Chapter 9
It took all of Cynthia’s self-restraint not to sprint back to her office. A faint tingle prodded the back of her eyelids, but she refused to let her chin drop. But when the framed pastel landscapes dotting the walls started to blur, she picked up the pace.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry , she coached herself.
There was no comfort to be had in the rhythm of her clipped footfalls today.
Once upon a time, the fact that Kumar Construction was one of the few businesses in the Desmond Business Center to occupy an entire floor had filled Cynthia with pride, but now the sprawling office seemed endless.
A cruel joke when the last thing she wanted to do was laugh.
Or maybe it was actually her father’s words, echoing inside her head, that made her destination feel so far away.
Rohit is the man for the job. He’s a natural leader.
Cynthia reached into the dark, hot recesses of her brain for anything that might help stem the flow that was building in her eyes.
Mentally reciting her jam-packed schedule for the week, maybe.
Or the video clip Naomi had sent her earlier that day with some guy in suspenders splitting wood in the forest. Or—
An errant tear dotted her left lower lash line and she wiped it away impatiently, wincing when she saw the black streak left behind on the pad of her thumb.
She tried to rally anger instead—the predictability of her father gushing over the fucking Chosen One always unsheathed her claws.
Or the mortifying revelation that her father had no idea what projects she was balancing at the moment?
He thought she had a degree in public relations, for God’s sake. She should be ferocious .
But all this only drove home one cold, hard truth: her heart hurt.
“Ms.Kumar, you have someone—” Jilly’s voice was a blur, too, as Cynthia flew past her assistant’s desk.
“Later, Jilly.” It came out harsher than Cynthia had intended, but she was unable to focus on anything other than sealing her tear ducts shut by sheer force of will. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Cynthia barged into her office, carelessly swung the door shut, and then almost fell over when she saw her mother sitting in one of the guest chairs, a manicured finger momentarily pausing over the screen of her cell phone.
“Too loud, Cynthia,” Sipra intoned without looking up.
The familiar admonishment, coupled with the sight of her mother’s signature salon blowout and Louis Vuitton purse tucked neatly beside her on the chair, knocked against Cynthia’s resolve not to cry, and her gait became unsteady as she lumbered her way to her office chair.
“Must you always stomp around like a caveman?” her mother added as Cynthia seated herself behind her desk. “Honestly, Cynnie, it’s so masculine.”
Cynthia plopped into her chair and tipped her face toward the ceiling. It wasn’t uncommon for Sipra to drop by unannounced—especially since her husband was prone to forgetting his blood pressure medication on the kitchen counter—but her presence was especially unwelcome today.
“Not today, Mom.”
Sipra’s eyebrows snapped up. “Are you crying?” she asked, her tone sharp.
Cynthia closed her eyes, silently willing the sheen in her eyes to retreat. “No. Jesus. ”
Her terse reply subjected her to one of Sipra’s greatest strengths: a long, thick silence that spoke volumes.
Cynthia’s prim, proper, and chic mother was the queen of silence.
She never argued in public or behaved in any way that would raise eyebrows, but in silence she could command armies and win wars.
But had a war been won, it was Rich they would hail on the battlefield.
Throughout her childhood, Cynthia had witnessed the accolades showered upon her father, the community awards and letters of thanks that were displayed in his study at home.
Rich, the self-made immigrant. Look at what he’s done for himself, for the community. What a success, what a role model.
Not once did anyone attribute his accomplishments to his wife, who, in the silence of their home, raised their daughter, cooked their meals, and made sure all the bills were paid on time.
Her lamb biryani was praised far and wide, but that paled in comparison to Rich’s wealth, which people talked about in hushed, reverent voices.
Her mother was capable, but it was her father who was powerful, and while her mother didn’t seem to mind toiling away behind the scenes, it made Cynthia want to scream .
Even as a young girl, she’d known exactly the kind of life she didn’t want.
Still, because it was her mother, Cynthia lowered her chin with a resigned sigh and met her mother’s amber gaze. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Hm.” The low-pitched noise was as close as her mother ever got to acknowledging an apology. “Learn to endure with grace, Cynnie. It’s the only way to get through.”
