The screen door had a tear in the bottom half that had been there since she was a kid. She’d always hated that tear, hated the lack of money it represented. It seemed such a petty thing to focus on now. She opened it and knocked.
Amma opened it almost immediately. “Samara, you’re here.” She enveloped her in a hug that almost took her off her feet despite the fact that her mother was a good six inches shorter than she was. The scent of sandalwood had her smiling despite the weight of the day. Home.
“Amma.” She hugged her back and frowned. “You’ve lost weight.”
“So have you.” Her amma clicked her tongue and pinched her arm. “Much more of that nonsense and you’ll be more shadow than girl. Come in, come in.”
She followed her amma into the little kitchen. “You didn’t have to cook for me. I’m more than capable of picking up takeout on the way here.” The protest was barely halfhearted. Takeout couldn’t compare to Amma’s cooking, and they both knew it.
“It’s not a chore when it’s done with love.” Her amma shot her a look. “And last time you offered to pick up dinner, you brought me raw fish and rice.”
Samara laughed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. “At least let me help you.”
“Absolutely not. Sit. How’s your work? Has that witch seen the error of her ways and found religion?”
“Amma, Lydia is not a witch.” She ran her fingers through her hair and absently started braiding a lock. “Things are going well. I’m personally handling the proposal for an important government contract—it’s a great opportunity. Lydia gave me that.”
Her amma huffed. “She didn’t give you anything. You worked for it. That’s not going to stop her from trying to make you over in her image.” She looked up from the samosas she was putting together and narrowed inky eyes identical to Samara’s. “Look at you. You walk like her, you talk like her, you dress like her.”
“Amma, please.” She tried and failed to rein in her irritation. They’d had this conversation more times than she could count, and she didn’t see this one going any differently than the hundreds before it. That wouldn’t stop her from trying, though. “There is nothing wrong with ambition.”
“Ambition is like salt—a little is a good thing, but too much ruins the meal.”
“I know.” It wasn’t Lydia King that her amma was opposed to—it was the world she moved in. Once upon a time, her amma had been on the same path Samara was on now. She’d come from India to attend McCombs School of Business on a full scholarship and had all the hallmarks of going places.
Until she met Samara’s father. Devansh Patel was rich and beautiful and charming, the youngest son of a local congressman. It had been a love affair for the ages—at least long enough for her amma to get pregnant and drop out of school, losing all her scholarships—and then Devansh unceremoniously dumped her, and his family’s lawyers had blocked any attempts to declare paternity.
Left with nothing of the future she’d thought she’d have, her amma ended up cleaning the houses of people like Samara’s father and the Kings to pay the bills.
All her life, Amma had supported her in every way she could. Samara wore secondhand clothes and never had money for school lunches, but she’d kept her eye on the prize. Even after a long day of backbreaking work, her amma would stay up late to help her with whatever schoolwork was giving her trouble. Anything for Samara. She wanted her daughter to shoot for the stars in a way she hadn’t been able to.
Just not this star.
“Enough of this. I don’t want to fight. Tell me what’s new in your life.”
Samara settled in and gave her amma a purified version of what she’d been up to. She kept the stories light and entertaining, and very carefully didn’t share any details that could be upsetting. It took more effort than normal, mostly because she was preoccupied with Beckett.
She rarely questioned Lydia. The woman was a genius when it came to business, more than proving she should have been named CEO of Morningstar Enterprise instead of Nathaniel. But this situation with Thistledown Villa didn’t sit well with Samara. It was obviously a footnote for Lydia—bragging rights—and it was just as obviously important to Beckett.
It’s not my business. My job is to follow orders and keep my head on straight—it’s not to get between the members of the King family.
Dinner passed pleasantly enough once they got all the bickering out of the way. Samara did the dishes despite Amma’s protests, and she slipped a couple hundred dollars into the cookie jar where her amma had stashed her savings. It was their little song and dance. They had their ridiculous pride in common, but the truth was that her amma needed money, and if she wouldn’t take it directly, Samara had no problem hiding it in places where it wouldn’t be found until she was safely out of the house.
Amma would find the money and they’d both pretend it was there all along and she’d miscounted it somewhere along the way. Unnecessarily complicated, maybe, but her amma had sacrificed everything to bring Samara into this world and ensure that she grew up in the best life possible considering their financial situation. A few hundred dollars here and there was the least she could do.
Samara made tea and they spent a pleasant couple of hours watching the Jeopardy! episodes her amma had recorded over the week.
Her phone buzzed next to her. She almost ignored it, but her best friend’s name came up. “Sorry, Amma.”
“Don’t worry, bachcha. Take your call. I’m on a roll.”
She smiled. “You are.” She’d never
