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“I guess that includes Dina,” Lucky said, unable to help himself. “Though I suppose I should be grateful you waited until I left to shoot your shot.”

Arshad’s smirk widened to a grin, mean and cocky. “I only took what was freely offered.”

Lucky inhaled sharply, and while his first instinct was to answer the arrogance of this statement with a punch straight through Arshad’s face, he also didn’t want to be the drama. Or at least, not until he had a few gulab jamun and a camera handy to catch everything, for Hania’s benefit. He pushed past Arshad and entered the hall, leaving his former friend to stare after him, a contemplative expression on his face.

Samir waited inside the groom’s room, a glorified closet crammed with a love seat, armchair, and standing mirror. He was scrolling on his phone when Lucky joined him.

“Where have you been?” Samir asked, jumping to his feet. He was dressed in a cream brocade shervani with embroidery around the neck and sleeves, a contrasting red shawl across his shoulders. The matching red turban was on the armchair beside him.

“Long story,” Lucky said, embracing his friend. “It’s not important. How are you holding up? Do I need to create a distraction so you can make your escape?”

Samir shook his head. “Mom, Dad, and Aliyah were just here, but I sent them away. Told them I needed some alone time. I told you about my cousin, right? She’s awesome. I can’t wait to introduce you. In fact, let me just call her back—”

“Cool it with the matchmaking for today, Samir,” Lucky said. “I’m starting to think weddings are a pyramid scheme.”

His friend shook his head, smiling. “This is why I needed you, brother. You always know how to make me laugh. I can’t believe I get to marry Hania today. I’m so nervous. What if I trip during the big entrance? She’s putting everything online; I don’t need strangers laughing at me.”

“It does hit different when you’re mocked by randos,” Lucky agreed. “How did the Vogue Arabia photo shoot go?”

“It was great. Except Hania was upset her sister didn’t show up. We tried calling, but Dina didn’t answer. Do you know what happened?” Samir asked.

Lucky couldn’t meet his friend’s gaze. “Um, she was sort of . . . with me?”

Samir stared at his friend. “Luqman Latif, what have you been up to?”

Lucky took a deep breath. “Remember that girl I told you about, the one I had a thing for in law school?”

“The one you were a total goner for but she broke your heart and then married some douche asshat . . . ohhhhhh,” Samir said, eyes growing wide. “You and Dina?”

Lucky nodded while his friend leaned back in his chair. “It’s ancient history now, but at one point, she was the one for me.”

“So what happened yesterday? Isn’t she still married to the asshat?” Samir said. “Arshad is his name, right?”

“We were visiting with some friends, and the evening ran late,” Lucky said. “We ended up spending the night at my buddy’s place. It was all innocent, I promise. She just slept in. I drove her here because her car was towed. I’m really sorry, Samir.”

His friend stared at him for a moment. “You still like her.”

Lucky shook his head. “She’s married. I have to be realistic. I want to sign up for the wedding pyramid scheme too, one day. Anyway, today is all about you, not my nonexistent love life.”

Samir smiled at him. “Fine, but we’re not done talking about this.” He snapped his fingers as another thought occurred to him. “This is why you never got serious with Mariam or the other girls. You were still into Dina. I never took you for a romantic.”

“I’m not,” Lucky said. Before he could continue to protest, there was a knock on the door, and then an unfamiliar woman dressed in a black jacket and skirt entered, trailed by two men holding camera equipment. Samir introduced them as the Vogue Arabia team.

“We wanted to take a few candids of the groom and his best man,” the woman, who introduced herself as Vicky, the journalist writing the magazine piece, explained.

Lucky settled back and attempted to look carefree and entirely focused on his best friend. From the knowing expression on Samir’s face, he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Hania had opted for traditional red, a nontraditional choice in the era of pink, taupe, cream, and beige dresses for desi brides, but as she explained to the camera, “Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I wanted to keep things super tradish.”

Dina hovered at the back of a crowd of adoring women, and though she was worried about Hania’s reaction, she couldn’t help feeling a tidal wave of love and pride at her little sister. In addition to Hania’s blood-red lengha, custom made by a well-known designer in Pakistan, with real crystal used in the heavy embroidery, plus real gold thread, Hania’s arms were heavy with gold bangles, and she wore their mother’s jaravi lacha necklace along with a choker made with pearls and rubies as big as Dina’s thumb. A large diamond tika ornament adorned her forehead, peeking below the heavily embroidered gold dupatta. Her makeup had been expertly applied, and she looked practically pore-less, eyes wide and fringed with thick lashes. Hania looked glamorous, otherworldly, every desi bride’s dream come true, and poised to launch a thousand Pinterest posts. Dina was sure her sister would be in need of some serious sadaqa, to ensure the evil eye didn’t get her.

Lisa sidled up to her. “You’re in trouble,” she whispered. Her friend was in a soft-yellow dress covered in sequins, hair curled and loose down her back. Sparkly diamante earrings flashed from her ears, and matching bracelets adorned her wrists. She held a hot-pink clutch in her hands and removed her cell phone from inside before motioning for Dina to follow her to an empty corner of the room so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I know you didn’t spend the night at your place. I’ve got you on Find My. What have you been up to? Please tell me you’ve been busy doing what I hope you’ve been doing. Hooking up with Lucky would be worth Hania’s tantrum.”

“Not exactly. I ended up spending the night at Deepak’s house after my first and last experiment with a few fun gummies,” Dina said. “Lucky slept over too—on the floor in the hallway outside Deepak’s childhood bedroom,” she hastened to add.

“Kinky,” Lisa said. “Who knew Dina Haq could be the drama? Leave some for the rest of us.”

Dina made a face at her friend. “I’m not the drama,” she hissed. “I just slept in after I got high with my ex-husband’s ex-friends and the guy I was in love with six years ago and nearly missed my sister’s wedding and . . .” She covered her face with her hands. “I am the drama.”