When Cynthia met that useless piece of advice with a blank stare, Sipra changed tactics.
“Maybe you should invest in a good waterproof mascara,” she said, her voice returning to the mild dulcet tone she reserved for charity events and personal shoppers at the high-end stores she loved.
Equally unhelpful. And yet the unintentional reminder for Cynthia to straighten in her chair and compose herself plugged her tear ducts instantly. Kumars did not cry at work.
Actually, Kumars did not cry period .
“I just have some dust in my eye,” Cynthia said as she snapped a tissue from the box aligned perfectly to the upper left corner of her desk.
Her mother wouldn’t ask about the tears.
Sipra could talk about decorum until she was blue in her Botoxed face, but she wasn’t the kind of mother who talked about feelings .
As far as Cynthia could see, it was the only thing they had in common.
Raised to be a devoted housewife, Sipra seemed perfectly content living within the confines of that role.
For the most part, she deferred to her husband in all things, was well-versed in South Asian cooking, and played the part of a rich businessman’s wife perfectly, down to the biweekly manicures and understated designer outfits.
As far as their families overseas were concerned, the only thing lacking in Sipra’s immigrant success story was the failure to birth at least one son, but everyone knew Rich and Sipra had tried for years after Cynthia.
Besides, their wealth made up for it, especially since Rich was more than generous when it came to sending money back home to family members—and good friends—in need.
He also never said a word against his wife’s passion for ordering Desi couture online, paying the tab for expensive lunches with her wealthy friends, and needling her husband to retire so he’d finally take her on a luxurious European cruise.
Sipra never seemed concerned about the day-to-day operations at Kumar Construction and had only recently given up on trying to convince Cynthia to do the same, to find a husband instead.
Because that was what good South Asian girls did: they married and had babies. They were docile, obedient creatures who wouldn’t be caught dead in an unaccessorized straight-cut black pantsuit, interrupting powerful men in the workplace.
With another sigh, Cynthia tossed her soggy tissue in the garbage underneath her desk. She couldn’t win. Her father wanted a son to take over his empire while her mother longed for a girly girl she could take on spa dates.
Their one child was neither.
“Have you ever considered adding some color to your wardrobe?” Sipra asked, gesturing to her own blush-pink cashmere sweater. “This shade would do wonders for your skin tone.”
“I like neutrals.”
“You always wear black or white. It’s unflattering and too severe.”
Cynthia’s jaw tightened. She could think of more depressing things, like organizing one’s day to cook for a preoccupied husband and watching soap operas.
“At least come with me to see Antonio later today,” her mother suggested, referring to her hairstylist. “He told me about these hair extensions from—”
Lucky for Cynthia, she was rescued from her mother’s unsolicited beauty—and fashion, etiquette, and lifestyle—tips by a subtle tap outside her office door.
With his broad shoulders and coal-black hair, Rohit was a dark blur through the frosted glass, but, for the first time, Cynthia welcomed his uncanny knack for popping up, uninvited, in her life.
With her thumbs, Cynthia swiped under her eyes and, finding them dry and makeup free, cleared her throat. “Come in.”
Rohit pushed the door open gently and shuffled in. When he noticed Cynthia’s mother, he hesitated. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”
Sipra glanced between her daughter and Rohit.
“Not at all, Rohit,” she said, gracefully standing and shouldering her bag.
Everything about Cynthia’s mother was the slide of a gentle stream—cool, controlled, and elegant—and Cynthia wondered how this conversation might have gone differently had Sipra not given birth to a daughter who charged forward like wild rapids in a storm.
She could admit that her mother was a force of nature in her own right and even now, in front of her husband’s protégé, Sipra didn’t fawn over him like everyone else in this stupid office, nor did she act like she knew anything about him other than his first name.
Rohit shifted on his feet. “Please don’t leave on my account.”
“Nonsense. I should find my husband, anyway.” Sipra offered Rohit a polite smile as she studied him. “Your hair is so thick. What kind of conditioner do you use?”
Cynthia rolled her eyes as Rohit blushed. “I…don’t?”
Her mother raised her eyebrows, and, once she had moved past him toward the door, she shot her daughter a pointed look. Extensions with Antonio , she mouthed.