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“That’s funny. I thought Ana was the one keeping you up at night. That’s her name, right? Or have you already traded in your latest girlfriend for a newer model? I truly can’t keep track,” she said, though she shouldn’t have bothered. She had learned over almost five years of marriage that Arshad had zero shame or remorse for his behavior. A classic narcissist, as Lisa had pointed out many times.

He ignored her. “I was thinking, maybe it’s better we tell Mom and Dad the truth about us.”

Dina tried not to panic. “We have a deal. I just need to get through Hania and Samir’s wedding—”

“You mean we need to get through it,” Arshad corrected, and Dina closed her eyes, breathing deeply, just like the meditation app she downloaded six months ago had taught her.

“Why are you breathing so loudly?” Arshad asked, wrinkling his nose. “You sound like a cow.”

She snapped her eyes open and glared at him so ferociously, he took a step back. “Easy, Haq. It was a joke.”

“Why. Are. You. Here?” she asked.

Arshad threw the cake bar wrapper on her pristine counter and sauntered into the hallway. “Just wanted to remind you of my sacrifice,” he called over his shoulder.

She followed, pausing to throw the wrapper in the garbage and avoid eye contact with her nice, shiny knives. “How noble of you,” she said.

At the door, he reached down to put on his shoes, then straightened to smile blandly at her. “Keeping this secret hasn’t been easy. I know you think I’m heartless, but I truly care for your parents, and even little Hania.” His sigh was theatrical.

She could murder him right now. No jury would find her guilty, surely, if they overheard this conversation. “Message received. You keep quiet, play nice during Hania’s wedding, pretend we’re still happily married, and in return . . .” She trailed off, feeling the bile rise in her throat. She took another deep, cleansing breath, which did nothing to calm her racing heart. Better to get ahead of whatever it was Arshad wanted. “In return,” she continued, teeth gritted, “I will owe you a favor. One favor. Nothing illegal.”

Arshad leaned in close enough for her to get a whiff of his aftershave, and she nearly gagged. “Correction: You will owe me one Massive favor, Dina. See you at the office, jaan,” he said, wielding the Urdu endearment like a freshly sharpened blade. “Oh, and don’t forget to wear your wedding ring.”

He reached for the doorknob, pausing only to read the bright-pink Post-it Note she had stuck there last night. He threw her one last smirk and sauntered out; Dina was surprised a cloud of brimstone didn’t herald his exit.

Furious now, she snatched the pink Post-it from the door and stared at it for a moment: Today will be a good day, so long as you keep smiling! She crumpled it into a tiny ball and threw it directly into the trash can.

Then, after a moment’s reflection, she reached into the trash to retrieve the message, smoothing it on her knee before shoving it in her pocket.

Time to go to work.

Chapter Two

“And then he showed up at my house and stole my Cadbury cake bar!”

Dina was sprawled on the white couch inside Lisa’s office at Haq Law. In addition to being her best friend, Lisa Wu was a fantastic lawyer. They had met while articling for the same tyrannical, if legendary, litigator and trauma bonded over too many late nights spent compiling endless memos and sorting through discovery. When Dina started at Haq Law full-time, she had insisted her father hire Lisa, confident it would be good for business as well as her mental health. She hadn’t been wrong on either count. Lisa Wu was a bulldog in the courtroom and was on her way to expanding the Haq family litigation department. Her bestie also hated Arshad with the force of a supernova, which had made her presence invaluable during the last tumultuous eighteen months.

“It’s not too late to take care of the problem permanently,” Lisa said now. She was dressed in a black knee-length skirt that emphasized her impressive baby bump—she was eight months pregnant but still favored pencil skirts and stilettos. Lisa was married to the sweetest venture capitalist in the city and didn’t really need to work, except that she and Rick would drive each other crazy if they didn’t have something to keep them occupied for sixty-plus hours a week.

“For the last time, assassins don’t exist,” Dina said.

“That’s what they want you to think,” Lisa said, tapping her nose. “I can make a call. I know people.”

“You represent corporations who sue each other over copyright infringement,” Dina said.

“Exactly. Nobody knows how to make you contemplate death like a corporation,” Lisa said. She changed tack when Dina shook her head. “Fine. If murder makes you squeamish, how about a discreet little kneecap? A tiny bit of dismemberment? Something that will leave a scar.”

While Dina appreciated her friend’s loyalty, if not her bloodthirsty suggestions, this conversation didn’t solve her immediate problem. “What am I going to do?”

“Babe, you know what you have to do. First, call a locksmith and change your front door lock. Next, you do what you should have done months—maybe years—ago: Tell your parents what’s really going on with you and Arshad. I don’t understand why you haven’t said a word!”

Lisa’s office was white, with blond wood and gold accents, and abstract prints on the wall that looked elegant and chic, just like Dina’s friend. Her beautiful, strong, smart, capable best friend who had her life all figured out, who had met the love of her life during freshman orientation, married him when she turned twenty-six, and was on her way to two kids and a chic downtown detached. It was pointless to try to explain the crushing weight of guilt, shame, and anxiety Dina felt every time she thought about telling her parents the truth about Arshad. Her ex-husband had a better grasp on Dina’s other motivation: a deep desire not to be seen as a failure.

“It’s not the right time—” she started.

Lisa stood up, balanced perfectly on her stilettos and looking like a petite Asian superwoman. “It wasn’t the right time when you kicked him to the curb. Or when it was Ramadan. Or during Eid, the hungry one and then the other one. Or during Christmas last year, or after Hania got engaged. I don’t understand why you’re putting this off, Dina. They’re your parents. Maybe they’ll be disappointed, but they’ll get over it.”

Except . . . what if they didn’t? Dina didn’t voice the question, but it was on the tip of her tongue. Nasrin and Azeez Haq were both accomplished, intelligent, driven people. Her father had struck out on his own, starting a law firm when he couldn’t crack into the closed ranks of the elite Toronto law scene back in the early nineties. Her mother was a well-known philanthropist and community leader. The Haq family’s name and reputation preceded them everywhere they went.