The rain hammered on the glass walls of Mumbai’s Marine Drive high-rise as evening lights flickered across the sea.
Inside a sleek office on the twelfth floor, Advocate Meera Sen waited.

At forty, Meera was known as the fixer—a criminal-defense lawyer who never lost a high-stakes case.
Tonight’s client, however, intrigued her: Rohan Dutt, thirty-two, the celebrated founder of a booming tech startup.

Rohan arrived exactly on time, his tailored jacket soaked from the sudden downpour. His eyes darted around the minimalist room.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Meera said, offering a towel.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he replied quietly. “They think I killed her.”

The “her” was Isha Kapoor, a well-known investigative journalist and Rohan’s former girlfriend.
Two nights earlier, she’d been found dead in a luxury resort outside Lonavala.
The police claimed Rohan’s fingerprints were on a wine glass in her suite and his car was caught near the area by highway cameras.

“Tell me everything,” Meera said, starting her recorder.

Rohan took a deep breath. “I hadn’t spoken to Isha in months. We ended badly. That evening I was at my office party until midnight. My driver can confirm it.”

“Then how did your prints end up in her room?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Meera leaned forward. “Rohan, I can only defend you if you tell me the truth. Even the parts you’re ashamed of.”

He hesitated. “We met once after the breakup. Three weeks ago. She wanted to discuss a story about my company. I touched that glass then, maybe?”

Meera raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me the police found a three-week-old fingerprint? Be careful. Lies waste time.”

“I’m not lying,” he insisted.

As the rain intensified, Meera dissected Rohan’s timeline.
He said he was at the office party until midnight, but security footage showed him leaving at 10:30 p.m.

“Why did you lie about the timing?” Meera asked.

Rohan rubbed his temples. “I went for a drive to clear my head. I didn’t want that to look suspicious.”

“Suspicious is leaving a party early without telling anyone. Where did you drive?”

He looked away. “To the old sea fort. Alone.”

After a pause, Meera said, “Here’s what the police will claim:
You argued with Isha about a damaging article.
You drove to the resort, she confronted you, you killed her in anger, then returned before anyone noticed. Motive and opportunity fit.”

Rohan shook his head. “I didn’t kill her.”

Meera studied him. “Then someone wants you framed.”

Meera asked about enemies.
Rohan mentioned a rival CEO, Karan Sethi, whose company had just lost a major contract to him.

“Karan threatened to ruin me,” Rohan admitted. “But murder? That’s extreme.”

“Sometimes greed is extreme,” Meera said.

She noted something else: Isha had been investigating corruption in Mumbai’s property market—territory filled with dangerous people.

Their discussion was interrupted by a knock at the glass door.
A young woman entered—Priya Malhotra, Meera’s junior associate—holding a folder.

“Sorry, ma’am. Latest reports from Lonavala police.”
She handed Meera photographs: the resort suite, the broken wineglass, the balcony overlooking a dark ravine.

One picture froze Rohan. “Wait,” he said, pointing.
“That window… it’s open.”

Meera nodded. “Yes, the police say she fell after being struck.”

“No,” Rohan whispered. “Isha hated open windows at night. She was terrified of insects. She wouldn’t have left it open.”

Rohan remembered something: Isha always used a voice recorder during interviews.
“If it was a meeting, she would have recorded it,” he said.

Meera ordered Priya to contact Isha’s editor. Within an hour, Priya returned with a small digital recorder found in Isha’s bag.

They played it.
At first only ambient sounds—the clink of glass, rain.
Then a man’s voice: “Stop digging, Isha. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

It wasn’t Rohan’s voice.

The man added, “This is your last warning.”

“Do you recognize it?” Meera asked.

Rohan frowned. “Could be Karan Sethi. He has that low rasp.”

Meera smiled slightly. “Now we have reasonable doubt. But we need proof.”

The next evening, Meera invited Karan Sethi to her office under the pretext of discussing a settlement in a trademark dispute.
Rohan, hidden in an adjoining room, listened.

As they talked, Meera casually played the audio on her phone.

Karan stiffened. “Where did you get that?”

Meera’s eyes narrowed. “So you do recognize the voice.”

He recovered quickly. “Could be anyone.”

Meera leaned in. “It’s enough to subpoena you. Tell me why you were at the resort.”

Karan stood abruptly. “I have nothing to say,” and stormed out.

Rohan emerged, shaken. “That sounded like him.”

“Close,” Meera said. “But not enough.”

Later that night, Meera sat alone reviewing the case.
Something nagged her: the voice on the tape said stop digging—not about Rohan or the startup, but about Isha’s property-market investigation.

Meera called an old journalist friend and learned Isha was close to exposing a massive illegal land acquisition by a shadowy real-estate consortium.

The consortium’s legal counsel? Advocate Sanjay Bhave—Meera’s former mentor.

The realization chilled her.
She arranged a discreet meeting with Bhave.

“Let it go, Meera,” Bhave said smoothly over whiskey.
“Sometimes stories end better when left unfinished.”

“You’re protecting murderers,” she shot back.

Bhave smiled faintly. “Be careful. Careers vanish faster than lives.”

The next day, as Meera prepared for a bail hearing, a speeding car tried to ram her vehicle near Worli Sea Face.
She swerved in time, heart pounding.

Someone wanted her off the case.

Priya discovered that the resort’s CCTV camera near the back stairwell had been wiped—but not before the system uploaded a low-resolution backup to a cloud server.

The blurry footage showed a tall man leaving Isha’s suite shortly after midnight.
He wore a raincoat and cap, but a distinctive tattoo on his wrist was visible.

Meera’s heart skipped. She knew that tattoo—a coiled serpent.

It belonged to Sanjay Bhave.

That evening, Meera summoned Bhave to her office.

“You killed Isha,” she said calmly.

He laughed. “Proof?”

Meera placed a printout of the CCTV frame on the table. “Enough for the police to start.”

Bhave’s smile faded. “You don’t understand. If Isha published her story, billions were at stake. She forced my hand.”

“And you tried to frame Rohan to divert attention.”

Bhave’s eyes hardened. “Walk away, Meera. Or you’ll join her.”

Meera pressed the emergency call button under her desk. Within seconds, plainclothes officers entered, guns drawn.
They had been waiting in the corridor on Meera’s request.

Bhave’s expression finally cracked.

Bhave was arrested for murder and conspiracy.
The land cartel scandal erupted across national media, bringing down several powerful politicians.

Charges against Rohan were dropped.
When he left the courthouse, reporters swarmed, but he simply thanked Meera and disappeared into the rain.

A month later, Meera stood again at Marine Drive as monsoon waves crashed.
Priya joined her.

“You exposed a giant,” Priya said. “But you don’t look happy.”

Meera gazed at the dark horizon. “Justice is messy. Isha is still dead.”

Priya nodded. “But her story lives on.”

Meera whispered to the sea, Rest now, Isha. The truth is out.