Chapter Two

It had been fifteen years. Fifteen years since Trisha had been shut out of her brother’s political career, the family’s most precious dream. Finding excuses to avoid Yash’s rallies, and speeches, and celebrations for so long hadn’t been easy but she’d managed it, and the family had long since heaved a sigh of relief and stopped involving her. For fifteen years she had existed on the fringes of her family—where all was seemingly normal, because they were the Rajes, after all, but where the fact that she had almost destroyed her brother’s life hung in the air at all times, like a truth bubble ready to pop.

But Yash was finally running for governor—surely that meant things had turned out fine in the end. Maybe it was time to let the past go.

She maneuvered her Tesla up the curving, deeply forested drive that led to her parents’ Woodside home. The mechanical gates recognized her car and slid open under the wrought-iron arch that spelled out the name of the house she had grown up in: The Anchorage.

A rare nod to the old country. Houses in India all had names. Not just the mansions and the estates but every little bungalow and building had a name. Looking for the often grandly ill-fitting names displayed on the houses had been one of Trisha’s favorite pastimes as a child. Crumbling four-floor apartment blocks called “Royal Towers.” Tiny stone cottages called “Raj Mahal.” Metal placards and stenciled signs that proclaimed self-worth and told you that they were something more than just brick and concrete.

When Trisha’s parents had built this house, nestled into five acres of gorgeous redwood forests, her grandmother had called it “the Anchorage.” The name had been a tribute to her oldest son who had been a naval officer and the twenty-second maharaja before he died in the plane crash that had altered the family’s destiny. Only the family ever called their home by the name Aji had given it. To everyone else it was just a number on a private street. The way the rest of California did it.

Trisha pulled to a stop under the white-columned porte cochere. A caravan of parked cars signaled that the dinner was in full swing inside, underscoring the fact that she was late.

Because, yes, she was late. She hadn’t meant to be. Not on the day when she had recklessly decided to unfreeze herself out of banishment. Not when Nisha had probably taken the time out of her crazy day to prep their parents and Yash so this would be as easy as possible on Trisha.

Trisha hated not knowing how to handle things. Why couldn’t everything be like surgery? She had just excised an adenoma on a thirteen-year-old’s pituitary gland and known exactly what to do. Sure, the surgery had taken two hours longer than expected, and made her late, but a thirteen-year-old girl was going to get her life back. And sure, Trisha could have let another attending surgeon pick up the emergency surgery, but it had been the exact kind of procedure she loved. Complicated. The tumor had gone rogue and grown talons into brain tissue. Trisha had needed the sweet satisfaction of snuffing out every bit of that baby after her unexpected bout of bravado with her sister.

As if facing HRH and Yash weren’t scary enough, the idea of socializing with people she barely knew made Trisha want to gnaw her limbs off. Maybe she should turn around and go back to her condo.

She groaned the kind of groan one can only groan in the privacy of one’s car, loud and pathetic, and looked up at the bright white stucco facade, the marble columns, the black plantation shutters with Japanese roses and jasmine spilling from window boxes, and focused on the click of belonging that only ever happened here, in this place that mapped her life, this place where the memories of her at every age would always live.

Stepping out of the car, she handed her keys to the parking valet, a preening teen dressed like he was off to prom. One of Ma’s friends’ kids looking to impress her, no doubt. Ma was, after all, the Go-To Goddess for summer-internships-that-look-good-on-college-applications with her direct line to:

The managing director and head of general surgery at everyone’s favorite hospital, HRH, Dr. Shree Raje.

The United States Attorney for the Northern District of California, the most illustrious Yash Raje, and . . .

The youngest judge on the San Francisco county court, Trisha’s half-angel, half-saint brother-in-law, Neel Graff.

Speaking of said sainted brother-in-law, there was Neel now, smiling his sainted smile at Trisha, all dapper in what had to be an Armani jacket because her sister didn’t understand why anyone would want to wear suits that weren’t Armani. Although how Nisha could tell the difference between one suit and another Trisha would never understand. He tried to wave from under the assortment of garment bags and shoeboxes spilling from his hands. Only Neel could look just as comfortable buried under Nisha’s fashion emergency stash as with a gavel in hand doing his best by juvenile offenders.

Trisha thanked the prom-boy valet, who seemed a little too eager to get into her Tesla, and slid a few of the garment bags off Neel’s arm while dropping a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Neel. I’m so sorry to put you through this again.”

“Of course. It makes these things kinda fun.” He grinned and straightened his rimless glasses. If he was surprised that she was here, he hid it well and she loved him for it. “Nisha wants you to wear the green one.” He nodded at the green garment bag Trisha had taken from him. “But she thought you should have choices.”

They smiled knowingly at each other. If Nisha had decided on the green one, the green one it would be. Trisha was currently wearing standard-issue blue scrubs with a coffee stain that spanned her entire torso, which pretty much summed up her fashion expertise.

“Which shoes?” she asked.

