Part 1: A Regular Morning at Pink Bow Advocates
Risha Malhotra was certain her office had been cursed by the gods of chaos. Files were piled high on every surface, the AC rattled like it was dying, and her chair wobbled as if mocking her. Somewhere in the background, Adhyani was humming Bollywood songs off-key while doodling on a legal notice.
“Adhyani,” Risha snapped, slamming a stack of papers on her desk, “if I see one more heart in the margins of our case files, I’m docking your chai allowance.”
“But hearts make everything better!” Adhyani protested, putting on her most innocent pout.
Before Risha could respond, the office door opened, and Atishi strolled in, balancing a tray of steaming chai glasses. Tall, poised, and as calm as the eye of a storm, she set the tray down and handed Risha her mug. “Drink this before you combust,” she said.
Risha muttered her thanks and took a sip. “Atishi, where’s the Sharma affidavit? I’ve asked for it three times.”
“On your desk,” Atishi replied without looking up, sorting through another pile of papers.
“No, it’s not—” Risha paused as she moved a stack of files and uncovered the missing document. “Okay, fine. Found it. But why is this place always a disaster?”
“Because it’s your disaster,” Atishi said, smirking.
Adhyani grinned, drawing a wobbly heart on her notepad. “I think the chaos gives the place character. Like a cute, quirky rom-com set in a legal office.”
“Great. When Bollywood calls, let me know,” Risha muttered.
The door creaked open again, this time to admit Arsh Kapoor, who walked in with his signature swagger, followed by Stalin, who carried a folder with the expression of someone who’d rather be anywhere else.
“Guess who’s got your next case,” Arsh announced, dropping the folder on Risha’s desk.
“If it’s anything like the last one, you can leave now,” Risha said, flipping through the file. “We’re not taking another neighborhood parking dispute.”
“Oh, this is way better,” Arsh said, grinning. “Fifty lakhs stolen. A runaway bride. Drama. Suspense. It’s got everything.”
Risha sighed, skimming the report. “Matrimonial fraud? Again? Do I look like a detective to you?”
“Technically, you’ve got me for that,” Arsh said, leaning against her desk.
“And me,” Stalin added, his voice quiet but firm.
“No one asked you, Soviet Union,” Arsh shot back.
Stalin raised an eyebrow. “Yet here I am. Solving your cases for you.”
“Enough!” Risha interrupted, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What’s the story?”
Part 2: Mr. Sharma’s Tale
Mr. Prakash Sharma sat stiffly in the office chair, clutching a frayed handkerchief as though it were the last thread of his dignity. Dressed in a simple kurta-pajama, he looked every bit the picture of a man who had been thoroughly outsmarted by life.
“She was perfect,” he began, his voice trembling. “Polite. Educated. She even cooked me aloo parathas.”
Adhyani gasped. “That’s so sweet! She cooked for you?”
Risha shot her a sharp look. “Adhyani, this isn’t a dating app testimonial. Let the man talk.”
Mr. Sharma dabbed his forehead. “She said she wanted to start a family. We got married, and three days later… she was gone. Along with fifty lakh rupees.”
“Let me guess,” Risha said, tapping her pen against the desk. “She asked for the money to plan your honeymoon?”
He nodded miserably. “Switzerland. She said she’d take care of the bookings.”
Arsh whistled low. “Classic scam. I’ll give her points for originality, though—Switzerland’s a nice touch.”
“What’s different about this one?” Risha asked, turning to Stalin, who handed her a dossier.
“She’s done it six times,” Stalin said quietly. “All lonely, middle-aged men. All cleaned out.”
Risha’s eyebrows shot up. “Six?”
“And she’s still in Delhi,” Arsh added. “Stalin traced her to a café where she’s meeting her next victim tonight.”
Risha stood abruptly, her pink bow bouncing as she grabbed her bag. “Alright. Atishi, draft a complaint under Section 420 IPC. Adhyani, file a notice with Mr. Sharma’s bank. Arsh and Stalin, you’re coming with me.”
“To the café?” Adhyani asked, wide-eyed.
“No, to Switzerland,” Risha said dryly. “Of course to the café.”
Part 3: The Threat
As the team filed out of the office, Risha’s phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced at it briefly before shoving it into her pocket, her expression hardening.
“Drop the case. Or else.”
She didn’t say anything, but her pace quickened. If someone thought a vague threat was going to stop her, they clearly hadn’t met Risha Malhotra.