Mehndi Party
Welcome! We are absolutely thrilled to host you in the coastal paradise of Los Cabos to celebrate our destination wedding! If you haven’t been to an Indian wedding before, then prepare yourselves. The next four days are going to be one wild ride.
We’re kicking things off late this afternoon with the Mehndi Party. Henna artists will be on site for those interested in having their hands painted, followed by dinner and drinks. Blush’s award-winning head chef has prepared a feast of traditional Baja fare, which pairs perfectly with tonight’s spicy signature cocktail. Think passion fruit. Think habanero. You’ve got to try it. Trust us—it’s to die for.
Love,
Raj & Radhika
- Location: The Beachside Terrace, Blush Resort & Spa Los Cabos
- Dress code: Resort Chic
P.S. In accordance with the nondisclosure agreement signed by all guests, we respectfully remind you to refrain from sharing your own photos or videos on social media throughout the festivities. Our team will email you approved content for posting within ten business days, after which you are required to use the hashtag #RajikhaWedding.
Thursday, April 25
8:10 a.m.
Someone is coming for me.
I white-knuckle the handle of my suitcase and stop dead in my tracks. My right ankle wobbles on impact. I’m uncomfortable in heels, even low slingbacks like the ones I’m wearing now. Soft, almost hypnotic music sings through the overhead speakers, and as I take a deep breath in preparation, I notice the scent overpowering my nostrils. It’s sweet and soapy, like freshly washed skin. It can’t be me. I haven’t showered since yesterday morning.
The woman charging at me is extremely pretty, late thirties or early forties, and impeccable top to tail. Her chocolate-brown hair is swept back in a graceful ponytail, and she’s wearing a crisp white-collared shirt and navy-blue skirt and blazer. She plasters a friendly smile on her face as she draws closer. My stomach clenches as I brace myself.
“You must be Ms. Shaylee Kapoor!” she declares, hand extended for a firm shake.
I attempt a smile. “Guilty.”
“My name is Daniela Munoz. Welcome to Blush Resort & Spa Los Cabos.” She beams. “How was your journey?”
Before I can answer, she glances down at my suitcase and gasps.
“Did someone not take your bag, Ms. Kapoor? I am so sorry—”
“I wanted to carry it myself,” I say quickly. I practically had to wrestle my suitcase and handbag away from three bellhops when my taxi pulled up a few minutes earlier.
“Of course.” Daniela nods. “Whatever you wish, Ms.—”
“You can call me Shay.” I smile. “Just Shay.”
“‘Just’ Shay.” Daniela winks. “We are so pleased you have arrived.”
A frosted glass of sparkling rosewater appears in my hand as Daniela leads me farther into the lobby, which has the feel and acoustics of a contemporary art museum. We sit on a plush magenta couch where she efficiently checks me in on an iPad and fastens a discreet plastic band around my wrist. Apparently, Daniela is the resort’s events director and the mastermind behind this weekend’s wedding festivities. She’s attending to me personally because, in her words, I’m the plus one of a “VIP.”
After check-in, Daniela tours me around the resort—pointing out the state-of-the-art spa and fitness facilities, shopping piazza, seven world-class restaurants, Parisian cafe, jazz bar, dance club, hookah lounge, conference center, and banquet halls. After, she leads me outside, and even though I googled the resort extensively before arriving, the view still makes my stomach flip-flop. Tucked into an oasis of palm trees is a lush garden of virgin-white daybeds and cabanas facing four swimming pools, the farthest of which is an infinity pool that spills out over the Pacific.
“Blush Los Cabos has been a long time coming.” She sighs, waving her arm around. “It’s now the crown jewel among Blush Continental’s fourteen resorts in Baja, Jalisco, and Riviera Maya. Have you been to any of our other hotels?”
I shake my head, and she turns wistfully back to the view.
“Well. What do you think?”
Blush opened its doors only two months ago, has a rumored price tag of seven hundred million dollars, and according to a leading travel magazine, is the best ultra-luxury adults-only resort in the Americas.
What do I think?
What the hell am I doing here?
Of course, I don’t say that out loud, and the grand tour continues. Daniela briefly points above and behind her, drawing my attention to the event spaces where some of the wedding festivities will take place. Above are seven floors of hotel rooms and suites, all of which have an unparalleled view of the ocean. But that’s not where I’m staying. Next, she leads me past the swimming pools and through a canopy of palm trees toward the eastern, even more exclusive side of the resort.
The Blush Villas.
