The monsoon stormed into Pune like an uninvited guest, drenching the streets in silver sheets of rain. Inside a dimly lit office in Shivajinagar, Prakhyat Patankar flicked his lighter absently, the small flame reflecting in his sharp eyes. Detective, cynic, and occasional philosopher, he had spent years unraveling cases, but nothing quite like this.
A matrimonial fraud. A con artist with multiple identities. And a woman he never saw coming.
The file in front of him held the name Samarth Bhandari—a man accused of deceiving women through a matrimonial website. But the deeper he dug, the more names surfaced. Arjun Malhotra. Rishi Sharma. Srikanth Verma.
How many lives had this man stolen?
His phone buzzed. Rutuja Deshmukh, the client.
“Detective Patankar?” Her voice was sharp, urgent.
“Go on.”
“The man who scammed me… I just found out he used a different name before. My friend knew him as Srikanth Verma.”
Prakhyat sat up.
Srikanth Verma?
His pulse quickened. That name had crossed his desk before.
He needed a second opinion.
And there was only one person who could give it.
Mumbai. Bandra.
The scent of filter coffee and nostalgia filled the room as Anvitha Reddy leaned back in her chair, observing the man in front of her.
“A detective in a marriage counselor’s office. Either you’re here for therapy, or you’re here to complicate my life.”
Prakhyat smirked. “I do both. But let’s start with the simpler one.” He slid a file across the table. “Recognize this name?”
She opened it.
Her fingers froze.
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, she spoke. “Where did you get this?”
“So, you do know him.”
She exhaled, leaning back. “Not as Samarth Bhandari.”
Prakhyat’s eyes sharpened.
“What do you mean?”
She looked at him, her voice softer now. “When I was married to him… his name was Srikanth Verma.”
A slow tension built in the room.
“So, your ex-husband is now a con artist with multiple identities?” Prakhyat folded his arms.
Anvitha let out a humorless chuckle. “Honestly? It doesn’t shock me. The man could sell a comb to a bald man and make him feel privileged.”
Prakhyat raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you married a magician.”
“More like a shape-shifter.”
She turned back to the file, tracing her fingers over the new name. “Arjun Malhotra. He keeps evolving. This time, he’s running a full-fledged fraud through a matrimonial site.”
Prakhyat whistled. “That’s next-level ambition. He went from one-on-one scamming to a full business model.”
She smirked. “He always wanted to be an entrepreneur.”
They exchanged a look—one of understanding, and something else unspoken.
Prakhyat leaned forward. “So, do you want in?”
Anvitha smiled. “You’re asking if I want to take down the man who scammed me, destroyed my trust, and vanished like a ghost?”
She picked up the file.
“Hand me my coat.”
Over the next few weeks, they pieced together the scam—tracing bank transfers, pulling old testimonies, and monitoring the matrimonial website. But things took a turn when they discovered something chilling.
One of the victims had saved a voice recording from “Arjun Malhotra.”
When Anvitha played it, her blood ran cold.
“This isn’t just a fraud case, Prakhyat.” Her voice shook. “This is personal.”
Prakhyat’s jaw tightened. “He still sounds the same?”
She nodded, gripping the file tighter. “And I recognize that laugh. The one he used when he thought he was untouchable.”
But this time, he wasn’t.
The final act played out in Lower Parel, inside a penthouse built on deception.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Samarth—now Arjun Malhotra—smirked as he opened the door. “My ex-wife and a detective. Feels like a plot twist.”
Prakhyat’s expression was unreadable. “We’re here to talk business, Malhotra.”
Anvitha’s eyes never left him. “Or should I say… Srikanth Verma?”
Samarth’s smirk faltered.
For the first time, he looked afraid.
Prakhyat tossed a set of papers onto the table. “You thought changing your name would keep you safe? We traced everything—your accounts, your website, your fake documents. Game over.”
Samarth chuckled, but it sounded hollow. “You can’t prove a thing.”
Anvitha stepped forward. “Oh, but we can. And you know what’s poetic?”
She leaned in. “You always said you wanted a legacy. Well, congrats. Now you have one. As a wanted criminal.”
Minutes later, the police stormed in.
As they dragged him away, he sneered at her. “You’ll never trust anyone again, Anvitha.”
She smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Her eyes flicked toward Prakhyat.
“Some things… some people… are worth trusting.”
Days later, Anvitha posted on social media:
“Healing isn’t about forgetting the past. It’s about choosing who gets a place in your future. Appreciation isn’t just about grand gestures; sometimes, it’s about the quiet presence of someone who stands by you, fight after fight.”
Prakhyat, known for avoiding social media, shocked everyone when he replied:
“Some people fight for justice. Others fight for love. Some of us realize… they’re the same thing. Appreciation is recognizing not just what someone does for you, but who they become for you.”
The comments exploded with speculation. But one message stood out.
From Anvitha.
“If you’re done being cryptic, maybe say it in person?”
A few days later, Prakhyat stood at her doorstep.
She crossed her arms. “Mumbai still isn’t your usual crime scene, detective.”
He smirked. “This isn’t a crime scene. It’s the end of a case.”
“Which case?”
His voice softened. “The one where I finally admit that I don’t just admire you. I appreciate you.”
She let out a slow breath before smirking. “Took you long enough, Sherlock.”
He chuckled. “Well, I had to make sure your name was real first.”
She laughed. “Idiot.”
And just like that, a new story began.
The Momma Clan 
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