Chapter One
One
The bride beams for the cameras against a backdrop of blood-red roses framing the wedding stage. Her newly minted husband stands by her side in a cream sherwani and matching turban. She’s in a golden lengha, hand-stitched with one thousand and one diamonds that shimmer beneath the lights. One could genuinely mistake them for royalty.
She scans the wedding hall. Every detail has been carefully arranged, from the long-stemmed moth orchid centerpieces to the twelve-layer wedding cake designed by Bontemps’s very own head patissière. Her eyes land on mine.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as she and her husband make their way toward me.
“You made it!” she exclaims.
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I tell her. “Your vows were beautiful, and you look gorgeous.” I gesture to the ballroom. “This is all a dream come true.”
“Because of you.” She pulls me into a tight embrace.
“She’s right. Thanks, Nura.” Her husband smiles at me.
The crowd that’s been edging ever closer gasps. I’ve gone from just another of the seven hundred guests here to Nura Khan, matchmaker.
When the couple moves on, I’m quickly encircled.
“I can’t believe you’re the Nura Khan,” a woman in a pink sari says. “I just read the article about you in Vanity Fair .”
“Ah,” I say neutrally, as though it hasn’t been the bane of my existence since it was published last month. “It wasn’t about me . It’s about—”
“Lena Kamdar raved about you in it. I had no idea you matched Saba and Abid too.”
“I use your Piyar app all the time,” says another woman, gazing wistfully at the groom in the distance. “Still waiting for my Abid.”
“Like she met him on the app,” another retorts. “I’m sure she went the VIP route. Good luck affording it. If they even let you in.”
I clock their stunned expressions and feel a pang of sympathy. “The app is also very effective. It has the highest success rate on the market,” I reassure them. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”
Excusing myself, I head toward my seat and run into the wedding planner. We embrace and exchange pleasantries.
“Always wonderful to see you,” she says. “I can’t thank you enough for the referral.”
“I had a feeling she’d go with you. You’ve really outdone yourself tonight.”
“Saba was a delight to plan for,” she says, her smile shifting to a look of concern. “Tell me, how is your auntie? Is she recovering all right?”
“She’s getting better every day,” I tell her. “They finally discharged her from physical therapy last week.”
“The latest stroke was such a shock. Thank goodness she has you.”
“Well, her daughter is also—”
“Yes, yes, Nina’s finally deigning to visit. But you’re the one keeping it all together, aren’t you?” She adjusts her sari and gives me a knowing look. “I remember when you first arrived all those years ago. You were what, ten?”
“Seven.”
“Now look at you. Running the entire business. She couldn’t have passed things down to a better person. Give her my love?”
I promise her I will. I glance around the wedding hall, missing Khala’s presence all the more. Once upon a time, she would have been here with me. Charming everyone. She had a special eye for the people who needed our help the most. We’d have two dozen requests for matchmaking applications before samosas were served.
In the distance, the emcee announces the first dance for the bride and groom. A romantic ballad fills the space. I spot Azar at our table and settle down next to him. He’s finally here. And I have to say, my best friend—and pretend fiancé—cleans up nice. No three-day stubble and blue scrubs today. He’s in a gray Armani with a cream tie.
“You’re late.” I elbow him.
“Sorry.” He looks at me bashfully. “Got tied up at the ER.”
“You’ve been pulling a lot of long shifts lately. You doing okay?”
“We’re just about done wrapping up interviews for the open position. Should be fully staffed by the end of the month. No more late arrivals after that, I promise.”
“No worries. I was just networking a little.”
“Any potential VIP clients?” he asks.
“Not VIP, personalized, ” I correct him. “Tonight was a slow evening. People were more interested in chatting about Lena’s Vanity Fair article. I’m officially clocking out for the night.”
“It sounds like Lena gave the agency some great word of mouth.”
“There can be too much of a good thing. We’re drowning in both inquiries and hate mail lately. Lesson for me about taking on a cosmetics heiress slash influencer.”
“Lena should have checked with you before talking to the press.”
“She meant well,” I acknowledge. “It’s not her fault the piece called us an ‘arranged marriage throwback.’ That’s the line getting the trolls all worked up.” I adjust the beaded embroidery on my sleeve. “Honestly, if I’d known I could wear scrubs to work, I’d have followed you to medical school instead.”
“You sure about that?” He furrows his brows. “Because you’d also have to be equipped to grab a needle to suture a bloody—”
“Okay! Stop!” I squeeze his arm. “You win!”
He grins. “You know you love this work.”
“I do.” I return his smile. “And it’s even better when you’re here.”
Azar’s return to Atlanta from New York City three years ago was a game changer. I love matchmaking. Helping people find love is what I was put on this earth to do. But there’s one catch in my line of work. A woman who matchmakes for a living and is thirty-one (going on thirty-two) years old and very much single? That raises eyebrows. Early on, I’d argued with Khala it wasn’t necessary to pretend I was spoken for. Those who don’t, teach —isn’t that the saying? Besides, I got the desired results. As the years have gone by, though, I’ve had to face the fact that no matter how progressive the world gets, an unmatched matchmaker prompts whispers. To look the part, I need a partner by my side. Long live the patriarchy. Luckily, Azar doesn’t mind filling in as my date, and with our busy schedules, weddings double as our chance to spend time together while eating delicious food.
“Are these wedding favors?” Azar lifts a Tiffany the pulsing bhangra beat fills the room. Azar’s face lights up.
“Azar, no,” I protest. “I’m officially wiped out.”
He takes my hand. “It’s illegal not to dance to this, Nur.”
How do you say no to that face?
Walking to the parquet dance floor, my phone dings again. My assistant.
Did you listen to the recording? These are some vile accusations. Maybe even illegal. There’s got to be a slander angle here.
My mood sours. I’m tempted to steal out to a quiet spot and see what headache awaits me. Except…
No. I slip my phone back into my clutch. Not tonight. I deserve a respite, however brief, from work drama. The truth is that people who don’t get accepted through the vetting process for our matchmaking app or who aren’t green-lighted to our pricier personalized services tend to get upset. Sometimes they lash out. It’s the cost of doing business. I take in the newlyweds on the dance floor. The groom’s arms encircle the bride’s waist. They gaze into each other’s eyes, lost in their own world in the middle of a raging bhangra beat. Some parts of this job leave a lot to be desired, but moments like this one, where I get to bear witness to the happily ever after that I helped make happen, make the headaches worth it. The music cranks up louder. I match Azar’s dancing, beat for beat. Tonight is for dancing. For celebrating a beautiful union. I’ll deal with whatever this is tomorrow.