Aditya's POV

Kiara barrels into the bed, her tiny arms squeezing my neck with the strength of a baby bear. I swipe at my damp cheeks before she can notice, but—

"So much love, Papa," she whispers, patting my face, "that you're crying?"

My throat tightens. If only you knew.

"Thank you," she adds solemnly, as if I've gifted her the moon instead of silent tears.

I press a kiss to her forehead, her skin warm with sleep. "Of course, betu. You're my golden girl."

Across the room, Dadi and Rahul exchange glances, the kind that speaks louder than words. Can a middle-class divorcee really win against Priyanka's wealth?

Then my phone buzzes.

Mr. Malhotra.

My boss, the only man who's never judged me for leaving early when Kiara spikes a fever, or for the days my voice cracks during presentations because the divorce papers came at 3 AM. He's kindness in a tailored suit, a rarity in Mumbai's cutthroat business world.

But his daughter? Tanvi Malhotra.

A name synonymous with the spoiled brat. A woman who's never worked a day in her life yet gets a new car like it's a candy bar. Who probably wouldn't know sacrifice if it bit her diamond-studded heels.

And now this text:
"Aditya, need you at the xyz tonight. Tanvi is getting an award, and she can't make it. Can you get it for her?

My grip tightens around the phone.

Perfect. The universe has a sick sense of humour.

What sort of award does a good-for-nothing daughter get? I dress myself up in a suit.

Kiara (pouting, dragging her feet):
"No go nursery! Wanna stay with Dadi!"

She clutches Dadi's sari pallu, her tiny fists twisting the fabric. Tears well up—big, wobbly ones—but she doesn't full-on cry yet. Three-year-olds are masters of the "pre-cry" face.

Me (softening but firm):
"Beta, even on birthdays, rules are rules. Papa has to work, and you have to—"

Kiara (interrupting, logic flawed but earnest):
"But Dadi said birthdays is... is magic day! No rules!"

She blinks up at me, her lower lip quivering, her eyes wide with hope. Damn it. I crouch down to her level.

Me (compromising):
"Tell you what—you go to nursery, and I'll pick you up early. We'll eat gulab jamun for dinner."

Kiara (gasps, tears forgotten):
"TWO gulab jamun?"

I nod. She throws herself at me for a hug, then immediately races to Dadi to brag:
"Dadi! I get two sweets! I win!"

Dadi chuckled, smoothing her granddaughter's wild curls. "Haan, betu, but first—let's pack chocolates for your friends." She shot me a knowing look. Bribery works wonders on three-year-olds.

As Kiara skipped off, Rahul—my oldest friend and the only lawyer I trusted—stepped closer, his usual smirk replaced by grim focus.

As Kiara scampered off to pack her schoolbag, Rahul materialised at my elbow. My best friend since law school now wore his courtroom face - the one that meant bad news delivered gently.

"Adi..." His grip on my shoulder was a lifeline. "We have grounds. She signed away parental rights when she left. The abandonment clause alone—"

"Will that matter against her Mehta family money?" My tea had gone cold, just like my hope. "You saw the notice - 'unsuitable environment due to single-parent household.' Since when is love measured by bank accounts?"

Rahul's pen tapped against case files. "Since always. But listen - the judge won't ignore three years of school records, doctor visits, all signed by you alone. Still..." He hesitated. "They'll argue a child needs maternal influence."

The kitchen walls seemed to shrink. "So what? I'm supposed to—what? Propose to the next woman I see at the chai stall?"

"I'm saying..." Rahul lowered his voice as Kiara's giggles floated from the hallway. "If there was someone already in her life... someone Kiara called—"

"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "I will not bring a stranger into her life and hope she magically becomes 'Mumma'? You think that's fair to Kiara? Or to some woman who didn't sign up for this mess?"

Rahul exhaled. "Adi, I'm not saying marry the first person you meet. But if there's someone Kiara already trusts—"

"Trust isn't built in two weeks." I rubbed my temples. "And what happens if this hypothetical woman decides motherhood isn't for her? Kiara's already been abandoned once. I won't let her go through that again."

Rahul sighed. "Then we fight with what we have. Your parenting records. Community testimonials. And..." He nodded toward the living room, where Dadi was helping Kiara into her tiny backpack. "The strongest grandmother testimony I've ever seen."

I will fight this alone. A woman doesn't have to always be the solution to my problem. She can be the cause, though.

I dropped Kiara at nursery with a rushed kiss, fearing I was late. The award ceremony banners flapped in the Mumbai heat as I slipped through the backstage entrance, only for my phone to buzz.

Mr. Malhotra:
No need to come. Proceed to the office.

Typical. Spoiled Tanvi must've thrown a tantrum and cancelled last minute. I am about to reply when—

CRASH.

A whirlwind of jasmine perfume and rustling silk crashed into me. The woman stumbled, her designer-clad knees hitting the floor hard. Instinctively, I reached out.

"Let me help—"

"Don't touch me!" She slapped my hand away, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. Up close, she was all fire—kohl-rimmed eyes blazing, lips pressed into a furious line. Her dress, some intricate embroidered thing that probably cost more than my yearly salary, was now dust-streaked.

"Do you have any idea how expensive this is?" She hissed, brushing at the fabric like it was wounded. "Or that you just ruined the most important night of my career?"

I crossed my arms. "You walked into me."

"Oh, please." She rose with lethal grace, heels putting her nearly at my eye level. "Your face was buried in your phone like a teenager. Try using those eyes for walking next time."

Heat crawled up my neck. "Funny—you didn't seem to notice me either. Maybe if you weren't so busy glaring at your own reflection—"

"Tanvi! Now!" A harried woman in a headset yanked her away mid-retort.

Tanvi?

All these Tanvis sound like nightmares. First, it was my boss's daughter, now it's her.

Of course. Who else would treat a scuffed dress like a national tragedy?

As she stormed off, I noted the way her fists clenched—not just anger, but something raw underneath. Frustration? Fear?

Then the moment passed. She vanished into the glittering crowd, leaving me with the distinct sense that this wasn't over.