By midnight, the gala alibi held—CCTV showed Ananya mingling with Hyderabad’s elite. But a tip from a contact in Banjara Hills pointed Arjun to a seedy bar in Old City. Karan Malhotra was there, nursing a whiskey in a corner. He was lean, unshaven, his eyes darting like a cornered animal

The monsoon rains lashed Hyderabad, turning the upscale lanes of Jubilee Hills into shimmering rivers of light and shadow. Detective Arjun Rao, a grizzled veteran of the Hyderabad Police, stood under the awning of a shuttered café, his cigarette glowing faintly against the downpour. His phone buzzed—a text from Inspector Latha Menon: “Murder. Villa 23, Road No. 10. Get here fast.”

Arjun flicked the cigarette into the gutter and climbed into his battered jeep. Jubilee Hills, with its sprawling mansions and manicured lawns, was no stranger to secrets, but murder was rare. The address was familiar—a palatial home owned by Vikram Reddy, a tech tycoon whose startup had made billions before crashing spectacularly. Arjun’s gut churned. This wasn’t going to be clean.

The villa’s gates were ajar, guarded by a nervous constable who waved him through. Inside, the scene was chaos. Uniformed officers milled about, their boots tracking mud across marble floors. Latha, her face taut, met him at the grand staircase. “Vikram Reddy’s dead,” she said. “Stabbed in his study. No witnesses, no security footage—the cameras were disabled.”

Arjun followed her upstairs. The study was a shrine to excess: mahogany desk, crystal decanters, a view of the rain-soaked hills. Vikram lay slumped in his chair, a letter opener buried in his chest. Blood pooled on the Persian rug, stark against its intricate patterns. Arjun crouched, noting the angle of the wound. “Close range,” he muttered. “Someone he trusted.”

Latha handed him a plastic bag with a crumpled note found clutched in Vikram’s hand. Scrawled in blue ink: “You can’t hide forever.” Arjun’s jaw tightened. “Get this to forensics. Check for prints, but don’t hold your breath.”

The house was eerily quiet, save for the patter of rain. Vikram’s wife, Ananya, sat in the living room, her silk saree pristine despite the chaos. She was poised, almost too composed. “I was at a charity gala,” she said, her voice steady. “I came home and found him like this.” Arjun studied her. No tears, no hysterics. Her alibi would need checking.

The staff—driver, cook, maid—claimed ignorance. The maid, trembling, mentioned a visitor earlier that day, a man in a hooded jacket who’d left quickly. “He seemed angry,” she whispered. Arjun pressed for details, but she had none. He stepped outside, lighting another cigarette. The rain had eased, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet earth. Across the street, a flicker of movement caught his eye—a figure ducking behind a parked SUV. Arjun’s hand went to his holster, but the figure was gone.

Back at the station, Latha pulled up Vikram’s financials. His company’s collapse had left a trail of enemies: investors, partners, even employees who’d lost everything. One name stood out—Karan Malhotra, a former CTO who’d publicly accused Vikram of fraud. Karan had vanished after the scandal, but rumors placed him in Hyderabad. “Find him,” Arjun ordered. “And check Ananya’s gala story.”

By midnight, the gala alibi held—CCTV showed Ananya mingling with Hyderabad’s elite. But a tip from a contact in Banjara Hills pointed Arjun to a seedy bar in Old City. Karan Malhotra was there, nursing a whiskey in a corner. He was lean, unshaven, his eyes darting like a cornered animal. Arjun slid into the booth across from him. “Vikram Reddy’s dead,” he said bluntly. “Where were you tonight?”

Karan’s glass froze mid-air. “I didn’t kill him,” he spat. “But I’m not crying either. He ruined me, Arjun. Stole my code, tanked the company, and walked away with millions.” His alibi was shaky—a vague claim of being “out” with friends. Arjun leaned closer. “You were seen at his house today. Hooded jacket. Sound familiar?”

Karan paled but said nothing. Arjun cuffed him for questioning and drove back to Jubilee Hills. Something nagged at him—the note, the disabled cameras, Ananya’s icy calm. At the villa, he re-examined the study. A faint scuff mark on the floor caught his eye, leading to a bookshelf. He pressed a panel, and it clicked open, revealing a hidden safe. Inside: a USB drive and a ledger detailing offshore accounts. Vikram had been siphoning money, even after the crash.

Forensics called—Karan’s prints weren’t on the note, but Ananya’s were. Arjun’s pulse quickened. He confronted her at the villa, where she sat sipping tea, unruffled. “Your prints are on the note,” he said. “Care to explain?”

Ananya’s smile was razor-thin. “I wrote it months ago. A warning to Vikram about his debts. He ignored it.” Her story held, but Arjun wasn’t convinced. The USB drive, analyzed overnight, revealed emails between Vikram and a loan shark named Ravi Shetty. Vikram owed crores, and Shetty wasn’t known for patience.

Arjun tracked Shetty to a warehouse in Kukatpally. The raid was swift—Shetty’s men scattered, but Arjun cornered him. “Vikram’s dead,” he growled. “Your doing?” Shetty laughed, blood trickling from a split lip. “I wanted my money, not his corpse. Check the wife. She’s not what she seems.”

Back at the station, Latha dug into Ananya’s past. She’d been a silent partner in Vikram’s company, with access to his accounts. Bank records showed large transfers to a shell company—her shell company. The pieces clicked. Ananya had orchestrated the murder, hiring a professional to make it look personal. The hooded visitor wasn’t Karan; it was her hitman.

Arjun returned to the villa at dawn. Ananya was packing, a one-way ticket to Dubai on her dresser. “It’s over,” he said, blocking the door. “You paid for the hit. The accounts, the emails—we have it all.” Her facade cracked, eyes blazing. “He was going to ruin us,” she hissed. “I did what I had to.”

As cuffs snapped on her wrists, the rain began again, washing over Jubilee Hills. Arjun lit a cigarette, watching the city wake. Another case closed, another secret buried in the hills. But Hyderabad, he knew, would always have more