[Dark Saint Alaick]

Her aunt thumped the spatula against the side of the frying pan. “I knew something good must’ve happened. You’re glowing.”

A guilty blush joined her apparent glow as she picked up a rolling pin, threw a ball of dough on the wooden board and started the familiar, soothing action of transforming the dough into flat bread for frying.

“My hours will probably change.”

“No matter, I can take care of things here.”

Khushi stifled a cough. Her aunt lived for “taking care” of things. Once the initial shock of Byron’s defection had worn off, she’d thrown herself into housework as if a maharaja would deign to visit them daily. She polished pans, dusted furniture, swept floors and cooked feasts fit for the entire neighborhood. Leela never stopped, from sunrise to sunset, her predictable routine a comfort considering what she’d been like those first few weeks after Byron absconded.

While Khushi had done her best to hide her devastation at Byron’s betrayal out of respect for her aunt, Leela had openly mourned the loss of the man she’d loved. For a month she hadn’t cleaned the house, had taken no care in her appearance and their social lives had consisted of watching countless Bollywood movies, where Leela would criticize the acting, the costumes, the music while she was transported to a magical world in which she longed to live. Away from men who cuddled and sang and promised the world, only to leave without a goodbye and never return.