Chapter 1: Champagne and Stolen Touches
The Delhi heat clung to Matthew’s skin like a second shirt, even as the sun dipped below the compound walls. He stood just inside the gate of the Canadian High Commission, feeling absurdly tall and conspicuously American. The air here, though, was different. It was cooler, laced with the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine, a world away from the diesel and dust of the city outside.
“Stop looking like you’re waiting for a dental exam,” Lauren said, materializing at his elbow with two glasses of champagne. She handed him one. “It’s a party. Allegedly.”
“I’m working on my ‘diplomatically engaged’ face,” Matthew muttered, taking the glass. He’d spent the afternoon reviewing trade briefing notes, a deliberate distraction from the fact he was going to a party. Social gatherings still felt like a minefield three months out from Dan. The silence where his phone used to buzz with goodnight texts was a physical hollow in his chest.
“Well, shelve it. Your face is screaming ‘recently heartbroken academic.’ We’re here to mute that signal.” Lauren looped her arm through his and steered him onto the garden terrace. “Just breathe. And look. It’s kind of beautiful.”
It was. Strings of tiny lights webbed through the branches of ancient trees, casting a soft glow over clusters of people. The flower beds were explosions of color—marigolds, roses, bougainvillea—and the soft hum of conversation mixed with the gentle trickle of a hidden fountain. A server passed with a tray of something that smelled of wood smoke and sweet glaze.
“What is that?”
“Maple-glazed bacon. It’s Canada Day, not a day for subtlety.” Lauren plucked a piece, biting into it with a satisfied crunch. “Come on. There’s someone you should meet.”
Matthew’s stomach tightened. “Lauren, no. I’m not ready for a ‘someone.’ I’m barely ready for polite small talk about monsoon preparedness.”
“It’s not a setup. It’s networking. He’s Canadian External Affairs. Sharp. Knows everyone. Consider it a professional courtesy.” Her tone was light, but her eyes held a steely don’t-argue-with-me glint. “His name is Sendhil Sharma.”
Before he could protest further, she was weaving through the crowd, leading him toward a man standing near a cascading curtain of purple wisteria. The man was laughing at something a colleague said, one hand gesturing broadly, a watch glinting on his wrist. He was handsome in a grounded, substantial way—broad-shouldered, with close-cropped black hair that was just beginning to silver at the temples. His smile was easy, reaching his dark, expressive eyes.
“Sendhil,” Lauren called, releasing Matthew’s arm. “Rescuing you from trade talk.”
Sendhil turned, and his gaze swept over them, landing on Matthew. The appraisal was quick, professional, but there was a flicker of something more curious in it. “Lauren. You’ve interrupted a thrilling debate on softwood lumber. My hero.” His voice was a warm baritone, tinged with a hybrid accent—Canadian flatness smoothed over a melodic Hindi undertone.
“This is Matthew Albright, from our political section. Fresh off the boat. Matthew, Sendhil Sharma. Our favorite Canadian.”
“A dubious honor in this crowd,” Sendhil said, extending his hand. His grip was firm, dry. “Welcome to the madness, Matthew. How are you finding Delhi’s particular brand of chaos?”
“Overwhelming,” Matthew admitted, the truth slipping out before he could fashion a more diplomatic reply. “In a beautiful, sensory-overload kind of way. I spent my first week just watching the street life from my hotel window.”
“A perfect start. Most diplomats arrive thinking they need to conquer it immediately. It’s better to be observed by the city first, to let it decide what to show you.” Sendhil plucked a glass from a passing tray and offered it to Matthew, who realized he’d already drained his champagne. “So, what’s your frame of reference? What did you watch from your window?”
The question was unexpected. “How do you mean?”
“Film, literature, music. What’s the lens? Someone sees a crowded bazaar and thinks ‘Satayajit Ray,’ another thinks ‘Slumdog Millionaire,’ a third thinks ‘BBC documentary.’ It colours everything.”
It was the first question anyone had asked him here that wasn’t about his posting or his CV. Matthew felt a knot in his shoulders loosen slightly. “Maybe… Wim Wenders? The poetic observation of strange, beautiful systems.”
