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“Relax. I’m trying to be nice. When did you get so suspicious?” he asked.

“You made me this way,” she shot back, then took a deep breath. She wouldn’t allow Arshad to ruin this day for her. “I want a clean slate,” she said. “I should have told them right after we separated. I know it might change things at work, but we’ll find a way through. My dad has come to rely on you. You’re . . . a good lawyer, Arshad.”

He seemed surprised at this praise, faint as it was, but some of his charm lingered as he looked at her. “You’re a better one, Dina.”

It was as close to a truce as they would ever get, and she would take it. She angled her head in a nod. They had arrived at the tents, illuminated by pretty fairy lights that would glow brighter as the sun went down. Dina went to find her parents, watching as Arshad made his way straight to the group of A girls and made a comment that had them all laughing. She noted that even Ambreen cracked a smile.

She joined her parents, who were looking around the beautifully appointed venue as if they smelled something bad.

When she looked back at Arshad, he was chatting with Ambreen, his tall form bent low over her petite frame. The social media manager was smiling slightly, nodding at whatever it was he was saying. Dina frowned, wondering what he was up to now.

Chapter Thirty

Lucky had only two good suits: one black, the other blue. He threw on the navy-blue suit, which Mariam had once called his “candy wrapper”—that should have been the first clue they weren’t meant to be, in hindsight. When he was in law school, he had envisioned buying many more suits, expensive ones, in different colors and fabrics and cuts, to wear to work. Since moving to Chicago and working in construction, his wardrobe leaned more toward different brands: Carhartt, Milwaukee, Dickies, and the black Henley shirts he bought in bulk. He’d never really liked suits anyway.

He had told Saleem what happened with Aliyah when he returned the night before, and judging from the smirk currently on Jiya’s face beside his brother, she had been updated in turn. To his surprise, his brother had grown thoughtful upon hearing Aliyah’s hypothesis that Arshad had been even more of a backstabbing bastard than he had originally assumed.

“Yeah, that checks out,” Saleem had said. “Arshad didn’t really ask Dina about you. He made the whole rejection up. It’s so obvious when you think about it. Why didn’t you realize sooner, bro?”

Lucky had stared at him. “Because Arshad was my friend? Because he was dating anyone and everyone and had never even mentioned he might be interested in Dina himself?”

Saleem shook his head. “Nah, see, that’s not the way guys like that work. They’re predators, right? Like, he’s a big spider. They enjoy the hunt, but they keep a full meal wrapped up in their web for later. Dina was too important to waste on casual dating. He thought of her as endgame, with her family connections and money. Worth more than the other girls he’d spend his nights with, you know?”

Saleem’s analysis, as cynical as it had been, made Lucky feel foolish. He had known how Arshad operated. Why hadn’t he been more suspicious? Of course Arshad had been interested in Dina, the way a collector kept his eye on a particularly valuable lot when it came up for auction, looking ahead to see how it would appreciate in a few years. He hated him so much.

He tamped these feelings down now and tried to focus on the decor and setup. Samir had mercifully not included any fantastical elements in the reception. Everything was tasteful and welcoming, from the white covered chairs to the large outdoor carpet, with pretty lanterns and flowers everywhere. He noticed there was a paved path that ran from the front of the large white tent toward Crescent House. Samir’s parents had clearly spared no expense on this event.

He led his mother to the reserved table at the front, where Samir had put close family and friends. Huma seemed overwhelmed by the luxury around her and swiveled her head to take everything in. “You never told me your friend Samir was a nawab,” she said, using the Urdu word for an aristocrat. Lucky smiled; Samir would hate that title. Lucky would be sure to make it his official nickname.

“His family is rich, but they’re all very modest and down to earth,” he reassured his mother.

Huma glanced around at all the trappings of wealth surrounding them, including the tens of thousands of dollars spent on floral decorations. “I can see that,” she said dryly. “If they would like to be even more down to earth, they should have donated half the budget for this wedding to the food bank and rented a smaller tent.”

Lucky’s lips quirked at his mother’s caustic remark. “I’ll let Yahya Uncle know,” he said before taking a seat. Saleem, Jiya, and Nisa sat down, his brother and sister-in-law craning their necks to check out every detail. Nisa, on the other hand, was completely nonchalant, confident that wherever she went, she would always be the center of attention. Which was entirely accurate, Lucky thought fondly.

“Hey, baby girl,” Lucky said, scooping up his niece.

“You’re wrinkling my dress, Lucky Taya,” Nisa said severely.

“Actually, you’re wrinkling my suit.” He made a funny face at her, and she giggled. “Are you having fun?”

Nisa glanced around. “Yes. Where’s my cake?”

“I’ll go find out,” he said, settling her on the seat beside him.

The dessert table was sadly not in service yet; however, there was a line around the appetizer station, and he filled a plate with mini samosas and fish pakoras, plus a selection of fruits and vegetables. For his mother he grabbed a few mini falafels, hummus, and mantoo—steamed dumplings stuffed with meat and covered in yogurt and fresh herbs. He deposited this on the table before heading to the bar for drinks. There wouldn’t be any alcohol at this Muslim wedding, but he was sure they would have some sort of signature drink. He was correct: There was some concoction made with ginger beer and hibiscus syrup, and another made with Sprite and blueberry-guava nectar that sounded intriguing. He ordered two of each before turning around to contemplate the crowd of people. Samir had told him, rather sheepishly, that over a thousand people were invited to the reception; Lucky understood that, in desi circles, weddings weren’t just intimate occasions for beloved family and friends, but rather an opportunity for family to pay back every invitation they had ever received in grand fashion. He perused the crowd, enjoying the people-watching, when one particularly familiar figure made him freeze. Mariam was here. What was his ex-girlfriend doing at Samir’s wedding reception?

Lucky turned back to the bartender, an intense young woman with black hair and oversize glasses, who was painstakingly putting his drinks together. Only two to go, and she had just pulled out fresh ginger and a grater. He groaned inwardly. Why hadn’t he just ordered soda? He needed to escape Mariam’s attention. As tempting as it was to make a run for it back to his table, he didn’t want to make the bartender cry. He stood there, willing himself invisible.

“Lucky Latif. You clean up well,” Mariam purred as she eased her body beside his. He stiffened and turned to face her. His ex-girlfriend was dressed in a slinky, silver-sequined dress with peekaboo cutouts showing off her slim waist and a slit through the skirt that showed off a tan leg. Her hair was in loose curls around her face, a tika ornament on her forehead, with matching chandelier earrings.

“What are you doing here?” Lucky asked. He knew how badly she had wanted to attend the wedding, and he had been relieved that he hadn’t invited her, especially after she had unceremoniously dumped him nearly a week ago.

“My fiancé was invited, and I’m his date,” she explained, placing a hand on the bar, the better to show off her ring, an impressive diamond surrounded by other tiny diamonds. “He consulted on Yahya Uncle’s knee. He’s an orthopedic surgeon.”

“You mentioned that last week,” Lucky said dryly. “Congratulations,” he said, nodding at her finger.

Mariam was completely unfazed. “Thanks. Fawaz had the ring made custom from his jeweler. Four carats, oval cut, and the stone is natural, not lab grown. I made sure.” She nodded at someone across the room, and Lucky followed her gaze toward a lanky, nervous-looking young man with a receding hairline and wire-framed glasses, dressed in an ill-fitting suit and mismatched socks.