She packed carefully.
This surprised her — she'd expected it to feel urgent, feverish, the 3 a.m. attempt magnified. Instead it felt quiet. Almost clinical. She went through the master bedroom with the same measured attention she brought to design briefs, categorizing: hers, not hers, necessary, not necessary.
She took her own clothes — the original three days' worth, washed and folded, which still lived in her section of the wardrobe — and two pieces she had genuinely bought with her own money from a shop in Bandra during a client day three weeks ago. Her laptop. Her external hard drive. Her sketchbooks — the full set, nine notebooks now, the last three months of her life in them. Her portfolio with its napkins. Her phone.
She left the jewelry. All of it — the wedding pieces on the nig