It’s a half mile walk slightly uphill, and by the time I get there, I regret having declined Daniela’s offer to have a golf cart drive us up. Panting quietly, I try not to gawk as she tours me through the community of thirty-two mini vacation homes and rattles off facts I’ve already read online. Each villa is at least three thousand square feet and—among other things—comes with its own infinity pool, rooftop terrace, and wellness room, as well as a private chef and butler on standby. I follow Daniela through a labyrinth of villas tucked among exotic flower beds, cactus gardens, and swooping palm trees, and suddenly, an ominous shiver runs up my spine.
For all its glitz and glamour, there’s something not right about this place.
The plant life is too lush. Vibrant. Jarring harshly against its arid desert surroundings. The white marble footpaths reflect the already-hot sun. I can almost feel its heat through the soles of my shoes. We weave around a massive human-made waterfall and, as the sounds of trickling water fade away and all I can hear is the click-clack of my heels and the drag of my suitcase against the sandstone, my knees quake as it hits me.
There’s no one else around. This place is a ghost town.
“In just a few hours, the Villas will be humming with life,” Daniela says as if reading my mind. “The bride and groom reserved all thirty-two villas for their guests.”
She lowers her voice to a loud whisper.
“As I’m sure you know, the invite list had to be cut twice.”
I didn’t know, but that tidbit doesn’t surprise me.
“I’ve planned dozens of South Asian weddings over the years—but this one?” She makes the chef’s kiss gesture. “I can’t tell you how honored we are to host the happy couple’s big day. This is by far the most exclusive wedding I’ve had the chance of being a part of.”
I make a noncommittal sound and try not to trip. People keep telling me how “exclusive” this wedding is going to be, as if trying to impress on me how lucky I am to be attending. “Lucky” is one way to describe it. Depending on the villa, a single night costs between five and fifteen thousand American dollars, and I’m told the “happy couple” is footing the whole bill.
Finally, the maze comes to an end when Daniela stops short in front of a villa—jaw-dropping but indistinguishable from the
dozens of others we passed.
“The garden villas are lovely, but the VIPs have an ocean view.” She sighs again. “This is one of my favorites. It’s a generous one-bedroom, and your terrace is right on the cliffs.” She points south. “Just behind, you’ll find a staircase leading down to the beach. You and your neighbors will be able to access it without going back through the main resort.”
I hold up my left wrist, to which she’d earlier fastened the plastic band. “And I just . . .”
“Wave your hand near the detectors by the front or back terrace doors. They will unlock.”
I thank her and start wheeling my suitcase up the front path. When I realize Daniela hasn’t followed me, I turn around. Her smile falters.
“I will leave you here.” She nods curtly. “I have a meeting with the happy couple.”
A lengthy pause. She doesn’t make eye contact.
“Will that be all, Shay?”
She lingers, as if noticing my hesitation, and I wonder what else she can see. The drugstore makeup I slapdashed on my face in the taxi on the way over. The price tag poking out of my chichi jumpsuit, which I plan to return next week. The fact that, unlike my boyfriend, I’m not a “very important person.”
I’m a big fat fraud.
* * *
The villa appears to be empty so I leave my bags in the bedroom and tour myself around. Everything about the place just screams money, like the bespoke furniture, ivory-white furnishings, and floor-to-ceiling windows, which give every room an uninterrupted view of the Pacific. On the ground floor there’s a huge kitchen, living room, bedroom with an en suite, and an indoor-outdoor terrace with an infinity pool. Upstairs is the wellness space, which includes yoga mats, meditation pillows, a jacuzzi, and a surprisingly tasteful Buddha statue. The room leads out to an expansive rooftop deck with cushy lounge seating and—
I clock the hammock in the corner.
It’s Caleb. He’s passed out cold.
This morning he’s wearing a neon-green tank top, Bermuda shorts, and Birkenstocks, and his hair, which is several inches longer than mine, is wet and pulled into a tight bun. You’d never know just by looking at him that he works in finance and has a sizable trust fund. That he was born and raised in high East Coast society. His legal name is Caleb Malcolm Prescott III.
“Shay?”
Caleb’s eyes flutter open. Game face on, I join him in the hammock.
“Babe, you should have called me. I would have met you in the lobby.” He grins lazily as he wraps his arm around me.
“It’s nice here, huh?”
I turn away from Caleb to take in the view. It’s a gorgeous April morning, already a balmy eighty degrees, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. A single gust of wind whips off the water. It is nice. It’s by far the nicest place I’ve ever been, that I’ll likely ever go, and the thought makes my stomach churn even harder.
