Until he built Curried Dreams, Bram Raje had been the quintessential spoiled prince, the youngest son of the royal family of Sripore, one of India’s oldest princely states. Unlike his older brothers, Bram had lived up to the stereotype of indolent entitlement and fed his antics to the hungry media machine that surrounds royals everywhere. Until one such antic had landed him in trouble with the law and forced him to flee India.

His older brother Shree—HRH, as Ashna and her cousins called him—had rescued Bram (yet again) and brought him to California. Then he proposed (Raje code for dictated) that Bram channel his taste for decadent food and his passion for keeping the public entertained into an Indian restaurant that wasn’t the usual curry house in a strip mall.

HRH had been right, as he often was. Curried Dreams had finally given Bram the sense of responsibility his family had hoped for as they’d bankrolled business after business to help give him purpose that might save him. They had gotten it right that last time; Curried Dreams had given Bram purpose and taught him responsibility, which even having a daughter had not managed to do. But Curried Dreams hadn’t saved him.

Ashna stopped to pluck the few dandelions poking up among the roses along the side of the house. She had just enough time to get in a run before returning to the restaurant. Today was her yoga day, but there was no way her mind would stay quiet enough for yoga. Putting her phone on silent all morning had been cowardly, but she didn’t care.

The downside of choosing cowardice was that there was only so long you could hide. Problems were patient. They always waited you out. On her way to the front stoop, she finally checked her phone. Surprisingly, there was only one message from China and nothing from Trisha. Thinking about the Herculean effort that must have taken made her smile. She had agreed to take the night to think about the show. Not that there was any way she could do it. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing from Mandy either. So it seemed like that chapter was closed.

China’s message was a simple Call me.

All night Ashna had tried to think of another chef who might do the show, but she’d come up empty.

Just contemplating cooking off-script made her heart race so hard she had to breathe through it.

Dear judges, I have for you today: a giant meltdown.

Nope, never going to happen.

How tidy her life had felt yesterday. Thirty occupied tables, a sous chef who helped her find solutions for the restaurant, best friends who didn’t think she was too selfish to help them. What else could possibly go wrong?

She picked up her phone and was about to call China when the name of the last person she wanted to think about right now flashed on her screen.