EPILOGUE #2
I sank back into the rhythm of the kitchen.
The controlled chaos felt familiar and almost comforting.
The noise, the activity, the medley of smells—they were the marks of a kitchen that was alive.
When service was in full swing, it was no longer tethered to reality.
It was its own world, one where time compressed into tiny pockets of action and reaction.
The sous-chef calling out orders. The sizzle of meat in a pan.
The ping of a timer going off. Adrenaline and muscle memory took over, making the hours fly by at warp speed.
One minute, I was checking the scallops. Then I blinked, and service was over. My friends and family congratulated me and trickled out of the restaurant. Soon, Maya was the only person left seated in the dining room.
Her eyes sparkled as I sank into the chair opposite hers.
“Open your own restaurant, check. Blow everyone’s minds at the soft opening, check. Next on the list, a Michelin star,” she said. She paused. “Sorry. I meant three Michelin stars.”
I smiled, my body exhausted but my heart full. “You liked the food, then.”
“Is that a real question? Of course I did.” Her face shimmered with pride. “It was incredible. Congratulations, Seb. I know how hard you’ve worked for this, and I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said. “Thank you for waiting. I know how much you love your dessert.”
My note had asked her to hold off on eating dessert so we could enjoy it together.
“Don’t thank me too much. I stole a piece of Neha’s pie when she wasn’t looking,” she said, making me laugh.
“You earned it. Consider that part of your reward for winning Gastronomic Event of the Year,” I said.
To Maya’s surprise and delight, our second launch received the prestigious honor at the most recent World Marketing Awards.
She hadn’t thought we’d win since the event had been so simple, but we’d earned extra points for pulling it off in such a short period of time.
Plus, we’d received special consideration for Whitaker’s sabotage of our first event.
“We earned it,” she corrected me.
“It was more you than me. I was only in charge of the food.”
“Right. Because that’s not important or anything.”
Another laugh escaped me.
We conversed lightly for a while, catching each other up on our nights before I motioned for the server to bring out our dessert.
My smile faded beneath a churn of nerves, but I tried not to let my anxiety show.
The restaurant wasn’t the only thing I’d spent the past year preparing. I’d agonized over how to do it and when, but after scrapping dozens of ideas, I’d opted for the simplest one. It was the one that meant the most. Hopefully, Maya agreed.
The server came out with the final course.
Instead of serving Maya the same deconstructed tarte tatin that everyone else got, I’d personally prepared a special surprise for her.
I watched, heart in my throat, as she took in the spread. Her gaze latched on to the final item, and I heard a sharp intake of breath. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
I’d waited long enough for this moment. It was time, and I couldn’t imagine a better setting than this table in this restaurant—the heart of the thing I loved second most after her.
A small, tasteful arrangement of flowers perfumed the air, and candlelight flickered beneath a delicate oak beam carved with my restaurant’s name: Nouvelle époque. New Era.
I kept my eyes fixed on Maya’s face as she stared at the item cradled in her palm. Her eyes were bright, and her chin wobbled like she was holding back tears.
My heart crashed against my ribcage. The silence was painful, the waiting even more so. Restlessness surged through me, urging me to look away so I wouldn’t have to endure any more torture.
But I couldn’t, and I didn’t have to look at the table to remember what I’d prepared for this course—or what, exactly, I’d included that had her looking so shell-shocked.
One slice of chocolate cake topped with strawberries imported from Korea.
One chocolate milkshake, thick enough to pass for ice cream.
And in her hand, one note with four simple words written on it:
Will you marry me?
Maya
I should’ve known Sebastian would plan the perfect proposal with the perfect ring—a breathtaking marquise-cut diamond that’d been passed down through the generations on his mother’s side of the family.
He had, somewhat ironically and perhaps purposefully, proposed to me exactly two years after my family’s now-defunct engagement deadline.
When I’d recovered from my shock and looked up again, he’d already dropped to one knee, ring in hand.
It’d been the easiest yes of my life.
I told my family the next day, and I swore people in India could’ve heard my mother’s scream of joy.