I’m only here because of Caleb. He’s the best man in this weekend’s production, and I—to quote the bride—am the “gold-digging whore” who snagged him.
“I missed you,” he says.
“It’s only been two days.”
“And they’ve been the longest two days of my life.”
Caleb kisses me then. Passionately. We go two or more days without seeing each other all the time, but he’s romantic and prone to public displays of affection, sending flowers and saying things that make my eyes roll. By his count, we’ve been together for just over three months, although I tally it a little differently. He rolls me onto my back as we lock lips, and, reluctantly, I let him. I’m above average height for a South Asian woman, and still I feel tiny pressed up against him. When things start to heat up, I gently push him off.
“Where are the others?” I ask.
“Still sleeping, I imagine. We had a big one last night.”
Hand in hand, we walk downstairs to the bedroom. Caleb squints at the unmade king. I’m worried he’s going to suggest sex, but instead he asks me if I’d like to get breakfast.
“Sure. Let me use the bathroom first—”
As I start walking toward the en suite, Caleb darts in front of me and blocks my path.
“The maid hasn’t come yet,” he says quickly.
“So? I just have to pee.”
He twists his neck around, eyes tracking the bathroom through the open door. “Oh. OK.”
He swivels back. Is he sweating?
“Sorry about the mess.”
After Caleb lets me by, I lock the door behind me. Except for the wet towels in the gigantic bathtub, the bathroom is spotless. It’s also larger than my shitty rental in LA. After I use the toilet, I inspect the miniature bottles lined up on the vanity, rub some of the body butter on my knees and elbows. It has the same scent as the lobby.
“Shay, you good?” Caleb asks suddenly through the door. His voice is loud; he must be standing just on the other side.
“Yes,” I call back. “Can I have a minute?”
“Of course. Sure.”
I hear his footsteps as he drifts away from the door. Am I imagining it, or is Caleb acting strange? I put back the lotion and then peek in the shower.
“Sorry about the mess,” he calls again.
Yep. Something’s definitely off. I open all the drawers. They’re empty, except for the bottom one, which contains Caleb’s toiletries, shaving kit, and several prescription pill bottles. Next, I shake out the towels in the tub and, frowning, catch sight of the trash can beneath the sink. There’s an empty bottle of Pacifico, tissues, and a half-eaten packet of the organic, gluten-free vegan seed chips Caleb loves.
I crouch down to get a better look, and my heart catches in my throat when I spot the “mess” he clearly doesn’t want me to see.
The condom.
When Caleb calls out my name for the third time, I wash my hands and leave the en suite. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees. He blushes easily. His forehead is the color of a stop sign.
“Have you read through the program?” His voice is unusually high, and he won’t meet my eye as he gestures at a stylishly decorated booklet on the bedside table. “Radhi was explaining some of the rituals to me.” His eyes flit to the en suite and then back to the booklet. “Indian weddings are pretty elaborate, huh?”
He laughs awkwardly as I stare back at him blankly.
“And then they’re doing it all over again in India . . .”
Caleb continues prattling on about the wedding: how this all-inclusive Cabo vacation is only for immediate family and Raj and Radhika’s closest friends, and the even more upscale wedding—with a two-thousand-person guest list—will take place in Mumbai in the fall. I already know all of this, but still I don’t say anything, curious to see where Caleb will steer the conversation.
I’ve just arrived at my boyfriend’s best friend’s destination wedding, there’s a used condom in his bathroom trash, and all I feel is numb.
I’m aware this isn’t a normal girlfriend reaction. I find out Caleb cheated on me and I should be—what, exactly? Irate? Heartbroken? Vengeful? Violent? I spot a sea-glass vase in the corner. It looks heavy, not to mention expensive. Right now, that’s the type of thing I should be chucking at his head.
“It’s going to be an epic weekend,” Caleb continues, standing up from the bed. He draws closer, sneaks his hands into mine.
“Are you—”
Caleb’s voice changes as he suddenly tugs me closer and stares suspiciously at the wall to my left.
“Do you hear that?”
Huh? “What are you—”
Midsentence, my mouth falls open when I hear something too. It’s muffled, and I can’t be sure, but it sounded like a scream.
“What was that?” I whisper.
Goosebumps prickle my arms as we both approach the window. Beyond the terrace, all we can see is ocean and sky. There’s nobody back there.
“Someone’s television?” I suggest.