Neel handed her a box and glanced at the stain painted across her chest. “Tough surgery?” He pointed to the cobblestone path that circled around the side of the house.

She followed him toward the pool house. “Hit the wrong artery. You wouldn’t believe the force of the blood.”

“You’ve been watching Kill Bill again, haven’t you?”

“It’s surgeon catnip. I can’t stop.” Smiling, she twisted around and pushed the door to the pool house open with her back. “Is Nisha going to come and help with my hair?” Because if she didn’t get to tell her sister about the grant in the next two minutes, she was going to burst. Plus, she had to know how Nisha had managed to break it to their father that she was going to be here.

“Your hair looks just—” Neel’s cell phone buzzed and he looked down at it. Her own phone sat dead in her pocket. She’d forgotten to charge it. “I’m not supposed to tell you your hair looks nice. Nisha’s sending someone. And you’ve got to hurry. There’s an angry emoji. She can’t believe you’re late.” He kept his face carefully neutral as he dumped the rest of the items he was carrying on the couch.

As he headed for the door, he stopped and turned around, reading off his phone again. “She says it’s okay. Don’t worry. Smiley emoji.” Neel did the most adorable subtle eye rolls he thought no one saw. “And she wants you to know you won’t be sorry you came.” He looked up from his wife’s message, the slightest flush on his cheeks. “An emoji’s winking at you, and fanning itself. And—oh, for heaven’s sake. Just hurry up and get in there. Apparently, there’s a butt in there you have to see to believe.”

TRISHA PUT HER dress on in record time. Not a small achievement given how complicated it was. Admittedly, it was a gorgeous green thing, but it was made up of innumerable stretchy silken bands that wrapped around her like a full-body postsurgical dressing, and it took almost as long to put on. Nisha insisted green went well with Trisha’s neither-too-dark-nor-too-light brown eyes, and her neither-too-dark-nor-too-light skin. It came down to just a little above her knees—a length Nisha insisted worked best for her five-foot-eight-inch frame that bordered on being too broad. And it was off-the-shoulder, a style her fashionista sister had undoubtedly chosen because it went well with Trisha’s neither-too-curly-nor-too-straight hair that was cut to hit just above her freakishly long neck.

She slipped her feet into the precariously high wedges and left the pool house feeling somewhat equipped to prodigal her way back into the fold. And ran right into J-Auntie, their housekeeper, waiting just outside the door in her usual silent-ninja style. Trisha prided herself for not jumping in fright.

“Trisha Baby, His Highness wants to see you.”

For Trisha’s entire life J-Auntie had only ever called HRH that, but it still made Trisha want to giggle like a six-year-old every time she heard it in that dead-serious tone.

J-Auntie didn’t crack a smile. No big surprise, she never smiled at anyone except Trisha’s two brothers. “He’s in his office. He wants you to use the public entrance.”

With that super ominous directive she strode away in measured steps, her body as severely held as her supertight jet-black bun.

So Trisha’s plan to avoid HRH wasn’t going to work then. She couldn’t quite remember when she and her siblings had started calling their father HRH, but it fit him perfectly. All you had to do was picture a photograph of a modern monarch of an Eastern nation in a pretentious glossy magazine—thick silver hair, proud brow, patrician nose—and there you had His Royal Highness the twenty-third maharaja of the princely state of Sripore. Even though it was a title he’d unexpectedly inherited after the death of his older brother.

The title meant nothing in America, of course, and HRH worked hard to keep it out of the family’s public narrative here, where assimilation was the word. The title no longer officially meant anything in India, either. Not that the staff at the Sagar Mahal or the media put too much stock in the Indian government’s stand on the matter. They were royalty, and that was a matter of blood and destiny, and Trisha’s grandfather had proven it by reclaiming the family’s power by throwing himself into the freedom struggle and then becoming a democratically elected member of Parliament as soon as India finally overthrew the British Raj in 1947.

Three decades after that, HRH, a second son, had migrated to America hoping for a grand adventure and a little bit of his own independence from all that royal legacy and ambition. Things hadn’t turned out quite the way he had expected and now all he ever seemed to focus on was legacy and ambition.

His summoning her was entirely unexpected because there were currently at least fifty people in the house who needed to be awed and inspired, and the fact that he was spending the time on her was more than a bit disconcerting. Would he throw her out? That wasn’t quite the HRH way. Silent disapproval had so much more gravitas. They had skirted each other for fifteen years, through family gatherings and working at the same hospital. It was amazing how easy it was to shut out problematic parts of your life when your work took up the entirety of your time and attention.

She had even forgotten when exactly she gave up bemoaning the loss of her title as her father’s precious little girl.

Could Dr. Entoff have told him about the grant?

Don’t get excited. Do not.

He had to have heard about the grant. They never interacted at work—they worked in different departments and it was a big hospital. Not too big for a thriving grapevine though. The excitement that bubbled inside her made her a certified idiot. Her grant, no matter how groundbreaking, couldn’t crack the surface of her father’s disapproval. Nothing could. Not after what she had done.

