Aastha’s Pov

The morning air was heavy, but inside the Orphanage, it felt different— buzzing, restless. The usual calm chatter of the children was replaced by hurried footsteps and low whispers among the staff. Chairs were being aligned, tables wiped twice over, even the notice board was decorated with fresh flowers someone must have brought in a rush.

I frowned, adjusting Vihaan in my arms as I stepped inside. He had fallen asleep against my shoulder, his soft breath warming my collarbone. For him, the world was always the same; safe in my arms, no matter the noise outside.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the other volunteers, noticing how even the older kids had been told to sit straighter, their books neatly open in front of them.

She looked at me with wide, excited eyes. “Didn’t you hear? A potential donor is coming today. Someone big. They say he’s running for Chief Minister.”

Her voice dropped into a whisper, as though the words carried magic. “Hriday Patil.”

The name rolled in the air like it meant something grand. Everyone around me seemed charged with sudden energy, preparing to impress this one man. But all I could do was hold Vihaan a little tighter and wonder why the worth of our children only seemed to rise when money and power entered the room.

I forced a polite smile and walked past, placing Vihaan carefully in his crib in the corner of the room. He shifted once, a tiny fist stretching out, then settled back into sleep, his little breaths steady. My hand lingered on his blanket for a moment longer than necessary before I pulled away.

The room was almost unrecognizable. The head caretaker, who barely lifted a finger most days, was now ordering everyone around, adjusting her dupatta with every other breath. Staff members scurried about like mice at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was almost laughable, how the presence of a “donor” suddenly made broken chairs look like emergencies and peeling paint worth covering with borrowed flower garlands.

I gathered the children close and resumed our reading, my voice calm, deliberate, as if the chaos swirling around us didn’t matter. If anything, I wanted the kids to feel steady in this frenzy. Their small voices rose and fell as they struggled through the words, and I gently corrected them, offering smiles that actually meant something, not the plastered kind waiting for this Hriday Patil.

The door swung open.

Silence spread like a wave, rippling through every corner of the Orphanage. Chairs scraped, voices hushed, and in walked the man who seemed to make the air itself heavier.

Tall. Straight-backed. Dressed in a crisp white kurta-pajama that was simple yet carried the weight of authority. His eyes— sharp, dark, quietly assessing, swept over the room with the kind of ease that came from knowing people noticed him wherever he went.

I didn’t rise. I stayed cross-legged on the floor with the children, one book balanced on my palm. Let the others trip over themselves; I had no interest in playing part in this drama.

Another politician, I thought, keeping my expression neutral. Another man with smooth words and empty promises. Let’s see how long before he pretends he cares.

The caretaker rushed forward, her voice suddenly sugary sweet, introducing herself, bowing her head like he was royalty. He acknowledged her with the faintest nod, polite but detached. My lips pressed together in a humorless smile. All the same. They always thought kindness could be manufactured.

But then he did something I didn’t expect.

Instead of staying near the officials, instead of asking for files or accounts or rushing into a speech, Hriday Patil walked past them. Straight into the middle of the children. He crouched down, resting on his haunches, and picked up one of the tattered crayons from the floor.

“What are you drawing?” His voice was low, steady. Warm in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

The little girl blinked at him, shy at first, then turned her notebook around. “A house,” she whispered.

“A beautiful one,” he said simply, and for the first time that morning, the compliment wasn’t forced.

I froze, my hand tightening around the book I was holding. It wasn’t the words that startled me, it was the way he said them. As though he meant them. As though this cracked-page sketch of a home was worth more than all the flowers and rehearsed greetings in the room.

The children, emboldened, crowded around him. One boy tugged at his sleeve, showing him his reading book. Another giggled when he asked a question. Hriday listened, actually listened, as though these children mattered.

I wanted to scoff, to remind myself this was all an act. Politicians knew when to smile, when to kneel, when to look human. And yet… the way the boy’s laughter echoed, the way Hriday’s eyes softened as he nodded, it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt uncomfortably real.

I forced myself to turn back to my group, resuming the reading aloud as though unaffected. But every few seconds, my eyes betrayed me, sliding back to where he sat, surrounded by children, his crisp white clothes gathering smudges of chalk dust without a care.

