What Heart Desires.

By Radhika Kori

When things go haywire, they call for me—but to my surprise, things settled down before I could make an appearance. All because of her. She stole my thunder—that gem of a woman with a dark past.When she entered a room, every eye naturally found its way to her—grace and presence woven into every step.

Even now, I wish that day had never been written into my story, or that I had taken a different path when I had the chance. It was a life-altering moment for all of us—mainly for me—the day I let my curiosity get the better of me and delved into her past. I was literally saved by the bell, or today you'd be reading my obituary.

It was as they say “Even angels have demons when pushed too far.”

In 2021, all anyone could talk about was the “White Coat, Black Heart” scandal. And I still believe—he could have never done such a thing. But in this world, the media is controlled by corrupt politicians who throw money at problems to make them disappear.

Let’s rewind a bit and get to know their story.

Aarvi Sharma—one of the best detectives around. Fiercely ethical, fiercely intelligent. The second name in this story: Vaishnav Oberoi, our forensic expert. They were paired together by their seniors—not because they got along, but because no one else could match their level of brilliance. It was a high-profile case: ‘A business tycoon—ruthlessly silenced in his own mansion’ made the headlines. In conclusion; dear son overdosed his father and crafted a melodramatic tale of ‘suicide due to mental health issues’—all for sympathy and headlines. But she—Aarvi—found a loophole. And made ‘Daddy’s Little Disaster’ confess on live television.

With constant banter and clashing egos, they not only cracked the case—but also the cold shells around each other’s hearts. They were the perfect match. Even today, I can’t think of any two people more right for one another. They were the power couple—envied, admired, unstoppable. 

After three whirlwind years, they tied the knot. But just two years into their seemingly picture - perfect marriage, their glass castle shattered. A fresh discovery in a long-forgotten case unleashed a storm no one saw coming . And guess who found the missing piece?

Yes—Vaishnav. This discovery could either make or break his career. Little did he know—it would break him, and everything around him. Hell broke loose. This evidence raised some questionable objections and accusations about his honesty— and soon, whispers turned into headlines, and loyalty turned into suspicion. What once was admiration crumbled into public outrage, leaving his  reputation hanging by a thread. 

He was subpoenaed by the plaintiffs of that case, dragged into a whirlwind of political warfare involving names so powerful, it was impossible to trace their real connection to the crime. It wasn’t his mistake to begin with—just the cruel price of finding a truth buried too deep. He had merely assisted in the early stages of that investigation, back when he was just a lab assistant, with no voice, no authority. His doubts had gone unheard, for his it was like puzzle forced to fit where it didn’t belong. Now, years later, his name bore the stain simply for sins of his seniors who are six feet under, sipping peace , adorned with medals; while he drowns in their dirt. Beneath all this chaos laid a darker truth: the real culprit was home minster’s son, shielded by power, wrapped in silence.  

Aarvi believed her husband. She did everything in her power to stop the case from reaching trial. But even the judge was corrupt.

Months passed.

Vaishnav was sidelined, until the allegations were resolved. Sometimes, money gives you a power that even years of earned respect cannot. He began receiving death threats for speaking out. At one point, even the media and public began to believe him. Then things got personal. Aarvi was his world. And now, her life—and their unborn child’s—was at risk. At first, he ignored the threats, thinking they were hoaxes. Then came the day of the first hearing. Two hours before it, his phone rang. “Hello?” Vaishnav’s voice was wary, yet steady. A pause. Just long enough to chill the air. “You have two hours to decide the rest of your life,” said a distorted voice—calm yet venomous. “We have all the witnesses ready to flip their testimony… for a mere twenty lakh.” Vaishnav clenched his jaw. His voice didn’t waver. “Do what you please. But no one can stop me now.” A cold chuckle crackled through the phone. “Oh, Vaishnav... you’re so painfully naive,” the voice said, smoother, crueler. “Don’t forget—you’re gambling with two lives. Your precious wife, and your unborn child.” Silence,a beat too long. “Aarvi is… expecting?” The words fell out—stunned, raw. “Congratulations, Daddy!” The voice mocked him with a cruel, triumphant tone. “Now choose, kiddo. The clock’s ticking.”

That call was the beginning of the end. Thirty minutes before his hearing, Aarvi walked into the room.And found him. Hanging from the ceiling. She screamed. Collapsed. The agony—uncontainable. The media vultures pounced, broadcasting the family's grief with no regard for privacy.

Six months into 2023. Time moved on. But healing never came. Aarvi now had a beautiful daughter—Sharvi. She took a sabbatical from the unit. But stepping back didn’t mean letting go. One evening, while sifting through old files buried deep in forgotten drives, she stumbled upon a highly encrypted folder—one that bore Vaishnav’s name. Her pulse quickened. Inside were documents… timelines… undeniable proof of his innocence. But what shattered her most was the video file—a recorded confession, raw and unfiltered. Vaishnav’s final words. The truth he couldn’t carry any longer and the weight that drove him to the edge. 