Sendhil’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “An excellent choice. Wings of Desire. Angels listening to the thoughts of Berlin.” He sipped his drink. “So you’re the angel on the balcony, listening to the thoughts of Delhi. And what does the city seem to be thinking?”
They talked. The crowd noise faded into a backdrop. Sendhil was effortlessly witty, guiding the conversation from the cultural politics of Bollywood remakes to the best place for kathi rolls in Old Delhi. He was flamboyant in his gestures, telling a story about a miscommunication with a Jain diplomat that involved a dramatic, hilarious pantomime of sweeping the ground. Matthew found himself laughing, really laughing, the sound foreign in his own ears.
Lauren, seeing her work was done, gave Matthew a subtle thumbs-up and melted into the party.
Matthew caught himself staring at the way Sendhil’s shirt stretched across his chest, the hint of dark hair at the open collar. He looked away, a flush of guilt and confusion warming his neck. Dan’s face flashed in his mind—blonder, sharper, perpetually amused in a colder way.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Sendhil said, his voice lowering. “Did I lose you with my rant about diplomatic parking privileges?”
“No. Sorry. Just… adjusting. It’s a lot.”
Sendhil nodded, the playfulness in his eyes softening into something more perceptive. “The first posting after a personal earthquake is always the hardest. You’re building a new life on a fault line.”
Matthew looked at him sharply. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to fellow seismic event survivors.” He didn’t press for details. “The trick is to let the new geography be what it is. Don’t try to rebuild the old city on it.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, filled by the fountain’s whisper and a distant burst of laughter. Matthew felt a pang—not of mourning for Dan, but of recognition. Here was someone who spoke his language, who moved through the world with a similar blend of analysis and appreciation.
“I should probably circulate,” Matthew said finally, not moving.
“Probably.” Sendhil didn’t move either. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a simple, elegant card case. He extracted a business card, then, on second thought, took it back. He pulled a pen from the same pocket, turned the card over, and wrote a second number on the back. He handed it to Matthew.
“The front is the office. The back is the mobile. The former is for softwood lumber debates. The latter,” he said, his gaze holding Matthew’s, “is for when you’ve finished your angelic observations and want to discuss what you’ve heard. Or for a proper kathi roll tour.”
Matthew took the card. The stock was thick, creamy. He traced the indentation of the handwritten digits with his thumb. “I… thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m a ruthless critic of first impressions.” Sendhil smiled again, that warm, crinkling smile. “It was a pleasure, Matthew Albright. Welcome.”
He gave a slight, almost old-fashioned nod and turned to greet a new arrival, seamlessly re-entering the flow of the party. Matthew stood rooted for a moment, the card a tangible weight in his palm. The scent of jasmine and maple hung in the air. He looked out at the twinkling lights, the vivid flowers, the anonymous crowd, and for the first time since landing, the hollow in his chest didn’t echo. It just felt like space. Potential space.
He slipped the card into his own pocket, feeling the crisp edge against his thigh, and went to find Lauren.
He slipped the card into his own pocket, feeling the crisp edge against his thigh, and went to find Lauren.
He spotted her by the dessert table, deep in conversation with a group of junior trade officers. Catching her eye, he gestured vaguely toward the interior of the residence. She nodded, mouthing “five minutes” before turning back with a polished smile. That was his cue. The garden, for all its beauty, was becoming a pressure cooker of perfumed air and overlapping voices. He needed a minute where the only thing buzzing was the alcohol in his veins, not the entire social sphere of New Delhi.
He slipped through a set of open French doors into the High Commission’s main building. The air conditioning was a shock, a sterile chill that raised goosebumps on his arms. The noise faded to a murmur. He followed a hallway lined with serene landscapes of Canadian wilderness until he found a small, sleek bar tucked into an alcove. It was a modern design, all dark wood and low lighting, mercifully empty except for one man.
The man sat on a stool, his posture elegantly slouched, one hand cradling a martini glass. He was staring into the olive’s brine as if it contained the secrets of the universe. He looked up as Matthew approached the bar.
“Refugee?” the man asked. His voice was cool, British, with a sharp, almost metallic clarity.
“Is it that obvious?” Matthew said, sliding onto the stool two down from him.
“The slightly shell-shocked squint. The tactical retreat from the terrace. I performed the same maneuver twenty minutes ago.” The man took a sip. “Henry Lee.”