And for the first time, I wondered if maybe… just maybe… this man wasn’t what I thought.

____

I was busy sorting through a pile of dusty files, trying to ignore the restless energy buzzing through the Orphanage. Chairs scraped, whispers filled the corners, and every volunteer looked like they had swallowed a nervous dose of excitement. My hands were trembling slightly, maybe from the caretaker’s cruel words yesterday, maybe from the worry that this “big donor” wouldn’t see the children for what they were but as numbers in a report.

Vihaan’s soft whimper cut through the noise, my ears instantly alert. I turned, ready to scoop him into my arms before his tiny cries turned into a storm. But someone else had already reached his crib.

Hriday Patil.

My breath caught.

The sight of him bending down, his tall frame strangely gentle as he lifted Vihaan, sent panic skittering through me. My son hated being touched by strangers. He would cry, maybe even scream. I gripped the files tighter, my feet itching to rush forward and take him back.

But before I could move, Vihaan stilled. His whimper turned into a curious silence. His wide, dark eyes studied Hriday’s face with an intensity that made my heart lurch. And then he smiled.

A soft, toothless giggle spilled out as his little fingers reached up, patting Hriday’s face clumsily, tugging at the faint stubble on his jaw. Instead of crying, my son laughed. He laughed.

The room went so quiet that even the ceiling fan seemed to hush. I could hear my own pulse, ragged and uneven.

No one could believe it. Neither could I. Vihaan never let anyone near him. He wailed if another volunteer so much as brushed his hand. But now… he looked as though he had found something familiar, something safe, in Hriday’s arms.

I stood frozen, unsure if I should be relieved or terrified. My heart twisted painfully, watching Vihaan nuzzle against a man I didn’t know, a man I didn’t trust.

And yet… the softness on Hriday’s face, that fleeting shift in his guarded expression as he gazed down at my baby, made me falter.

It was the strangest thing— like Vihaan had chosen him. But I shook away that absurd thought.

The second Vihaan giggled again, the world tilted beneath me. I had braced myself for his usual scream, the kind that only quieted once I held him. But instead, his tiny hands clutched Hriday’s shirt as if he had known him all along.

I forced my feet to move, my voice uneven. “Give him to me, I’ll take him—”

I reached out, expecting Vihaan to turn toward me like he always did. My boy. My shadow.

But he didn’t.

He buried his face into Hriday’s chest, little fingers curling tighter in the fabric, as though afraid I’d pull him away from this new warmth he had discovered. My heart stuttered painfully.

“Vihaan…” I whispered, almost pleading.

His only answer was another bubbling giggle, muffled against Hriday.

It felt like something sharp lodged itself in my chest. For months, it had only been me and him— my arms, my lullabies, my fight. No one else. And now, in a matter of seconds, this stranger had managed to steal what I thought only I could give him: comfort.

I blinked rapidly, willing the sting in my eyes to fade. I should’ve been happy that my son wasn’t afraid, that he felt safe. But instead, a knot of fear and ache twisted inside me. Because what if this was the beginning of Vihaan not needing just me anymore?

What if, for the first time, I wasn’t enough?

Hriday’s gaze was locked on me, not the child in his arms. His eyes weren’t triumphant, weren’t boastful of the fact that my son… my son… had chosen him. No, there was something else. Something terrifyingly gentle.

It was as if he had seen through me in a single glance; the sleepless nights, the scars of abandonment, the way I had fought tooth and nail to keep Vihaan safe. My chest ached under the weight of it. I wanted to look away, to build my walls higher. But I couldn’t. His eyes held me there, unmoving, like he’d quietly stepped into the spaces I had so carefully guarded. For the first time in a long time, I felt exposed.

There was no arrogance in his eyes, no smugness, only something unexpectedly soft, almost reverent, as though he too couldn’t believe Vihaan had chosen him.

And that thought broke me even more.

Because maybe, just maybe, Vihaan hadn’t only chosen me.

________

Took me long enough for the update. Sorry for keeping you waiting but it's been a hectic few weeks for me.

The leads finally met, what do you think about the reaction of vihaan?

Lots of love

Shay ❤️