Lie to Me Series Book 3: Illicit Affairs
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Shala Mungroo
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The Unwanted Guest
Book 3: Illicit Affairs
ANYA
I eased my cobalt Audi A3 Sportback into an open spot in the restaurant parking lot. With the air conditioning humming, I flipped down the visor mirror to freshen up my makeup.
These obligatory monthly lunches with my overbearing mother had been a tradition since I moved out three years ago. Her constant need to micromanage my life was beginning to grate on me. I had decided to address it today, though I was dreading the inevitable argument.
I rummaged through my clutch, retrieving my favorite crimson lipstick. A quick swipe across my full lips, and I was done. My makeup was otherwise minimal—a touch of nude eyeshadow, kohl eyeliner, and a coat of mascara.
I stashed the lipstick back in my clutch, turned off the car, and grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, ready to face my mother, who was already seated at our usual table.
As I walked past a table of three elderly men, fresh from a round of golf, a low whistle followed me.
Since they were regulars, I felt at ease giving them a playful wink and a flirty wave before I met my mother’s disapproving gaze.
“Anya, was that really necessary?” she chided as I slid into the chair across from her at our small square table.
I rolled my eyes, a habit I knew irked her, before responding.
“It’s harmless,” I retorted, unfolding my napkin and draping it over my lap, ready to engage in our usual dance.
Zoya Chopra’s sharp brown eyes scrutinized my appearance. Unlike me, clad in a strapless navy sundress and four-inch heels, she was adorned in a vibrant fuchsia sari, traditional Indian attire, complete with chunky gold bangles and earrings.
“Your dress is too short,” she remarked, sipping her wine. I noticed she had already ordered wine and appetizers, even though I was barely five minutes late.
“The hem is nearly at my knees, Ma,” I countered, flashing her a bright smile as I reached for my own glass of wine. I had a feeling I’d need the liquid courage to survive this lunch.
“You won’t find a good husband dressed like that, Ani,” she continued, her tone laced with disapproval.
As if I was even looking for one, I thought to myself.
I took a large gulp of wine, then another.
“How’s Pa?” I asked, deliberately steering the conversation away from my personal life and deciding against confronting her today.
Both my parents were doctors, but my mother had given up her practice when I was born to raise me. I had always assumed she would return to work when I got older, but she had chosen to focus on charity work instead.
Not that she needed to work—my father was a highly respected heart surgeon, and we lived comfortably in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. I’d attended private schools. I had initially planned to follow in my parents’ footsteps, but early in medical school, I realized medicine wasn’t for me and switched my major to psychology.
My parents had only accepted this change because they’d insisted I complete my doctorate, which I’d done a year ago.
Since then, I had used my trust fund to purchase a townhouse in the city. I renovated the ground floor into my practice and lived on the upper two floors.
I loved my independence and had no immediate plans to settle down, but I kept that to myself. If my mother knew, she would undoubtedly try to arrange a marriage for me, just like hers with my father.
“Busy as usual,” my mother replied, her standard response.
Growing up, I rarely saw my father due to his demanding schedule. You’d think that spending so much time with my mother would have brought us closer, but it was quite the opposite.
We’d never developed that deep parent-child bond. I think she realized that over the years and was trying to make up for it with these lunches.
“Has work picked up now that you’re in your new office?” she asked. She signaled the waiter to take our order.
Since starting my own practice, things had been slow. But recently, I had signed a contract with the court to serve as a mediator for cases like child custody battles and divorces. Since then, my practice had become incredibly busy.
We placed our orders with the waiter before I casually responded.
“Yes. In fact, I have a session this afternoon with the soon-to-be ex-wife of a very successful businessman. I read the case file this morning—it’s quite intriguing. I think they both may be involved in the mafia,” I shared, intrigued.
My mother shook her head, her nose wrinkling in distaste.
“I don’t know how you do it, Ani. These people could be dangerous.”
I was accustomed to my mother’s overprotective nature, so I simply smiled at her.
“The court wouldn’t assign anyone dangerous to me, Ma. You don’t have to worry.”
