection in the mirrored walls. Did he look different? Six years older. Harder, maybe. The eager twenty-two-year-old who had loved her so desperately was gone, replaced by a man who had learned that promises meant nothing.
The doors opened.
The reception area was elegant—muted colors, soft lighting, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air. A young receptionist looked up and smiled.
"ACP Mehta? Dr. Kapoor is expecting you. Last door on the left."
His feet moved automatically down the corridor. Each step felt heavy, like he was walking toward either salvation or damnation.
He couldn't tell which.
The door was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open.
And there she was.
Myra stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, backlit by the Mumbai skyline. She had changed—matured, somehow become even more beautiful. Her hair was shorter now, styled with effortless elegance. She wore a deep red dress that hugged her curves, professional yet subtly seductive.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
Time collapsed. Six years vanished. For one breathless moment, he was twenty-two again—completely under her spell.
"Arjun," she said softly.
His name on her lips was a drug he had spent years trying to quit.
"You came."
"This is official business," he said, though his voice came out rougher than intended.
"Of course." Her smile was unreadable. "Please, sit."
He didn't.
"Four women are dead. All of them were your patients."
"Yes." She moved to her desk, graceful as ever. "Tragic cases. I've been cooperating fully with the police investigation."
"Have you?" He pulled out his phone and showed her the photos. "Tell me about them."
Myra studied each image carefully, her expression clinical and detached.
"Priya Sharma—anxiety and depression following a difficult breakup.
Neha Patel—similar issues, recent divorce.
Anjali Desai—"
"They're all the same," Arjun interrupted. "Successful women dealing with relationship endings. And now they're all dead."
"Are you suggesting I had something to do with their deaths?"
Her tone stayed calm, but something flickered in her eyes—amusement, maybe. Or challenge.
"I'm suggesting it's a hell of a coincidence."
"Coincidences happen, Arjun. You of all people should know that."
She stood and moved closer.
"Or have you forgotten everything we learned in those criminology classes together?"
She was too close now. He could smell her perfume—different from before, yet unmistakably her.
"This isn't about us."
"Isn't it?" She tilted her head, studying him. "You've changed. Harder. Colder. Is that the job… or is that what I did?"
"Myra—"
"Do you ever think about us?" she asked softly. Dangerously. "About what we had?"
"No."
The lie tasted bitter.
"Liar."
She smiled—the same smile that had once undone him completely.
"I think about us every day. For six years."
His jaw tightened.
"You left. You disappeared without explanation—"
"I left because I had to!"
For the first time, emotion cracked through her composure.
"You chose your career over me. What was I supposed to do? Watch you leave? Become an afterthought in your important new life?"
"I asked you to wait. I promised—"
"Promises." She laughed, bitter and sharp.
"You promised me forever, Arjun. Remember? Forever bound."
She tugged the collar of her dress down slightly, revealing the small tattoo on her collarbone—their matching design, faded but still there.
"I never got mine removed," she said quietly. "Did you?"
He had. Three years ago. Drunk. Desperate to forget. The cover-up was clean, geometric—but beneath it, the ghost of the old ink still burned.
"That was a long time ago," he said. "We were kids—"
"I wasn't a kid."
Her voice softened.
"I knew exactly what I felt. What I still—"
She stopped herself and turned away.
"Never mind. You're here about my patients. Ask your questions, Detective."
The switch was abrupt. Her professional mask snapped back into place.
"Did any of them mention being threatened? Followed?"
"Not to me. Though…" She hesitated.
"Priya did mention an ex who had trouble accepting the breakup. But she didn't seem scared. More annoyed."
"Name?"
"I can't disclose that without proper authorization. Doctor–patient confidentiality."
"Those patients are dead, Myra. Confidentiality doesn't—"
"I know the law, Arjun."
Her eyes met his, steady and unreadable.
"Get a warrant. Until then, my hands are tied."
She was blocking him.
Deliberately.
"Why did you come back to Mumbai?" he asked suddenly.
"Excuse me?"
"Six years abroad. A life in London. Why come back now?"
"This is my home." She turned toward the window.
"I missed it. I missed… certain things."
"What things?"
She looked back at him.
"Does it matter?"
His phone rang.
Sameer.
"Boss, we got another body."
Arjun's blood went cold.
"Where?"
"Juhu Beach. Lawyer, twenty-six. Drowned, they're saying—but there are marks on her wrists—"
"I'm on my way."
He hung up and looked at Myra.
"We're not done here."
"I'll be waiting," she said softly.
"I've gotten very good at waiting, Arjun."