“Matthew Albright.”
“American. Political or Commerce?”
“Political. And you?”
“British Council. Which is a fancy way of saying I’m a cultural mercenary.” Henry finally turned to look at him properly. He was classically, almost unfairly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair swept back with precise care. His suit was a shade of charcoal that seemed to absorb the low light. “First posting?”
“Is there a sign on my forehead?”
“It’s in the posture. The eager, terrified straightness of the spine. It wilts after a year or two.” Henry signaled the bartender for another martini, then gestured to Matthew. “What’s your poison?”
“Gin and tonic, thanks.” Matthew watched Henry. There was a contained, watchful energy to him, a stillness that felt like a counterpoint to Sendhil’s expansive warmth. “So you’ve achieved the recommended wilt?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m a houseplant that’s been moved too many times. I thrive on neglect and low expectations.” The new martini arrived. Henry lifted his glass. “To new geography.”
The phrase, an echo of Sendhil’s, threw Matthew. “Why that?”
“It’s what we’re all doing, isn’t it? Trying to map ourselves onto unfamiliar ground.” Henry’s eyes, a deep brown, held his. There was a flicker of amusement there, a challenge. “So, Matthew. What catastrophic personal event prompted your urgent relocation to the subcontinent? Everyone here has one.”
The directness was a bucket of cold water. “That’s a bold opening salvo.”
“I’m several martinis deep. Diplomacy evaporates after the third olive. Humor me. Was it a scandal? A tragic loss? A truly hideous breakup?”
Matthew’s laugh was short, surprised. “The latter.”
“A classic. The fuel for half the diplomatic corps. Nothing gets a security clearance processed faster than a shattered heart.” Henry swirled his glass. “His loss, presumably.”
“You presume a lot.”
“It’s my job to presume. And to observe. You have the look of a competent man who’s been recently undone. It’s interesting.”
The bartender set down Matthew’s drink. The tonic bubbles fizzed quietly. The conversation with Sendhil had been a dance. This was a chess match, and Henry was advancing his pieces with unnerving speed.
“And what’s your catastrophic event?” Matthew volleyed back.
“Boredom,” Henry said, without missing a beat. “A chronic, terminal case. It’s far more corrosive than heartbreak. Heartbreak implies you once cared enough to break. Boredom is just… a slow, polite decay.” He took a long drink. “You, however, don’t seem boring. You seem nervy. All that potential energy. It’s refreshing.”
The compliment was delivered with such analytical detachment it made Matthew’s skin warm. This wasn’t flirting as he knew it. It was a dissection, and he was somehow enjoying being on the table.
“Refreshingly naive, you mean.”
“Refreshingly un-cynical. For now.” Henry finished his martini. He moved with a fluid, economical grace, setting the glass down with a soft click. He pulled a silver card case from his inner pocket, extracted a single card, and placed it on the bar between them. It was stark white, with simple embossed text.
“My direct line,” Henry said. His voice had dropped, lost its sardonic edge for a moment, becoming something more intimate. “The official one goes to an assistant who filters out the dullards.”
Matthew stared at the card. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“I think you do.” Henry stood up, straightening his jacket. He stepped closer, into Matthew’s space. He smelled of clean linen, juniper berries, and something else—something cool and expensive. The closeness was electrifying, a different charge entirely from the friendly warmth of the garden.
Henry leaned in. His lips brushed Matthew’s cheek, just beside the corner of his mouth. The kiss was dry, deliberate, and over in a second. It was less an affection than a statement.
“When the wilt sets in,” Henry murmured, his breath a whisper against Matthew’s ear, “and you’re tired of being interesting… call me.”
And then he was walking away, his footsteps silent on the polished floor, turning the corner and vanishing into the hallway.
Matthew didn’t move. He could feel the phantom pressure on his cheek. He looked down at the two cards on the dark wood of the bar: the creamy one from Sendhil in his pocket, now warm from his body, and this new, cool white slab from Henry.
The chill of the air conditioning finally registered. He shivered.
Two numbers. Two completely different men. Two entirely different kinds of danger.
The hollow in his chest was gone, but the space it left wasn’t just empty. It was echoing, and the echoes were getting louder, filled with the scent of jasmine and the sharp, clean taste of gin.