She looked skeptical but didn’t press the issue. The last time she had, I’d cut our lunch short because I couldn’t stand having to constantly defend my career choices to her.
I enjoyed helping people, regardless of their profession. As a doctor herself, you’d think she’d understand and be less judgmental.
“How did your date go with Anand?” my mother asked, referring to the “nice boy” from her temple she had tried to set me up with last week.
Anand was a lawyer, one of the approved professions for potential husbands my parents had in mind for me. He was also ten years my senior, and despite his resemblance to Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh Khan, I felt no attraction toward him. We had nothing in common, and the date had been excruciating.
“It was fine,” I told her, grimacing. “I doubt I’ll be seeing him again.”
“Ani! You only went out with him once!” My mother’s whispered reprimand made me stiffen. “In my time, we couldn’t date like you do now. We had to—”
“…sit in a room with your parents and your date,” I finished for her, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
I let out a long sigh, having heard this spiel before. Multiple times. Sometimes I wondered if she thought I wasn’t grateful for the life I had, so different from hers.
“So, how was your week?”
My mom was all too eager to fill me in on her latest charity event. I played with my food, pretending to be engrossed in her stories.
***
Two hours later, I was back at my apartment, kicking off my heels. I had a session with Melina Costa in thirty minutes, so I was about to change into something more professional.
But then, a text from Melina popped up on my phone—she had to cancel.
That was okay with me. I was beat after lunch with my mom. All I wanted was to slip into my sweats, watch a cheesy movie, and sip some wine.
But first, I had to tackle a few emails. I decided to head to my office and deal with the emails before changing. I slipped into my fuzzy bunny slippers and headed downstairs.
I was still typing away when there was a knock on my office door. Confused, I got up and tiptoed to peek through the peephole. I gasped when I saw three large men on the other side.
They must have heard me because one of them spoke up. “Miss Chopra?” A deep, masculine voice sent shivers down my spine. “I’m Marco Costa. I have an appointment with you today.”
Marco Costa?
I opened the door and found myself staring into a pair of sharp aquamarine eyes. I was sure my jaw dropped. He was so handsome it was hard not to stare.
I bet he was used to it. I couldn’t imagine a man with a face like that not being a little full of himself. His jet-black hair and striking eyebrows framed a face that could make angels cry.
His full lips, surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard, curved as if he found my inspection amusing. His blue-green eyes slowly traveled down my body, from my wavy brown hair to my bunny-clad feet.
“Um…” I had to swallow to find my voice. “I had an appointment with your wife, but she texted me to cancel,” I blurted out.
His face hardened. “My soon-to-be ex-wife. She told me you wanted to meet with me first.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Melina likes to play games, Miss Chopra. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
I glanced at my watch. He was right on time. Dressed in his designer suit and watch, he looked like a man who was always on the go. A man who didn’t have time to waste.
He’d made an effort to come to this session, unlike many of my other clients who saw it as a waste of time.
“You’re already here, Mr. Costa,” I said, glancing at the two men standing behind him. “We can still have the session if you want. You can swap with your wife this week.”
His face softened, and a small smile played on his lips. “Thank you.” He nodded at his men. “I hope you don’t mind, Miss Chopra. My men need to do a quick sweep of your office.”
I frowned at the tattooed men in black suits and sunglasses. “Why?”
He shrugged. “You never know who’s listening.”
I didn’t really have a choice, so I stepped aside to let them in. As they searched my office, I stood in the doorway, feeling his gaze on me.
“Nice slippers,” he said, his voice low. I had a feeling he was laughing at me, even though his face was expressionless.
I blushed. “I wasn’t expecting anyone today,” I said, tugging at my dress. “If you give me a few minutes, I can go upstairs and change—”
I started to move, but he put a hand on my arm, stopping me.
I felt a jolt, like I’d touched a live wire. He must have felt it too because he quickly pulled his hand away. He looked down at me, his frown returning. I barely reached his chin.
His men came back and nodded at him.
“No need. Let’s get started. I don’t have much time.”
I gestured for him to come in. His men chose to stay outside. I closed the door, acutely aware that we were alone. My heart was racing.