She was so ecstatic about my engagement that she only threw two fits after Priya eloped, just like my Meera Aunty predicted she would.
She couldn’t take the wedding planning pressure anymore.
However, she’d agreed to let my mother host a big reception for her in New York, which was the best compromise they could agree on.
That meant my mother poured all her energy into my wedding. I’d thought I would chafe at her micromanaging, but I discovered that I liked getting into the weeds of wedding planning. It was basically a giant to-do list, and I took great satisfaction in checking off every item.
Fifteen months later, Sebastian and I got married in two separate ceremonies.
The first was a traditional church wedding followed by a reception at his family’s chateau in France.
The second was a week of Indian festivities in Udaipur.
Like Jaipur, where my cousin got married three years ago, Udaipur was located in the state of Rajasthan.
However, its tranquil, picturesque beauty was a far cry from Jaipur’s lively hustle and bustle.
My father, determined to outdo Radhika’s wedding, had spared no expense in making the wedding the event of the century.
Based on the guests’ impressed exclamations throughout the week, he’d succeeded.
Honestly, I only cared about celebrating with my friends and family, but the spectacle made my parents happy, so I rolled with it.
Besides the food (which included my favorite gulab jamun) and actually marrying Sebastian, I’d been most excited about my wedding attire.
I’d spent months working with the designer Vian, who’d custom-made an exquisite red and orange bridal lehenga for me.
It was draped with two dupattas—one opulent and traditional, the other gauzier and more graceful—and it featured the most beautiful embroidery I’d ever seen.
My grandmother had gifted me a gold-and-diamond heirloom necklace and earrings set, which I’d paired with my own haathphool and my mother’s elaborate maang tikka.
My hands were etched with henna from the pre-wedding Mehndi ceremony, and I couldn’t stop staring at them.
This was it. I was married.
The reality of it took my breath away.
“I can’t believe all of my girls are married,” my mother said, her eyes misting over. “I never thought the day would come.”
“Please, Shilpa, you’ve been planning for this day since they were born.
” My grandmother snorted. “Perhaps now you can stop moaning about your daughters’ marriage prospects and focus on tending to that garden of yours.
It’s looking a little sad. If you’re not careful, Aisha will usurp your throne at the next International—oh, there she is.
Let’s say hi.” She winked at me as she guided my mother toward her frenemy, who was hovering by the dessert bar with a grumpy expression.
I shot my grandmother a grateful smile. I loved my mother, but she’d go on all night if I let her.
We were nearing the end of the reception. We’d already finished all the toasts and official performances, so I could relax a bit and find Sebastian, whose friends had whisked him off for God knew what an hour ago.
My own friends were dancing near one of the main stages. Ayana beckoned for me to join them, but I smiled and shook my head.
I searched the crowd, my gaze skimming over my sisters, my cousins, and Meera Aunty, who was talking to a distinguished-looking older gentleman with a beard. I could’ve sworn she was blushing.
I spotted almost everyone in my extended family, but I didn’t see—
“Looking for someone, mon ange?” A smooth drawl came from behind me. It was laced with amusement.
I spun around, my insides unspooling when I saw Sebastian smiling down at me.
For once, he’d tamed his hair into a relatively neat coif, though a thick lock had escaped sometime during the night.
It flopped over his forehead, framing his sculpted cheekbones and warm amber eyes.
He wore a custom cream sherwani that complemented the rich gold and orange of my bridal lehenga perfectly, and he looked so devastating that it took my breath away.
“Yes, actually. My husband seems to have disappeared. Any chance you know where he is?” I asked innocently.
My husband. I was getting used to the new term, but I liked it. A lot.
“He left you alone at your own reception?” He shook his head. “What an asshole.”
I bit back a laugh. “You said it. Not me.”
“If he was stupid enough to let you out of his sight for one second, he doesn’t deserve you—even if his friends threatened to toss him in the lake if he didn’t drink with them.”
“Is that what you were up to?” I teased, dropping our act.
“Unfortunately. I indulged them for one round, and then I came to find you. You’re better company. Much smarter and prettier, too. Not a lot of people can claim to be a Hall of Famer.”