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"And you must be one of the famous Kareemi daughters. The one who talks 'nineteen to a dozen,' if the rumors are true."
Hazal narrowed her eyes. "If the rumors are true, then you should know I don't have time for vague outsiders. I have a wedding to attend and a plate of kebabs with my name on them."
She began to walk away, her emerald skirts rustling, when his voice stopped her.
"I'm Zain," he said. "And for what it's worth, the ceiling is a structural issue. Don't just patch the plaster; check the drainage on the terrace."
Hazal paused, looking back over her shoulder. He was still watching her, his expression unreadable. There was something in his gaze-not the dismissive glance of the man from her past, but a focused, intense recognition. It was the look of someone who saw exactly who she was.
"I'll keep that in mind, Zain," she said, her voice steady despite the sudden racing of her pulse.
As she vanished back into the crowd of her boisterous family, the "snowball's chance in hell" she had felt that morning suddenly felt a little more like a spark. The monsoon clouds were still heavy above Mumbai, but as Hazal found her mother in the crowd, she felt a strange, electric sense of possibility.