**Hook:**

*"A dead body is a problem. A framed murder is a catastrophe. But a husband who knows how to lie? That’s a survival strategy."*

***

**The Penthouse – 2:00 AM**

Sleep was a distant memory. The TV screen glowed in the dark living room, the news channel looping the same grainy footage of police tape around a muddy ditch.

Aayat was on the phone, pacing. Her voice was ice, but Aryan could see the cracks in her composure. She was talking to her father.

"It wasn't us, Abbu... I know... If the police find the basement logs... No, I burned them... Kabir was a traitor, but he was family. We don't dump family in a ditch."

She hung up and slammed her phone onto the sofa.

"They think we did it to silence him," Aayat said, rubbing her temples. "The police, the media, the other families. They think I executed him."

"Did your father...?" Aryan started, afraid to finish.

"No," Aayat said firmly. "He sent him to a safe house in the north. Someone intercepted the transport. Someone on the inside."

The buzzer to the penthouse rang. A sharp, intrusive sound.

Aryan jumped. "Who is that?"

"Uninvited guests," Aayat sighed, smoothing her hair. "Police. They don't have a warrant, but they have 'questions'. Put on a shirt, Aryan. And look scared. It suits you."

"I *am* scared," Aryan muttered, grabbing a hoodie.

***

**The Confrontation**

The elevator doors opened, but the police didn't just walk in. They swaggered. Leading them was a man Aryan hadn't seen before. He was tall, lean, and wore a crisp uniform that looked too perfect. DCP Rathore.

Behind him stood Inspector Raghav, looking smug despite his earlier 'transfer'. So, the transfer was a lie. He was working with Rathore.

"Mrs. Mehran," Rathore said, his voice smooth like velvet over gravel. "My apologies for the late hour."

"Time is money, Officer," Aayat said, crossing her arms. "And you are costing me sleep."

"We’re investigating the death of your cousin," Rathore walked around the living room, touching the furniture. "Brutal. Stab wounds. Signs of torture. Whoever did it... they wanted information."

"A tragedy," Aayat said flatly. "But I fail to see how that concerns me. I haven't left this apartment in twelve hours."

"We know," Raghav chimed in, eyeing Aryan. "We have eyes on the building. You didn't leave. But your husband..."

Rathore turned his gaze to Aryan. Aryan felt his throat go dry.

"Mr. Sharma," Rathore stepped closer. "We have footage of you at the temple near Sector 17. That’s dangerously close to where the body was found."

"I was with my parents," Aryan said, his voice shaking. "I went to pray."

"Prayer," Rathore nodded. "A good cover. But we found something interesting near the body."

Rathore pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. Inside was a lapel pin. A small, silver crest. A shield and a sword.

Aryan’s blood froze. It was *his* pin. The Mehran family ring pin he had taken off his jacket when he changed clothes two days ago. He had lost it. Or... had it been stolen?

"That looks like a family crest," Rathore tapped the bag. "We found it clutched in Kabir’s hand. It seems he tore it off his attacker during the struggle."

Aayat stiffened. "That proves nothing. We have dozens of employees with that pin."

"True," Rathore smiled. "But the DNA on the pin... we're running it now. If it matches anyone in this room... well. A murder charge tends to complicate business mergers."

He looked right at Aryan. "Care to give a DNA sample, Mr. Sharma? Save us the paperwork?"

***

**The Bluff**

Aryan felt the world tilting. He had been framed. Kabir’s killers had planted the pin. It was a setup.

Aayat stepped in front of Aryan. "You don't have a court order for a DNA sample, Rathore. So you can take your little pin and leave."

"I can get one in an hour," Rathore threatened. "Judges wake up for me."

"And lawyers wake up for me," Aayat countered. "By the time you get the order, we will be in a different jurisdiction. Or perhaps I’ll just remind the Commissioner of that little betting scandal you tried to bury last year?"

Rathore’s face twitched. Aayat knew everyone's secrets.

