Saffi went down the hallway toward the room number the nurse had given them. It was then that she realized how rapidly her heart was pounding. She wiped her palms against her pants, shocked to find that they were sweating. And when she raised them to her face, she realized they were trembling too. The distantly familiar full-body excitement of an unsolved case was still thrumming under her skin.
It wasn’t over yet.
Saffi clenched her fists, reining it in. When she looked up, she saw someone familiar.
“Hey!” Tiwari said, surprised.
Saffi winked as they crossed paths, the corner of her mouth upturned in amusement. The assistant hesitated, opening and closing her mouth as though she had more to say but couldn’t get it out in time. She was heading in the same direction Andino and Taylor had gone. Saffi almost stopped to watch the collision course, but something else compelled her.
There were exactly ten rooms in the hallway before Dimple Kapoor’s. It looked like every other door, but there was a certain gravity to this one in particular. Saffi wondered if anyone walking by could feel the importance of the person waiting behind it or if it was just her imagination.
Before she could hesitate any longer, with a swift knock to announce her presence, Saffi made her entrance. The hinges didn’t so much as creak.
An overwhelming floral scent greeted Saffi and the door shut behind her, feeling a lot like the conclusive snap of a coffin.
Shakespeare himself might’ve orchestrated the scene waiting inside. An ashen, broken woman decorated with bright flowers in the hopes that they would breathe some life into her. While the plants served to emphasize her beauty, it couldn’t be helped that they alsobrought attention to how wilted she was in comparison. There was a certain enchantment to that.
A white bandage covered the woman’s forehead and a sling was wrapped around one arm and strapped over the opposite shoulder. Her skin, which Saffi had noted to normally be a healthy bronze, was pale. The brightest things about her were her ever-red lips and that dark, intense gaze that was locked on Saffi.
Despite the weight she’d felt standing outside, she hadn’t expected Dimple Kapoor to be so intimidating. Her presence was a tangible thing, filling up the room and choking the air out of even someone like Saffi—who couldn’t care less about celebrities and their culture of pretension.
This, she realized, was a momentous occasion. There was no question about it. The very grandeur that the universe itself had deemed Saffi unworthy of. Perhaps there just wasn’t enough to go around when people like Dimple Kapoor had it in bucketloads.
The sharp beep of a heart monitor cut through the silence and Saffi broke eye contact first, drawn instead to the machine. Seventy-one beats per minute, a perfectly normal heart rate, but Saffi could see that there had been a slight uptick around when she’d entered the room. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. Maybe she could change that.
She stepped closer, inspecting one of many floral bouquets blanketing the room. Her fingertips slipped over flower petals as she took note of the messages on the cards. A dozenFeel better soons andWe love yous. All of them gifts from fans. Her growing popularity was evident. In a flash of delirium, Saffi felt bad for not having brought anything herself.
It was with that absurd thought that she broke free from the trance, snapping back to the picture of innocence lying helplessly on the hospital bed. Excitement rose in Saffi’s chest. People like this didn’t evolve from nothing. She wanted to take this woman apart by hand, piece by piece, just to see how she worked. To see if anything lay underneath other than manufactured parts. Maybe it was because Saffi knew that she herself was achingly empty inside.
She finally realized what had been bothering her so much about this. It wasn’t that Kapoor was such a doe-eyed sweetheart—unsuspecting suspects were nothing new. But Dimple Kapoor herself? A person Saffi couldn’t look at and immediately predict their next three moves? Someone whose mind she couldn’t even begin to fathom the inner workings of? That was once in a lifetime.
“Hello, Dimple Kapoor,” Saffi greeted. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”
Chapter Sixteen
March 13, 2026
So this washer. Saffi Mirai Iyer, private investigator.
A predator instinct lurked underneath coal black eyes. It was Dimple who would have to be on the defensive. Otherwise, Saffi would eat her alive. She had the kind of confidence, posture relaxed and chin held high, that indicated years of experience. Dimple wondered if it was an act—overcompensation.
Look at me,she wanted to say.Do you realize nowwho it is that you’re dealing with?It was difficult to read Saffi’s expression, but Dimple liked to imagine she saw a touch of awe.
Despite being the one who’d orchestrated this meeting, she felt hauntingly vulnerable lying atop the hospital bed. Her mind seemed disconnected from her body and sudden movement left her nauseous and dizzy. That coupled with the dull ache in her wrist served as a reminder of her complete and utter powerlessness. The heart-rate monitor at her bedside beat a steady rhythm, reminding her to count her breaths.
Dimple had always been terrified of heights, but they had at one point ruled her life so intrinsically, she would have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, up a flight of stairs. Probably a result of one punishment too many. There were only so many times she could be brought to the edge of a balcony and threatened before she began avoiding them altogether. It was a paradox, a positive feedback loop.Her phobia resulted in the very punishment that gave her the fear in the first place.
That was why, when she finally realized that she had no choice in the matter, Dimple had learned to adapt. She pushed the fear so far back into the recesses of her mind, it only leaked out in her weakest of moments. Unsurprisingly, that same terror had reemerged when she stood on the balcony of some actor’s mansion two days ago. The ever-encompassing darkness of the polluted, starless sky threatened to consume her whole as the blaring music of the party inside set her nerves on edge. It reminded her of clumsy hands threatening to push. Of the one time they’d actually gone through with the threat.
It was only when she’d smashed the vase against her own head hard enough for blood to splatter that she could stomach jumping. The calculations she’d done the night before told her everything she needed to know. She would survive. The injuries would be minimal.
But that was, of course, only a given if optimal conditions were met. With the disorientation of her head injury, Dimple couldn’t stop herself from instinctively tensing her muscles and using her hand to break her fall. As a result, the wrist of her dominant hand was now swollen and throbbing, every accidental movement like lightning shooting up her arm. Eight weeks in the cast, they’d told her, and then physical therapy afterward.
It seemed Dimple was destined to collect a new nightmare every time she tried to stop her life from turning into one. Each time, she found herself thinking they couldn’t possibly get worse. Now when she closed her eyes, Dimple relived that same fall. The pain in her imagination was so visceral, she found herself realizing that the actual impact had hurt far less in comparison.
At least no person in their right mind could think Dimple had done this on purpose. She could hardly believe it herself.
“Dimple Kapoor,” the private investigator had said, finally through inspecting the bright flowers—Dimple hadfansnow—decorating the hospital room. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”
