She had made sure Flora had her father’s bags packed and in his car. That man would never set foot in Sagar Mahal again.

Shoban locked the door. She had no idea where Bram was. Probably being lectured by his brother, who had hurriedly flown out for the wedding from California, or saying goodbye to the guests, or handing celebratory mithai to the loyal subjects of Sripore. She didn’t care. She undid the safety pins and removed her sari. Blood-red hand-woven Paithani silk embellished with twenty-four-carat gold thread. Bram’s mother had asked if she needed one of the maids to help her undress. She didn’t. Not that it had been an unkind offer.

Maya Devi had tried to talk to her before the wedding, but Shoban’s father hadn’t left them alone and after her experience with Bram, she wasn’t sure if she could trust anyone. The bruises he’d left on her arms still stung.

She rummaged through the trousseau her father had probably paid someone an obscene amount of money to put together at such short notice. All these bright colors and silks. Clothes chosen for her by someone who had no idea who she was.

She looked through the duffel bag she had brought with her when she’d thought she was coming for a visit. She picked out a white cotton kurta appliquéd with white thread.

Widow’s white. It calmed some of her rage, focused it. Until she was in Omar’s arms again, she would only wear white.

When she stepped out of the room, Flora jumped off her stool. “Tai-saheb, you need something?” She looked confused by Shoban’s suddenly and starkly unbridal clothes.

Shoban shook her head. “Just need to get some air.”

Flora started to follow her, but Shoban raised her hand. The action much more imperious than she was feeling. “I’ll be back in a bit. I just need to be alone.”

Flora looked up and down the long corridor. Was she supposed to be spying on Shoban? Guarding her? Finally, she sat back down on her stool. “If you go straight down and make a left, the door at the end leads to a terrace that’s unlocked and private.”

Shoban thanked her and followed her directions. If she didn’t get some fresh air, she was going to suffocate.

The huge terrace overlooked the ocean. Shoban stumbled out and sucked in a lungful of air, then coughed it out. Because someone was smoking behind her.

“Shit,” a female voice said, fanning her hand in front of her face.

Mala, or was it Mona? Shoban couldn’t remember her name, but she was Bram’s older brother Shree’s wife. She used to be some sort of Bollywood film star, but now they lived in America.