"This isn't over," Rathore hissed. "The body is barely cold. And the evidence is piling up. Your husband... he’s your weak link, Aayat. He’s sloppy."

He turned to leave, Raghav following like a lapdog.

"Oh, and Mr. Sharma?" Rathore paused at the elevator. "Watch your back. Prison is a lonely place for pretty boys."

***

**The Aftermath**

The doors closed. Silence returned.

Aryan sank onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands. "They have my pin. I lost it at the warehouse... or maybe it fell in the car. I don't know."

"It was planted," Aayat said, her mind racing. "Kabir was killed by professionals. They took the pin to frame you."

"Me? Why?"

"Because killing me creates a martyr," Aayat said, pacing again. "But imprisoning my husband? That breaks me. That makes me reckless. They want to distract me. They want to drag you through the mud so the media tears apart our marriage, and the family reputation crumbles."

She stopped and looked at him. "We need to find out who has the real leverage."

"How?"

"The Cleaners," Aayat said. "The people who actually dispose of bodies in this city. They see everything. They know who picked up Kabir."

"That sounds dangerous," Aryan stood up. "Let me go."

Aayat laughed dryly. "You? You’re a suspect."

"Exactly," Aryan said, an idea forming. "The police are watching you. They expect you to go out with guns blazing. They won't expect *me* to go to a seedy bar in the slums. To them, I’m just a scared student."

"Aryan, no—"

"Aayat, listen to me," Aryan grabbed her shoulders. "You can't do it. Salman is too recognizable. I can do it. I can blend in. I'm the 'innocent' one, remember?"

Aayat looked into his eyes. He was terrified, but he was determined. The boy who couldn't hold a gun a month ago was now volunteering to hunt for clues in the underworld.

"Salman will be nearby," she finally said. "If you get caught... deny everything."

"I learned from the best," Aryan gave a weak smile.

***

**The Slums – The Rat Hole**

An hour later, Aryan walked into a dimly lit bar in the narrow alleys of the old city. He was wearing a plain t-shirt and a cap, looking nothing like a rich husband.

The bar smelled of cheap alcohol and despair. He spotted a man in the corner—'Rat', a snitch who sold information to anyone with cash.

Aryan walked up to him and slammed a stack of rupees on the table. Money he had taken from the 'Sheik' stash.

"I need to know about the body," Aryan said, trying to sound tough. "Kabir Mehran."

Rat looked at the money, then at Aryan. "You're the waiter boy."

"I'm the one paying you," Aryan hissed. "Who killed him?"

Rat grinned, showing yellow teeth. "It wasn't the Mehrans. It was... a suit. A government job. But not police."

"Who?"

"A CBI officer," Rat whispered. "But he wasn't alone. He met with a woman. A business rival."

Aryan leaned in. "What woman?"

"Laila," Rat whispered. "The one who got away. She's back. And she wants the throne."

*Laila.* Aryan remembered her. The woman from the warehouse. Aayat had let her go.

"And the pin?" Aryan asked. "The evidence?"

"Planted," Rat laughed. "She stole it from your car while you were at the temple. She’s playing the long game, boy."

Aryan felt a chill. Laila was alive, and she was working with the CBI to bring Aayat down—and frame Aryan for murder.

***

**Cliffhanger**

Aryan left the bar, his head spinning. He had to tell Aayat. Laila was back. This was a coordinated attack.

As he walked towards the car where Salman was waiting, a black van screeched around the corner. Men in masks jumped out. No police uniforms this time. Mercenaries.

"Grab him!" a voice shouted.

Aryan ran.

"Salman!" he screamed.

A shot fired. *Bang!*

Aryan felt a burning sensation in his shoulder. He stumbled, hitting the ground.

Through the haze of pain, he saw a woman step out of the van. High heels. Cold smile.

Laila.

"Hello, Hero," she smiled, pointing a gun at his face. "You should have stayed in the kitchen."

***

**End of Chapter 25**