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palm as she rested her forehead against the painted surface and inhaled.
    Rani Sahiba. Darling. Mr. Shaw couldn’t know that such sweet words fell on the bitterest of ears. Sunita couldn’t bear kindness, and flirtation was far worse. Both were lies parceled in pretty wrapping…designed to lull one into a false security. She couldn’t put her trust in a man who spoke in endearments, not in the workplace or anywhere else. How many times had Sam whispered loving things against the curve of her throat, voice addled by liquor and smoke, only to creep off in the night and say the very same words to some chokra in the back of a gay dance club? He’d held her and Jai hostage in a fragile bid to be a real family, until she finally broke free.
    She refused to be a prisoner again. Not even for a jailer who looked like Davin Shaw, with his sun-burnished hair and sky-blue eyes. Rani Sahiba , he could call her. Darling , he could purr. Sweetheart, baby, jaanam , piya . He could write the lyrics for a classic Hindi love song and sing it beneath her window every day for a week. She would not believe in it. She couldn’t.
    He was right: She was a queen. And she ruled her heart without mercy.

Chapter Five
    The restaurant was bustling. The clink of glasses and plates kept time with the hum of conversation. But it was nothing but noise to Rahul as he went through e-mails on his BlackBerry. At least ten were from his father about the upcoming slate for the production house. Yeh picture, woh picture…and would he want to go on location to the Seychelles to check up on that Harsh Mathur-Sonia Thakral project? Nahin , he wouldn’t. Because he had no reason, no incentive. The movie’s item girl wasn’t Priya. Priya, who ruled his every thought.
    The mere mention of her name pierced the veil of his concentration. “ Woh jo hain na Priya?” someone said two tables away—You know that Priya?—and his ears pricked like antennae picking up a signal. It was a common name—it could be any Priya—but Rahul’s obsession was thoroughly uncommon . Nursed and cultivated over the course of six years. He knew when the mere thought of his Priya was in the air.
    He set down his mobile, reaching for his coffee in its stead. He let the voices come into sharp focus as he sipped. “Wow, yeah, yaar !” one man marveled. “She is beautiful.”
    “I am calling her in,” said the other. “I have an item role that’s bilkul perfect. Casting couch, yaar , casting couch!” he crowed.
    In reality, the words were a gleeful whisper, but to Rahul they were the loud braying of a jackass. His coffee turned to ice on his tongue, and the cup clattered into his saucer as it slipped from his grasp. A red haze of anger floated in front of his eyes as he rose from his seat. By the time he’d reached their table, it was a full curtain of fury.
    He only vaguely recognized the offenders: a minor director of cheap comedies that played to the lowest common denominator and a producer of equally tasteless music videos. But who they were was of no consequence. It was their laughter that mattered. Their assumptions. Their vulgar intent.
    The casting couch was an ugly side of their business. So many girls were exploited, coming to Mumbai with big filmi dreams only to be abused by the worst sort of men…forced to prostitute themselves for a role or, worse, just f orced . Rahul’s hands curled into fists as the bile rose in his throat. Priya would not be molested. No one would suffer such a fate if he could put a stop to it.
    “Hey. Who in the hell do you think you are?” Before the words were even half out of his mouth, the men were struck silent. Not so much with shame, but with shock. “How dare you speak so loosely about a good Hindustani girl? Sharam nahin aata? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
    Immediately the kowtowing began. “Anand -ji , aap ? So sorry!” and “Man, we didn’t know you were listening. No offense, please!”
    As if such talk was