Book Title: The Un-Wife Club
Author: Akriti Tyagi
Publisher: Harper Fiction India
Number of Pages: 312
ISBN: 9373075144
Date Published: Oct. 14, 2026
Book Excerpt
Chapter 3
THE CAFE CONNECTION
Pages 20-22
Mira’s cafe, Hearth and Cup, had always been her sanctuary. It wasn’t just the warmth of the wooden tables or the mismatched chairs that seemed to invite stories. It was the soft hum of the espresso machine, the comforting glow of yellow lights at every corner, the faint aroma of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Above the counter hung the day’s cheerful chalkboard special: Cinnamon Apple Pie, Rose Pistachio Cronuts, Honey Lavender Latte—20% off. Beneath it, the cafe’s signature line: We’ve Bean Expecting You!
The 20 per cent off had been Mira’s idea on a Tuesday morning, when she had looked at the previous week’s footfall, then at the small stack of bills growing on her desk, and decided that a slow cafe was a worse problem than a thinner margin. The bills were still there. So was the slow week.
Behind the counter, Sunita, her part-time server, moved quietly between the tables, wiping down menus before the lunchtime rush. The eldest of five siblings from a small village in Bengal, she had moved to Delhi two years earlier, determined to build a different life for herself from the family she had left behind. Her father, an alcoholic whose temper had cast a long shadow over their home, had died a few years ago, leaving her mother to support the family by stitching clothes for fellow villagers. Sunita carried that same quiet resilience with her, working long hours with an easy smile and sending home as much of every month’s salary as she could.
Izna sat by the window, her fingers wrapped tightly around a cup of chamomile tea. Her delicate features, framed by large brown eyes and thick lashes, gave her an almost perpetually startled expression. Her clothes were simple—a beige kurta with faded blue jeans—and her long, dark hair was tied back in a loose braid, with her head covered in a faded black scarf. She looked out of place, like a bird that had accidentally wandered into a room full of people.
Mira made her way over with her own cappuccino, dressed in a flowing indigo shirt with delicate silver embroidery along the neckline, paired with soft cotton leggings. Her almond-shaped eyes, lined with kohl, carried a spark of determination even though she looked tired. Her dark, wavy hair was tied into a loose bun, with a few rebellious strands framing her face. Mira had a quiet grace, shaped by resilience and a heart that refused to stay broken.
The bell above the door jangled.
‘Mira ji.’
She turned. Rakesh, the dairy supplier, stood in the doorway with the long-suffering expression of a man who had given the
same speech in three other establishments that morning. His clipboard was wedged under one arm.
‘One second,’ Mira said over her shoulder to Izna, then walked back to the counter, her smile already in place. ‘Rakesh bhai. Twice in one week. Aap ko miss karrahithi(I was missing you).’
‘Madam, account ka kya(What about our accounts)?’
‘Friday for sure—’
‘Last time also Friday for sure tha.’
She set her cappuccino down on the counter. The smile did not waver, but something behind her eyes did the small recalibration that three years of running a small business teaches a person. ‘Rakesh bhai, sun. Pinky’s birthday is next week, na? Honey lavender cake. Pink icing—you told me last month she likes pink. On the house. I’ll deliver it Sunday morning so it’s fresh.’
Rakesh’s expression did the small softening it always did when his daughter came up. ‘Madam—’
‘Friday’s payment, plus the cake. Boss bhikhush, daughter bhikhush, Pinky toh especially khush(Boss as well as daughter happy, especially daughter).’
He stood very still for a moment. Then he sighed—the kind of sigh that meant he was paying for the cake himself somewhere down the line, and they both knew it.
‘Friday only,’ he warned, lifting the clipboard.
‘Friday.’
‘Aur, Madam.’ He turned at the door. ‘Next month, milk price going up. Cow milk very expensive now. Just so you know.’
‘Of course it is,’ she said pleasantly. ‘We’ll figure it out.’
The bell jangled. He was gone.
Excerpted with permission from ‘The Un-Wife Club‘, Akriti Tyagi and Harper Fiction India.
