Chapter Eighteen
April 1, 2026
Two weeks aftershe had been discharged from the hospital, Dimple was torn between frustration at the limitations her injury had imposed upon her and a fear of what her thoughts would turn to if she was left alone.
“Priyal, this isn’t your job,” Dimple chided exasperatedly.
“I’m your assistant,” Priyal replied, continuing to fold Dimple’s laundry into a neat stack on the couch.
“That’s exactly my point. I don’t pay you to do household chores.”
“It’s not like you have much of a schedule for me to keep track of with your wrist like that! Either I can make myself useful or you can take me off your payroll.”
Dimple sighed, thoroughly scolded, and sank deeper into the couch cushion, velvet fabric scratching lightly against her cheek. Both feet were tucked under her legs, wrist cradled to her chest. No one had ever done chores for her. It was unnerving.
“By the way, I’m great at multitasking,” Priyal said, folding a yellow sundress into a neat square. “I’ve been keeping up with your social media.”
Dimple thought of a computer with several tabs open, of a keyboard clattering to the ground. “Have you?” She reached for her phone on the coffee table and powered iton.
“There’ve been a lot of rumors going around after it was leaked that you were taken to the hospital. For some reason, everyone thinks you’re in rehab. But Julie helped me draft a statement and I think it helped.”
Sure enough, pinned to Dimple’s profile was a long string of text. It rather vaguely read that she’d been injured at a party and would be recovering for an unspecified amount of time. She should’ve known better than to look, but the top comment, sitting at thousands of likes, saiddefinitely rehab.Which part of her was it that alluded to substance abuse? Or was it the stain of her past that she could never seem to remove?
“It’s not completely terrible, I guess,” Priyal mused. “People are curious, so your follower count keeps growing.”
Dimple screened the rest of the comments, glad to see that they were mostly thoughtful well-wishes. She tactfully ignored the ones praising her bravery for taking the steps she needed toget better.Dimple set her phone to the side and took a sip of the now lukewarm hot chocolate Priyal had brought her.
“What do you want for lunch?” Priyal asked. “Should I order something for you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The pricing of most LA restaurants wasn’t worth it. Thanks to her work onInsomnia,for the first time in her life, Dimple had money to squander—even if hospital bills had siphoned a sizable portion of it—but she couldn’t help thinking of years into the future. IfInsomniaflopped, there was a chance she would never see a paycheck like this ever again. The last thing she wanted was to go back to the grueling minimum wage jobs between auditions.
Her broken wrist only made it more difficult for her to get work in the meantime. It meant a month of near-total isolation—broken up only by Priyal’s occasional visits—with nothing for her mind to do but conjure up nightmares. It was already spring and the two weeks that had gone by since she’d been discharged from the hospital had been hell.
With nothing else to occupy her mind, Dimple had fixated on theproverbial ax hanging above her head that was Saffi Mirai Iyer. She’d spent her free time attempting to conjure up ways to get closer to the investigation. It was the only way to shift this stalemate in her favor.
A knock sounded at the door, startling both Dimple and Priyal.
“Are you expecting someone?” Priyal asked.
Dimple shook her head, rising to join Priyal beside the door. Paranoia anticipated the police had finally come to arrest her. Delusion anticipated Irene or Isaac with a vengeance. Whoever it was knocked again impatiently. Dimple reached for the doorknob with her good hand, but Priyal beat her toit.
And there, at Dimple’s doorstep, was Saffi Mirai Iyer in her signature black suit, looking as unimpressed as ever, as though Dimple had cast her straight out of the movie in her mind.
This was much worse than the police.
“Oh. It’s you,” Priyal said, opening the door wider. She was still under the impression that Dimple and Saffi were old friends trying desperately to reconnect.
“Nice to see you again,” Saffi said, stepping inside at Dimple’s wary beckon.
Priyal wasn’t the kind to question things much. She never asked why Dimple’s family hadn’t visited or even called after her accident. Nor had she asked why Dimple didn’t seem to have any friends or where Saffi had come from all of a sudden. She took things as they came, and it was something Dimple intensely admired. To be fair, Dimple was similar. She didn’t know anything about Priyal’s private life, and so she extended the courtesy and didn’t ask either.
“You should be more careful,” Saffi said, glancing around Dimple’s apartment. “What if I was your attacker?”
“That’s what I keep telling her,” Priyal said, completely missing the undertone of sarcasm.
“I am more than capable of taking care of myself,” Dimple said evenly.
