He was born with a silver spoon – or rather, a platinum and diamond one. She had given every drop of sweat to earn herself the comfort that she’d envied since childhood. He wasn’t the typical rich boy. But she was the typical struggler who had turned rags into Persian carpets and the like. They met at a book launch – she was the author of the book and he was the ruler of the publishing house. He was smitten by her bright eyes and equally bright words. She found him repulsive without even giving him a chance. “A silly rich kid after a pretty woman,” she thought with disapproval. Ten days later, she was in love.
The morning light streamed into her room. Crows shouted at each other outside. The smell of burnt toast filled the house. She was in the kitchen, right next to the toaster. But her mind was somewhere else. He was in the next room. His hands and eyes were busy packing. Even his nose had no time. The toast continued to burn until he finished packing. She came out of her trance and looked at him. “Look at the toast,” he said with a frown. She looked at it, or rather, through it. Then she turned her head towards the refrigerator and said, “There’s more food in there.”