He found her on a stone bench near the fountain, checking her phone. The crowd had thinned, the energy softening into a post-peak murmur. A team of staff was already clearing canapé trays.
“There you are,” she said, looking up. “I was about to send a search party. You vanished.”
“I went inside. For air.” He sat beside her, the stone still holding the day’s warmth. He pulled the two cards from his pocket, held them fanned between his fingers like a bad poker hand.
Lauren’s eyes dropped to them. “Two cards. Overachiever.” She nodded at Sendhil’s cream-colored one. “I saw you talking. It looked… good. Really good. He’s lovely, Matt. Solid.”
“He was. He is.” Matthew took a breath. “Then I went to the interior bar. Met Henry Lee.”
The change in Lauren’s posture was immediate. She straightened, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “Henry Lee. Christ. What did he say?”
“That I seemed refreshingly un-cynical. That boredom is worse than heartbreak. He kissed my cheek and told me to call him when the ‘wilt’ sets in.” The words sounded absurd, dramatic, now that he was saying them aloud in the quiet dark.
“Of course he did.” Lauren ran a hand over her face. “Okay. Listen. Sendhil is a good guy. A bit of a player, maybe, but a kind one. He has real friendships with his exes. He’s human. Henry…” She searched for the words. “Henry is a hazard. He’s not a player; he’s a collector. The diplomatic corps is his personal trophy case. He goes through junior officers—men and women—like they’re seasonal accessories. The parties are legendary, and not in a good way. There’s a lot of coke. A lot of damaged reputations left in his wake. He finds the smart, sensitive ones who are feeling unmoored—like you, no offence—and he… consumes them. Then he gets bored.”
The description was so stark, so specific, it cut through the gin-fueled intrigue. “He said boredom was his catastrophic event.”
“It’s his fucking brand. He’s a black hole of ennui. And he’ll try to pull you in because you’re new and bright and he hasn’t broken you yet.” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m not telling you this to be a buzzkill. I’m telling you because I’ve seen it. Two postings ago, in London, a friend of mine in the French delegation. Brilliant guy. Henry gutted him. It took him a year to get his confidence back.”
Matthew looked down at the white card. It seemed to gleam with a cold light. A direct line. No assistant. A VIP pass to a world that had just been described as toxic. Yet, a part of him—the part still raw from Dan’s quiet, dismissive betrayal—stirred at the description. Consumes them. There was a terrible, reckless appeal in that. To be consumed meant you were worth consuming. To be a conquest meant you were, at least temporarily, desired with a ferocity Dan had never mustered.
“And Sendhil?” Matthew asked, his voice quiet.
“Sendhil will ask you about your favorite Wim Wenders film and take you for street food. He’ll make you laugh. He might break your heart, but he won’t make you doubt your own sanity in the process.” She squeezed his arm. “Text him. Tomorrow. Ask him about those kathi rolls. It’s a good, normal, low-stakes move.”
Matthew nodded, sliding the cards back into his pocket. The weight of them was definitive now. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“I usually am.” She stood, offering him a hand up. “Come on. Let’s get an Uber. I’m starving, and all I ate was maple bacon.”
He let her pull him up. They walked back through the fragrant garden, past the dwindling clusters of laughter. The logic was undeniable. Lauren’s warning was clear, sourced from a place of care and witnessed truth. The path was obvious: text the good, solid, handsome man. Take the tour. Have the conversation.
But as the humid Delhi night enveloped them outside the gates, waiting for the car, his thumb found the outline of the two cards through the linen of his trousers. One smooth. One sharp-edged.
He knew he would text Sendhil. He would craft a clever, casual message about angels and kathi rolls. He would probably go.
Yet in the dark of the backseat, watching the chaotic, luminous city stream past the window, it was the memory of a cool, analytic voice and the dry brush of lips on his cheek that refused to recede. It was the promise, however dangerous, of being seen not as a wounded thing to be comforted, but as potential energy. Nervy. Un-cynical.
When the wilt sets in.
The problem, Matthew thought, as his phone glowed with the draft of a polite message to Sendhil, was that he could feel the wilt coming. And a treacherous part of him wondered what it would be like to meet it head-on, in the company of someone who had already made a home in the decay.