Strings and Schemes

Chapter 25

After the success of my gallery installation, my parents invite me to dinner at the US Embassy. This being the first time I see them since the events at the High Commission of India on the friends of India night. I pace around my flat, worried about what they'll think, worried about how they'll perceive me, worried about...everything.

I shake my head, trying to alleviate some of the feeling. To no surprise, it doesn't.

I approach the gate of the US Embassy, breathing out a big breath before hitting the call button.

"Yes?" The Texan accent answers and I recognize James' voice.

"Um - Hi James, my parents requested this dinner with me," I say.

"Good to hear you Ms.Addams," James says warmly before opening the gate. Checking my ID and putting me through the security line before letting me in.

I'm well aware as I step into the Embassy that I am on unequal and uneasy footing. That this was a purposeful decision to strip me of my independence, to remind me that even if I'm living free of them, that I am in fact only doing so because they allow me to.

I forgot how eerie this house was, the silence goes on for days.

Even as I step through the grand doors, even as I hear the faint clinking of silverware in the dining room, there is no warmth, no life. Just the kind of stillness that comes from a home built more for show than for living.

The butler, a man I've known since childhood, greets me with a stiff nod and gestures toward the dining room. "Your parents are expecting you."

I pause for a moment, adjusting the sleeves of my blouse. It's been weeks since I was last here. Weeks since I walked through these halls as someone they controlled.

My mother is seated at the head of the table, posture pristine, a glass of wine resting in her perfectly manicured fingers. My father sits beside her, his eyes scanning something on his phone.

Neither of them looks up immediately. Typical.

"Raina," my mother says finally, her tone light, rehearsed. "You look well."

I take my seat, resisting the urge to point out that she wouldn't know otherwise.

"How's the apartment?" she continues. "Settling in, I assume?"

I nod, pouring myself a glass of water. "I like having my own space."

She hums. "I'm sure that must be... different for you."

There it is. The veiled remark, the subtle jab wrapped in civility.

My father finally looks up, setting his phone down. "You've been in the press."

Straight to the point, funny for a man known for his tact and class how tactless he is with me when he wants something.

I let out a slow breath. "I figured that's why I was invited here."

He clasps his hands together, his expression unreadable. "We just want to make sure you're being smart about your choices. The last thing you need is unnecessary scrutiny."

"Scrutiny for what?" I ask, feigning innocence.

My mother doesn't take the bait. "For your association with Zayn Malik."

I take a sip of water. "And what exactly is the concern?"

"The concern, Raina," my father says, voice firm, "is that you've worked hard to build a clean, untouchable reputation. And now, you're tying yourself to someone whose life is constantly under a microscope."