It felt like I was sleepwalking. Like my body moved on its own, without me controlling it.

I reached up and knocked on her door.

“Just a minute,” she called out.

I reached into my bag and felt for my knife. It was still there. Of course it was still there.

I took a deep breath. Held it.

1. 2. 3. 4—

The door swung open.

“Look, now really isn’t a good time.” She was frowning, still in her sari jacket that she was tugging at.

She started to close the door on me, but I pushed my knee up against it.

“Hey, look—”

But I shoved her and made my way inside, pulling the door shut behind me.

Here it is. My last chance.

18

KAAVI

Three Months before the Wedding

There’s that horrible clichéd saying that they use in books and in movies—about your life flashing before your eyes just before you die. Well, clichéd or not, that’s pretty much what happened to me onstage, with Spencer down on one knee presenting me with one of the ugliest rings I’ve seen in my life.

I should have known that today would end up being a fucking dumpster fire. First, my usual hairdresser, the one I booked for all my blowouts because he was the only one who could do my “not trying too hard” waves just right, called in to say he was “sick.” Oh please, like I didn’t follow him on Instagram and know he was out partying the night before at some politician’s fiftieth birthday party. Even hungover, he would have been better than his less-than-subpar colleague who did such a piss-poor job that I spent an extra hour getting my hair swept into an updo instead.

I’d just made it home and was setting up my ring light to make a quick video about my makeup “look” for the evening when my mother rang my cell phone. Yes, that’s right, she called my phone when she was just downstairs. She only did this when we had company and she didn’t want to yell in the house like she normally did.

“Kaavindi, hi, you’re back from the salon, no?” I knew from her put-on, honey-drenched voice that this wasn’t going to be good.

“Aunty Rasika and Uncle Laal have dropped in for tea. Why don’t you come down and say hello?” Making the call in front of our visitors ensured I wouldn’t refuse. She could have just texted me, of course, which she did right after hanging up to tell me to wear the floral Karen Millen dress I’d had delivered from London last week.

It was a trap, and I knew it even before I went downstairs to be introduced to Aunty Rasika’s sister’s son, an investment banker from New York named Ashwin, who was down in Sri Lanka for “a holiday.” Yeah right, he was on the prowl for a bride if I ever saw it.