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84. The One Where She Dies

"Kabir, what are you doing?" I stared at the polythene in his hand. "And what is that?"

"You stop cooking." He placed the polythene in the slab, strolled forward to stand next to the stove and turned it off. "We have a chef now." Peering at him with a sheepish smile, I placed the knife out of my sight and paid my attention to his whining face. "Come with me."

"But I need to cook. It's a stress reliever. I just completed a hectic project and assignment, and laptop screen is making me sick," I tried to argue but one look from him shushed all my protests. "I will still cook. Get out of the kitchen."

He regarded me for a couple of seconds before placing his hand on the knife. "You want to be a housewife?"

"No. Why?"

"Cooking." He nodded at the fried potatoes. "I don't mind but—"

"Shut up. Cooking is a necessity." Scoffing at his confused face, I took the knife from his hands and started cutting the tomatoes. "If I love cooking, it makes me a housewife?" He twisted his lips at the corner,
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