Caleb doesn’t answer as he takes my hand again, leads me to the other side of the villa, and opens the front door. We go outside, and at first, I don’t see anything. Caleb’s villa is the last one on the row, just a thicket of palm trees and greenery to the west, an empty villa to the north. I turn to face the villa east of us, and that’s when I see Daniela. She’s on her knees, shaking, bent so far forward the end of her ponytail brushes the pavement.
“Daniela?” I call out.
There’s a charge in the air, even though the forecast is pleasant. My ears ring as time slows down, my heartbeat nothing but a dull vibration in my chest.
Daniela’s screaming now. Hysterical. Her speech garbled and incoherent.
I’m next to her, my hands holding her quaking body when I finally understand her words.
They’re dead.
She’s telling us the bride and groom are dead.
Saturday, January 20
Three months before the murders
The phone slipped down Shay’s neck as she turned to get a better look.
The security guard stepped out first, holding the door open for an attractive thirtysomething pair. Shay tensed. The man had the build of an NBA player and a brownish-blond man-bun that jarred beautifully with his expensive suit. The woman, Hollywood gorgeous and alarmingly drunk, gripped his arm as they joined Shay on the sidewalk.
“Did you hear me? Are you there?”
Shay wedged her phone back between her ear and shoulder, having forgotten Lexie was still on the line. In the background, Lexie’s two-year-old screamed bloody murder.
“No, I didn’t,” Shay said into the phone, lowering her voice. “Actually, can you hang on a sec?”
The music swelled from the restaurant, making it difficult for Shay to eavesdrop on the couple. She drifted closer and chanced another look. The man caught her staring and smirked.
“Mhm,” Shay said enthusiastically into the phone. “Uh-huh. Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” Lexie answered suspiciously.
“Honestly, don’t worry about it,” Shay said to her, wondering if the man was still watching.
“I don’t know what’s going on over there,” Lexie replied, “but I’m putting you on speaker.”
“Brilliant,” Shay said, and then laughed as if Lexie had said something funny.
A black car with an Uber sign in the windshield appeared at the curb, and Shay took a few steps back as the couple approached it. The drunk woman nearly tripped as she grabbed a fistful of the man’s bottom.
“It was good to see you,” Shay heard him say as he gently removed her hand and helped the woman into the backseat. “I’m going to head back inside.”
The woman popped her head out, eyes wide. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Can’t. Sorry.”
“But, then why did—”
“Get some sleep, OK?” He smiled, and then without waiting for a reply, shut the door in her startled face.
On the other end of the line, Lexie’s toddler blew raspberries to a song on the radio. Harry Styles, Shay thought. The man watched the Uber drive off, and after a moment, turned his gaze on Shay, as if he knew she’d been watching. Uncomfortable, in need of something to pretend to do, she tucked the phone into the crook of her shoulder, rummaged around her purse for a cigarette, and lit it.
“Can I bum one?” the man asked.
Was he talking to her? Shay was tempted to look around and confirm as much, but she was the only one standing in his vicinity.
“I’ll forgive you,” Shay said into the phone, as if in midconversation with Lexie. With her free hand, she handed the man a cigarette. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Talk soon.”
Without waiting for Lexie to reply, Shay hung up and tucked her phone away. The man was standing close to her now, face-to-face. He smiled.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t.”
“You didn’t.” Shay blew smoke out of her nostrils and did her best not to fidget with the outfit Lexie had lent her—a stretchy black thing Lexie had made her promise to return. “Need a light?”
The man nodded, and so she held out her lighter in her palm. Stepping forward, he placed his whole hand over hers, squeezing lightly as he swiped it from her. “Are you here for the party?”
“What party?” Shay squinted at the restaurant from which he’d come. “Oh. No. I was supposed to meet a friend.”
Lighting the cigarette, he asked, “A friend, or a date?”
“A friend.” Shay smiled playfully, and then pointed indiscriminately at one of the several upscale bars and restaurants lining this part of Sunset. “We were going to grab a late dinner, but she can’t make it.”
“Her loss.” He paused. “What’s your name?”
“Shay.”
“I’m Caleb.” His eyes dropped briefly to her bare legs. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
Shay cocked her head to the side and suppressed a smile. “How could you tell?”
He exhaled deeply, smoke billowing.
“Right. I’m a smoker.” She made a face. “Nobody smokes in LA. I feel like an alien.”
Caleb bent over and lifted up his left pant leg, revealing ET-branded trouser socks.
“Everyone here is an alien.”
Shay laughed. With those eyes, that face, that objectively perfect SoCal physique, she hadn’t expected him to make her laugh.
