Page 2 of Kane

She lifts her chin. “Iam yourmother.” In English, to make her point. “Iknow what is best for you.Your fatherknows what is best for you. It isarranged.You are marrying Jiwan in one hour. And in time, you will be happy. More importantly, you will learn that there are things in this life more important than what youthinkwill make you happy.”

She turns away, and I’m alone in the room.

She would think so—her marriage to Pappa was arranged as such things are, and she loves him. She is happy with him.

She is not me.

We are at the very top of a tower, a penthouse suite Pappa has leased for us while we are here for the wedding. The windows overlook Las Vegas, the city spread out beneath me. It is sunset, the golden hour, where everything is bathed in the soft, velvet light like liquid gold. Mamma and Pappa are not entirely thrilled that Jiwan insists I will live with him here in America, in Las Vegas, but Pappa has already begun moving his businesses here as well. He has real estate holdings here in Las Vegas as well as Los Angeles, I believe, although of course I am not kept informed of such things.

I try to breathe.

In one hour, I am to marry a man I loathe. I have only met him once, it is true, but…I loathe him. What is beyond blood boiling? Whatever it is, that is what my blood does when I think of it.

Iwill not.

I do not know how I will get out of it, but I simply will not marry him. I will run away. How I will live, where I will go…I do not know. I do not care. I am a smart woman. Perhaps I am spoiled, but I will figure it out.

I wait, and watch the city move beneath me.

“Miss Sharma?” A soft, hesitant voice behind me. “It is time.”

I turn, and I know my eyes are spitting fire— the poor girl quails, shrinks away, tries to become invisible as she holds the door for me. I ignore her. It is not her fault, but neither can she help me, and I have no mental space for her.

I know the way.

Four of Pappa’s men—in Western suits, with those awful guns at their shoulders—accompany me in the elevator. I ignore them, too. One in each corner, me in the middle.

Down to the private garage. Pappa’s cars surround us—Bentley, Aston Martin, Rolls Royce, a Bugatti, several kinds of Lamborghini, a couple types of Ferrari, several Mercedes SUVs, several Mercedes sedans…and “The Monster” as I call it—all flown here from Mumbai at great expense.

The Monster is a six-wheel Mercedes G-Wagen, with some kind of stupid engine that cost a fortune.

Armored.

Hand-stitched calf-leather seats.

Diamonds inset in various places.

I hate it.

And of course, it is what I am meant to be driven to the wedding in.

I chew on my anger, stew in it, marinate in it. Refuse to let anyone touch me, climbing into the back seat myself. After a moment, Mamma joins me.

I ignore her.

“Anja?”

I ignore her.

“You are not speaking to me, now?”

Ignore.

She sighs and goes quiet for the rest of the drive.

It is some special place, an exclusive venue on the outskirts. A profusion of greenery and flowers and trees and bushes all in the romantic confines of a walled garden. In the desert, to care for such a place? Even I know it must cost a fortune.

I hate it.