That day she decided to bring her husband the much needed justice and make every single person responsible pay.  Her return to the unit felt like a fresh start or so she thought. One may leave their past behind but it will never stop haunting them. Criticism was faced, loyalty was questioned.  But her support system (her friends ) never gave up on her.

A month into her return, news broke of a retired judge went missing. A week later news deemed a hoax. Two months after that—two police officers found dead by the railway tracks. Headline: “Suspected Suicide.” Which was also forgotten within days. One by one, government officials began vanishing or dying. Reports suggested that their death were due to sucide, natural cause, accident. In the end were overlooked, until the Home Minister’s son disappeared. That made headlines. All units had been alerted.  Aarvi was assigned to the task force—led by me. 

During investigation, I received something I never expected. An encrypted drive. Addressed to me.

Inside was evidence. A confessions.

The entire story of Suriyansh Rathore and his father.

Every bribe, every threat, all their sins piled up in a small device waiting for the world to see. It had every missing piece. 

And…Vaishnav’s name was cleared. How? 

Obvisouly I had questions. Who gave me this? Was I ignoring something—or someone? Why is everything happening so quickly, their must be a pattern.  Then it struck me, coincedintly all these cases were handled by her. Was Aarvi behind all of this?

Months passed and no valid evidence was found. 

Then came Vaishnav’s birthday. And three big bags washed ashore. Inside were rotting bodies of all who have gone missing. Cut up. Unidentifiable. 

One had severed hands, second one contanited legs, and third- torso.  But each one bore the same neck injury—like Vaishnav’s. It was hard to belive the truth. I decided to confront Aarvi about it.

We were giving our closing statements and dealing with paper work, when I broke the ice. 

I asked, gently, “How have you been?”She didn’t look at me. “What do you mean?” she replied, mildly irritated. “You know what I mean. About this whole fiasco.” She scoffed. “Vaishnav got the justice he needed,” she said, eyes darker than I remembered. “But it cost him his life. At least now, everyone will learn a lesson.” That’s when I leaned in. “I know, you loved him to the moon and back… but did you love him enough to kill for him?” She turned to me, lips curled—not a smile. “Kill for him, die for him—what’s the difference?” she said, like she was stating the weather. No regret. No fear.“I know it’s you,” I said quietly.  “No one loves him like you do”. She stood up, brushing her coat. Her voice was calm, but it carried an edge like sharpened glass.“You can speculate whatever you want, Mr. Verma… but remember—“ My phone rang. 

She smiled. Cold. Confident. “Ah. Saved by the bell, as always.” She turned, her heels echoed on the tiles as she walked away. “Take care, sir. You never know what the future has in store.” That was the last time I saw her. 

The reporter switches off her handheld recorder.

She leans back, sighs, and says, “Off the record… but why haven’t you arrested her yet?” I smile—polite, professional. But behind that smile is a truth far more dangerous than she can imagine. “She gave us no proof,” I say evenly. “Only a trail of ghosts, and ghosts don’t testify.” She raises an eyebrow. “You really believe that?” I shrug. “Belief doesn’t build cases. Evidence does.”

She watches me for a beat too long, but says nothing. I stand, brushing the wrinkles from my coat. The press room is cold, clinical, full of echoes. As I walk out, the halls stretch before me—quiet, familiar. Each step clicks against the floor, steady as my thoughts.

You may wonder why I’m so invested in their story. Why this particular tragedy haunts me.

After all, it’s just like any other—love, betrayal, revenge.

But here’s the thing…

The real mastermind wasn’t Aarvi Sharma. It was me. I played my cards so well that even The ‘Great Aarvi Sharma’ couldn’t figure it out. I leaked the files. I timed the drops. I led the trail. I gave her just enough rope to hang the right people—and never look behind.

And in return?

I got a nice condo, a cushy pension, and a reputation as the man who “brought justice.” I retired early. Wealthy. Untouched. Life was good.

Later that evening

His doorbell rang.

Outside sat a small box with his name on it—no return address, no markings, just a quiet invitation. He brought it inside, placed it on the kitchen counter, and opened it without suspicion. Inside was his favorite donut—oddly specific, almost nostalgic. And beneath it, a folded note. Written on it… Morse code. He stared at it, confused at first. Intrigued.

But before he could reach for his phone to decode it— He collapsed.

No sound.

 No struggle. 

Just silence.

Cause of death? Unknown. 

But some truths don’t need autopsies. Just timing.

By Radhika Kori