“And what distant universe did you come from, Caleb?”
“Connecticut.”
“Connecticut. Ah. So let me guess. You’re a lawyer?” she tried. “Management consultant?”
Caleb’s cheeks reddened as he smiled. “I work in finance.”
“Of course you do.”
Smiling, Caleb took a long drag. She could feel him evaluating her.
“My turn,” he said slowly. “I bet you’re a . . . . model.”
“Good line.”
“Did it work?” He grinned.
She avoided the question. “I’m a grad student. I grew up in Vancouver, but I moved around a lot in my twenties.”
She could feel Caleb’s eyes tracking her face, her physique; he was calculating her age.
“I moved here to study public policy,” she continued, suddenly desperate to impress him. “At USC Price.”
“Damn.” Caleb’s eyes widened. “You’re smart.”
“Going back to school at thirty? In this economy? I’m a fool.”
Caleb snorted a laugh, which turned into a coughing fit.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” he said after catching his breath.
“A little,” Shay admitted. “Do you actually smoke, or did you just want to chat me up?”
His gaze seared, and Shay wondered where her confidence was coming from. How was she managing to chat up a guy who was
freakishly out of her league? Shay tucked her hair behind her ear. And when was the last time she’d even flirted?
She hadn’t.
“I don’t smoke often,” Caleb said wryly. “But after I’ve had a few drinks, I’ll do pretty much anything.”
Shay gestured at the street, where the Uber had just whisked away the other woman.
“Except take advantage of drunk women trying to get you into bed?”
He grinned, and she caught something light and weird fluttering in her stomach. Caleb took a step closer, his eyes dropping again. He smelled like cedarwood, rosemary, and red wine. He smelled rich.
He smelled good.
“You’re not drunk, are you, Shay?”
He bit down on his bottom lip, his gaze moving up to her mouth. A man like Caleb got what he wanted, when he wanted, and Shay felt exhilarated and terrified in equal measure that she—however briefly his interest would last—was the object of his attention.
Smiling, she took a step back, putting distance and reason between them. “So, what’s going on in there? Some fancy party?”
“You could say that.”
“If you want to impress a newly minted LA girl, this is where you name-drop,” she teased. “Who’s inside? George and Amal? Priyanka and Nick?” She paused. “Blake and Ryan?”
“It’s my best friend’s engagement party. And it’s more impressive if I don’t name-drop, isn’t it? But there are some heavyweights in there.”
“Wrestlers?” she deadpanned. “Or capitalists like yourself?”
Caleb scratched the scruff on his jaw, smirking at her attempt at a joke.
“His fiancée is an influencer, pretty successful at it too.” He took another drag. “Not that she needs the money.”
Shay inhaled her cigarette, her nerves catching up with her. After a beat she said, “And the groom?”
Caleb didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes drifted behind her head, to the restaurant entrance. Shay swiveled around. Her mouth nearly fell open. Wafting through the door was a stunning South Asian woman, petite, sultry, and with curves that killed. Her gold gown shimmered as she sashayed toward Caleb.
“I was worried you left with . . .” the woman trailed off, noticing Shay standing there. “But you stayed.”
“I stayed.”
“I wonder why,” she simpered, her eyes darting briefly in Shay’s direction. “Have you seen Raj?”
“Yes,” Caleb replied flatly, and a knowing glance passed between them. She rolled her eyes. “I’m a little busy right now—”
“You’re busy with my engagement party. Could you please go check on him?”
Caleb’s mouth twitched, and Shay wondered if it was a sign of annoyance or something else.
“Fine. I’ll go check on him.” Caleb dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “When are we doing the toast?”
“As soon as he’s presentable.” Suddenly, the woman turned her attention to Shay. Her gaze pierced.
“I’m Radhika. And you are?”
“Shay,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “Shaylee Kapoor.”
“This is the bride I was telling you about,” Caleb said to her.
“Oh!” Shay nodded politely. “Congratulations.”
Radhika blinked at Shay, unsmiling.
“When’s the big day?”
When Radhika didn’t respond, Caleb stepped in and cleared his throat. “End of April. Anyway, Radhi, this is Shay. Her friend stood her up for dinner. And then she was kind enough to lend me a cigarette.”
“The kindness that kills,” Radhika answered flatly.
“It’s just a bit of fun.”
“Everything’s a bit of fun until you’re dead, Caleb.”
Shay, still smoking, stepped backward as her cheeks heated up.
“Radhi. ...
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