The courtyard was a blur of music, laughter, and vibrant color. Marigolds hung like heavy golden chains across the whitewashed walls, and the air carried the sweet, heavy scent of crushed jasmine mixed with wet henna. Women danced in circles; children darted through the crowd; guests laughed over sweet tea.
To anyone watching, it was the celebration of a fortunate bride.
Only Aira knew it was a funeral.
She sat on the flower-draped swing in an emerald-green lehenga, the delicate mirrorwork catching the afternoon light. Her hands were outstretched, palms held flat as the mehendi artist carefully drew intricate floral scrolls across her skin. Traditionally, the groom’s initials were hidden somewhere in the detailed curls of the pattern for him to find on the wedding night.
Dominic hadn't
