CHAPTER 2

OJASWINI

The notification came at 11:47 PM.

I was elbow-deep in kadhai chicken prep for tomorrow's lunch service when my phone lit up on the stainless steel counter. Instagram DM. The blue checkmark made me look twice.

@TapseeShrivastav — 2.3M followers. Delhi socialite. Married to some tech billionaire whose face I'd seen on Economic Times covers.

Hi Ojaswini! Loved your saffron shrikhand reel — 2M views is incredible! Are you available for a private chef booking this weekend? Husband's 51st birthday. Just 2 guests + you. Location is our private island near Sindhudurg. I can offer ₹2 lakhs for 3 days. Please say yes! — Tapsee

I read it three times.

Two lakhs. Three days.

My hands were shaking. Turmeric paste under my fingernails, Bangles & Spices by Falguni Pathak playing from my cracked phone speaker, the ceiling fan doing absolutely nothing against Bandra's June humidity.

Two lakhs would cover:

- Three months' rent (₹55K/month for 450 square feet with a landlord who texted at 8 AM on the 1st) - The fucking Swiggy commission I owed from May (₹38K — 35% of every order, every single day) - The walk-in fridge repair (₹25K, due yesterday) - My parents' loan repayment (₹40K, overdue two months)

I screenshot the message. Sent it to Riddhi, my sous chef slash best friend slash the only person who understood what drowning in restaurant debt actually felt like.

Me: Is this real or am I hallucinating from fridge coolant fumes

Riddhi: HOLY SHIT

Riddhi: Ojju this is INSANE

Riddhi: Wait is this a scam

Riddhi: Google her RIGHT NOW

I Googled.

Tapsee Shrivastav née Malhotra. Delhi University, then married Deven Shrivastav seven years ago. He founded Sentinel AI — cybersecurity firm with contracts in three state police departments. Net worth: ₹450 crore (estimated). She ran a boutique in Juhu. Posted a lot of photos at art gallery openings. Looked bored in most of them.

The DM was real. The checkmark was real. The money was—

Two lakhs.

Three days.

I typed: Can I ask what the menu expectations are?

Her reply came in seconds.

Nothing crazy! Just good food. Contemporary Indian with your signature style. I trust you completely. My husband is low-maintenance — he'll eat anything that isn't boring. Can you do it?

My brain went into autopilot math:

Three days = six meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner × 2 days + departure breakfast).

Two guests = small portions, high presentation.

Island location = I'd need to bring 90% of ingredients because no way they had black garlic or edible flowers or Japanese yuzu on a Konkan island.

Doable.

Absolutely doable.

But also: I didn't know this woman. I'd never cooked on a private island. I didn't even own a car — how was I supposed to transport ₹30K worth of ingredients and equipment seven hours down the coast?

Me: When would you need me to arrive?

Tapsee: Tomorrow afternoon? I know it's last minute but my previous chef canceled (food poisoning, terrible timing). I'm desperate. I can send a car to pick you up from Bandra at 8 AM. You'd be back by Sunday evening. Please Ojaswini. I'm begging you.

Please.

I stared at the word.

Riddhi's text came through: Don't do anything stupid

But two lakhs wasn't stupid. Two lakhs was three months of breathing room. Two lakhs was my father not calling me every Sunday asking if I was "sure about this restaurant thing" in that voice that meant I told you commerce degree wasn't enough.

Two lakhs was proof I wasn't failing.

I typed: I'll do it. Send me the address and any dietary restrictions.

Her reply was instant.

THANK YOU!!!!! No restrictions. Address: Shrivastav Estate, Island No. 7, off Devbagh, Sindhudurg district. Car will be at your restaurant at 8 AM sharp. Driver's name is Kiran. I'll transfer ₹50K advance right now as good faith. You're a lifesaver!!!!

My phone buzzed.

IMPS CREDIT ₹50,000 FROM TAPSEE SHRIVASTAV

Fifty thousand rupees. Just like that.

I sat down on the kitchen floor. The tiles were still wet from where I'd mopped an hour ago. My forearms smelled like ginger-garlic paste and sweat. My bun had come loose. I was twenty-eight years old, running a restaurant with a 3.2 star Zomato rating, and some socialite just Venmo'd me fifty thousand rupees because she liked my saffron shrikhand video.

Riddhi called.

"Ojju."

"I know."

"Ojju, you don't know this woman."

"I Googled her."

"You Googled her Instagram. That's not—"

"Riddhi. Fifty thousand rupees just hit my account."

Silence.

"I saw."

"I can pay my rent."

"I know."

"I can fix the fridge."

"Ojju—"

"Three days. I cook six meals. I come home ₹2 lakhs richer. What's the worst that can happen?"

Riddhi's laugh was sharp. "Famous last words."

But she didn't stop me.

At 1:30 AM I was still awake, lying on my mattress on the floor of my 200-square-foot Bandra studio, listening to my upstairs neighbor's TV blaring some Salman Khan movie. My phone glowed in the dark.

I opened my banking app.

Current Balance: ₹51,340

It had been ₹1,340 six hours ago.

I Googled Shrivastav Estate Sindhudurg.

Nothing came up. No photos. No reviews. Just a listing on some luxury real estate forum from 2019: Portuguese-era mansion, 12 bedrooms, private island, ₹18 crore (negotiable).

I Googled Deven Shrivastav Sentinel AI.

His LinkedIn had 47K followers. His company's website was sleek — all black backgrounds and white sans-serif font. "Protecting India's digital infrastructure with next-generation AI-powered threat detection." There was a Forbes India article from 2023: "The Man Making Indian Cybersecurity Bulletproof."

He looked like every other tech bro in his 50s. Expensive watch. Graying temples. The kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes.

I put my phone down.

Riddhi was right. I didn't know these people.

But I knew debt. I knew my landlord's WhatsApp typing indicator at 7 AM on the first of every month. I knew the Swiggy rep's voice when he called about late commission payments. I knew my mother's careful silence when I told her the restaurant was "doing fine."

Two lakhs.

Three days.

I set my alarm for 6 AM and closed my eyes.

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