That night...
The official announcement reached the media before midnight.
"Due to unforeseen creative circumstances, Moretti: Deconstructed has been placed on a one-month production hiatus."
The public accepted it without question.
Some assumed scheduling conflicts.
Others blamed Damiano's demanding calendar.
A few entertainment websites speculated about creative differences between the production team and the celebrity chef.
No one knew the truth.
No one knew that the cameras had stopped rolling because a nineteen-year-old girl had walked off the set with tears streaming down her face.
Lara sat beside Alankrita's bed long after everyone else had fallen silent.
The apartment was dimly lit.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Alankrita lay curled beneath a blanket, her face unnaturally pale.
She hadn't spoken much after crying herself into exhaustion.
Whenever Lara tried to reassure her, she simply smiled weakly and whispered...
"I'm fine."
But she wasn't.
Her eyes were swollen from crying.
Her breathing was uneven.
Her entire body trembled beneath the blanket.
Lara reached forward and gently placed her palm against Alankrita's forehead.
Her expression changed instantly.
"Oh, no..."
Her skin was burning.
"Mei-Ling!"
Within seconds, footsteps echoed through the apartment.
Mei-Ling hurried into the room, followed closely by Sam and Dylan.
"What happened?"
"She's burning up."
Mei-Ling immediately checked her temperature.
A few moments later, the thermometer beeped.
She stared at the screen.
Her face paled.
"One hundred and three."
Sam looked alarmed.
"That's too high."
"It's stress."
Lara sighed quietly.
"The shock... the humiliation... everything finally caught up with her."
Alankrita stirred weakly.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Fragments of the day's events drifted through her fevered mind like broken pieces of glass.
"Impure."
The word echoed again.
And again.
Each repetition cut deeper than the last.
A tear slipped from the corner of her closed eyes.
Even asleep...
She was crying.
Lara gently brushed it away.
"My poor girl..."
She whispered it more to herself than anyone else.
No nineteen-year-old should have to endure what Alankrita had endured that day.
In the living room...
Raghuveer sat quietly on the carpet.
His favorite stuffed elephant rested forgotten beside him.
Normally, this hour was his favorite part of the day.
Mama would scoop him into her lap.
She would kiss his forehead.
Tell him tiny stories in a mixture of Telugu and English.
Sing softly until he drifted to sleep.
Tonight...
None of that happened.
The apartment felt different.
Too quiet.
Too sad.
His tiny brows furrowed.
"Mama?"
No answer.
He slowly pushed himself onto his feet.
His little legs carried him toward the bedroom.
The door stood slightly open.
Inside...
He saw his mother lying completely still.
Blankets covered her almost entirely.
Several adults stood around her.
Nobody was smiling.
His little heart didn't understand.
But it knew...
Something was wrong.
"Mama?"
His tiny voice trembled.
Alankrita didn't answer.
He looked at Lara.
Then at Mei-Ling.
Finally back at his mother.
His lips quivered.
"Mama..."
This time...
A little louder.
Still...
No response.
His eyes filled with tears.
He toddled toward the bed and stretched both tiny arms upward.
"Mama..."
Lara's heart shattered.
She carefully lifted him onto the mattress beside Alankrita.
The little boy immediately crawled toward his mother.
His tiny hand rested against her burning cheek.
He frowned.
She was always warm.
But not like this.
This warmth frightened him.
He gently patted her face.
The way she always patted his whenever he cried.
"Mama..."
His voice became desperate.
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
Just as she kissed his every morning.
For a brief second...
Alankrita stirred.
Her heavy eyelids opened only slightly.
The room remained blurry.
But she recognized one face immediately.
"My baby..."
Her voice was barely audible.
Raghuveer's face lit up.
"Mama!"
She gathered every ounce of strength she had left and managed to wrap one trembling arm around him.
"I'm here..."
Those two words were little more than a whisper.
Yet they were enough.
Raghuveer nestled against her chest with a relieved sigh, believing everything would now be alright.
Children believed their mothers could fix anything.
He didn't know...
His mother was the one breaking apart.
The fever worsened through the night.
Cold compresses were changed every few minutes.
Medicine was given on time.
Mei-Ling barely left her side.
Sam called the doctor twice.
Dylan silently prepared soup that no one had the appetite to eat.
Lara remained awake the entire night.
Every now and then...
Alankrita murmured incoherently in her sleep.
Fragments of broken sentences escaped her lips.
"I...never lied..."
"...my son..."
"...please..."
"...I didn't..."
Each whisper tightened the ache in Lara's chest.
Even in her fever...
She was defending herself.
Near dawn...
Raghuveer finally woke.
He blinked sleepily and looked around.
His mother was still asleep.
Her face remained pale.
He reached out his tiny hand and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, imitating the way she always did for him.
Then, without making a sound, he curled against her heart once more.
Listening.
Waiting.
As if the steady rhythm of her heartbeat alone could reassure him that she would stay.
Outside, the first rays of morning touched the Cambridge skyline.
Inside the little apartment...
A young mother lay burning with fever.
A one-year-old boy clung to her as though letting go would make her disappear.
The cookbook series had been paused.
The cameras had stopped rolling.
The headlines would soon fade.
But the wounds left behind...
Would take far longer to heal.