As instructed, she used the outside entrance to his office and took the half flight of stairs that led up to the heavy leaded-glass doors. The night was unusually warm for March but not warm enough to justify the sweat that gathered under her arms. With a cursory knock she let herself into the small mahogany-paneled waiting area. It was empty, as expected. She made her way through the open door of his office.

There he stood, across the pristinely ordered room infused with the smell of the leather-bound books lining the walls: HRH, in all his HRH glory. Perfectly groomed and tailored to highlight his tall, proud bearing. She sent a silent thank-you to her sister for making her look halfway civilized and for these heels that suddenly gave her a modicum of power.

He was staring out the window at the elegantly lit patio with a breathtaking view of the mountains. It was sprinkled with guests, who were no doubt contemplating the beauty of the estate and California’s good fortune that Yash Raje was about to deliver them from all their woes.

“I had told you this wasn’t over.” He opened with that, and without bothering to turn and look at Trisha.

Whatever was in his voice, it certainly wasn’t pride. Strike off Option One. This wasn’t about the grant. Something told her it wasn’t about the fact that she had decided to show up today either.

“What—” she began to ask, but he cut her off.

“That friend of yours is back in town.” The words reached her in slow motion, one clipped syllable at a time.

The sheen of perspiration she’d acquired from the stress of seeing him picked up the chill of his office and froze against her skin.

There was only one person he could be talking about, only one person who would dredge up all his anger at Trisha and trap it in his voice. Julia.

Julia was back in town?

Trisha hadn’t heard from her college roommate since their disastrous friendship ended in their sophomore year at Berkeley. Trisha’s family hadn’t even let her talk to Julia before they ran her out of town. She tried to breathe around the shame. All those years, and yet the kick of betrayal landed hard and swift between her ribs.

“Has she been in touch?” He still didn’t turn around and look at her.

Everything inside Trisha singed at the edges and burned inward. The pride for her grant, the anticipation of trying to make amends. All of it gone as though it had never existed in the first place. All her words were gone too. She shouldn’t have been surprised. There was nothing new about words failing her, especially when it came to her father. At least not since she had allowed Julia Wickham into their lives.

“Now is not the time to withdraw into your shell,” her father snapped impatiently.

“Thanks, Dad, now that you’ve issued the order, I’ll just stop with the withdrawing.” That’s what she wanted to say. But no one spoke to him that way. “Does Yash know?” she whispered instead, working to unlock her jaw.

Finally he turned around, his face flushed with rage. “No one is to tell Yash! Is that clear? He does not need the added stress of this. Steele is considering running against him in the primaries. Steele is a worthy adversary. A viable option for the party who could ruin everything. Our focus has to be making sure that does not happen.”

Trisha had no doubt that between Dad, Yash, and their considerable armaments, they would come up with something.

“You need to make sure she stays away from him.”

And how exactly was she supposed to do that? She hadn’t had any contact with the woman in fifteen years. She had only found out that she was in town three seconds ago. But sure, Dad, whatever you say.

The disappointment in his eyes would have hurt. If she weren’t so used to it. “He had a spotless record, Trisha. Spotless.”

Didn’t she know that? No one had stopped bludgeoning her with that little fact. She hadn’t stopped bludgeoning herself with it. She had done this, created a weak link in the chain of her brother’s otherwise flawless candidacy. She could apologize again, but how many times could you apologize for the same transgression? Not that all her apologies had ever meant anything to the family.

“If she makes any contact with you, you will report it to me immediately and you will not engage.”

Trisha suppressed the urge to laugh. As if she needed those orders. The last thing on earth she wanted was to have anything to do with Julia ever again. And if Julia was stupid enough to try and contact Trisha, her father’s spies would make reporting anything to him redundant.

“Yash makes the official announcement next month. There’s no margin for error anymore,” he said, enunciating each word as though speaking to an imbecile. “Does you being here today have anything to do with her being back in town?”

“Excuse me? What exactly are you accusing me of?” That’s what she wanted to say. “Of course not. I had no idea she was back.” That’s what she said instead, but at least she let her anger leak into her voice.

He had the gall to look taken aback at her tone.

Suddenly she wanted him to tell her to leave. Suddenly, she didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to face Yash.

“This dinner is important to your brother.”

Really? A dinner to gather support for his campaign for governor is important to Yash? Gee, Dad, thanks for filling me in!

A deep frown folded between his brows. “Was it too much to expect that you be on time?”

She almost blinked. From her father’s lips that sounded practically like an invitation to rejoin the Force. But she knew better. All this meant was that he wanted her where he could keep an eye on her.

That was it. They were done. He walked past her and left the office.

She may not be as infallible and brilliant as her oldest sibling, but she was pretty sure that meant she had been dismissed.

“Bye, Dad,” she whispered to the empty room and followed him out.

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