CHAPTER 29

364 words | 1 min read

NOT OJASWINI

Beautiful.

The timing was perfect. The knife entered between the third and fourth ribs — I practiced on coconuts behind the cottage for a week. The human torso is surprisingly similar to a coconut when you account for bone density.

I didn't expect the chef to go for the gun. That was impressive. Stupid, but impressive. She has more fight in her than I calculated.

No matter. Deven is bleeding on the floor of the master bedroom. Not dead — the knife missed the heart by two centimeters, which was intentional. I need him alive for forty more minutes. Long enough for the clontriptyline in his bloodstream to reach critical levels. Long enough for the story to crystallize.

Tapsee's pills in his system.

The chef's knife in his back.

The fake WhatsApp messages on his phone.

Arya dead in the cottage.

When the police arrive, the narrative will be: the wife and the stalker-chef conspired to kill the husband. The housekeeper discovered the plot and was silenced. The husband fought back but couldn't survive the combined assault.

Three dead. One survivor.

And the survivor — the one who walks away with ₹450 crore in assets, the insurance policy, and the uncontested will — is me.

Sayali Shrivastav.

His daughter.

The one he cut from his life like a gangrenous limb.

I check the cameras on my phone. The chef is kneeling next to my father. Checking his pulse. Stupid girl — she should be running. Every second she spends touching his body is another second her DNA is on the murder weapon.

Tapsee is in shock. Good. The clontriptyline in her system will accelerate now — cortisol raises absorption rates by 40%. I learned that from a pharmacology textbook I stole from Dhruv's apartment.

Oh yes. I know about Dhruv. I've known since February. I bugged Tapsee's phone the same week she started her pathetic assassination attempt.

My stepmother tried to murder my father.

My father tried to murder my stepmother.

And I — the scriptwriter, the one they both dismissed as a dreamer — am the one who wrote the final act.

Twenty minutes.

Then Ojju runs. And I hunt.