A/N: Writing is my passion, not my career. It’s my safe space and my escape. I write because it makes me happy. I can’t handle “constructive criticism” and I don’t want it either. If you have nothing good to say, please either don’t read or don’t comment.

"Everyone stand on the line!" I yelled at the kids who were laughing and doing anything but standing in the line.

Half of them froze, while the rest kept giggling. One little boy tried hopping on one foot instead of standing still.

"Parth, both feet on the ground. You're not a kangaroo," I said, hands on my hips.

He grinned sheepishly and placed his other foot down.

"Good. Now, hands by your side, no pushing." I gently pulled two girls apart who were giggling and poking each other. "Meera, Aditi, save that for tomorrow."

Finally, after a bit of adjusting, tugging, and reminding, the line was almost straight.

I clapped once. "Perfect! Now, remember, big smiles for Mama, Papa, and Dida. No running, okay?"

A few nodded seriously, as if this was an important mission.

One by one, parents began arriving.

"Bye-bye, Miss!" shouted Ria, as she spotted her mother. She waved so hard her water bottle slipped from her hand.

"Careful!" I picked it up and handed it over. "Here you go. Don’t lose it again."

"Thank you, Miss," her mother said, smiling.

Then came Aarav’s dad. Aarav bolted forward like a rocket.

"Aarav!" I called out quickly. "What did we say about running?"

He stopped halfway, guilty. "Sorry, Miss," he mumbled, before walking the rest of the way.

I smiled. "That’s better."

Soon, the line grew shorter. Little voices chirped, "Bye, Miss! See you tomorrow!" as each child left.

Finally, only one girl was left. Tiny Anaya clutched my kurti, eyes scanning for her grandfather.

"Don’t worry, sweetheart, he’ll be here in a minute," I reassured, patting her back.

Sure enough, a familiar old man appeared at the gate. "There she is! Come on, Anaya."

Her face lit up, and she ran to him, turning back just to wave. "Bye-bye, Miss!"

I waved back. "Bye, Anaya! See you tomorrow!"

And just like that, the playground grew quiet. I let out a long breath, smiling to myself.

I walked back to the office.

The stack of papers on my desk was waiting for me, as always. With a sigh, I picked up the pen and quickly signed the attendance sheets and the daily notes.

"All done for today," I muttered, pushing the files back into the drawer.

As I stepped out, a few of the other teachers were still chatting near the doorway.

"Bye, Didi!" one of the aunties called out.

"Going back to home or somewhere else?" another teacher smiled, gathering her tiffin box.

"Bye, see you tomorrow!" I waved back to the aunty slinging my bag over my shoulder.

"Somewhere else actually." I said to the teacher before going outside.

The road was buzzing with honking cars and rickshaws. I spotted an auto at the stand and hurried over before someone else could grab it.

"Metro station?" I asked.

The driver nodded, tapping the side.

I climbed in, settling myself on the narrow seat, bag tucked by my side.

Oh, wait! In all this chaos I almost forgot to introduce myself. I’m Kaushiki… Kaushiki Banerjee. You’ll be stuck with me for a while, so I hope you don’t mind.

I’m a pre-school teacher, just finished my Montessori degree and managed to get into a missionary school nearby. It’s not far from my house, just an auto ride away. Most days I head straight home after school, but today is different.

Today, I’m going to a restaurant. Not just any restaurant, but one of those fancy, glittering ones I could never afford in my dreams. Swastika ma’am A.K.A Mrs. Mukherjee, insisted I meet her there. She even booked a cabin for us.

My bond with her family goes back to before I could even spell my own name. My father was their chauffeur, the most loyal one you could imagine. I practically grew up in their house. On Pujo, the best dresses I wore came from them. On Diwali, they bought me crackers; on Holi, colors. At Christmas, there was always cake waiting for me.

But when I turned eleven, life tilted on its head. My father met with a terrible accident. He lost both his hands, and his health went downhill fast. The Mukherjees didn’t think twice, they admitted him to one of the best hospitals in the city, the Ayodhya Group of Multi-Speciality Hospitals, and paid for everything. They never once mentioned the bills.

Of course, he couldn’t go back to work. But even then, they kept sending his salary every single month. On top of that, they paid for my education all the way until I got this job. When I finally started earning, I begged them to stop sending my father’s salary. They agreed… but somehow, money still finds its way to us, wrapped in different excuses.

In my twenty-seven years of life, they’ve given so much, and never once asked for anything in return.

But today was different. Mrs. Mukherjee had called me, her voice was nervous and almost shaky, for the very first time, she said she needed my help.

I was shocked. Literally shocked.

When I told my mother, she only said, “Do whatever she asks of you.” As if I even needed telling. Of course I would. Even if it meant giving my life away for that family, I wouldn’t think twice. Because without them, my life would have been… well, horrible. Everything I am today, I owe it to them. Truly.

So, after one metro ride and another auto ride, I found myself standing in front of a Michelin-star café—something completely out of my world. I walked in, told the staff I was a guest of Swastika ma’am, and they immediately led me to a reserved cabin, tucked away in a quiet corner.

I sat down. The chair felt too soft, the lights too dim, the whole place too polished for me. Ma’am wasn’t here yet.

After a few minutes, a waitress appeared, smiling as she set a plate in front of me.

I glanced down. A choco lava cake.

“Hello, ma’am,” she said politely. “Mrs. Mukherjee asked us to prepare your favourite choco lava cake. What else would you like with it?”

“Oh… nothing else, thank you,” I replied quickly.

She nodded, still smiling. “Bon appétit!” Then she walked away.

I stared at the dessert, a small smile tugging at my lips. As I cut into it, molten chocolate gushed out like lava, rich and glossy. I lifted a piece to my mouth and took a bite.

Heavenly. Just as I remembered.

My favourite. The very first time I’d ever tasted it was in their house. And now, here it was again. She remembers. She knows.

My eyes stung, a soft burn at the corners. She wasn’t my mother… but she never acted like anything less.

I sighed and took another bite.

After a few minutes, I saw her walk in.

Her bob-cut hair bouncing lightly, oversized black glasses framing her glowing face and a smile that could light up the world. She wore an indigo baggy tunic with matching palazzos, her arms jingling with iconic silver oxidised jewellery.

“Babyyy!” she squealed, spreading her arms wide.

I couldn’t help but smile as I stood up and hugged her. The soft scent of peonies mixed with red apple hit my nose, her signature fragrance. Then we pulled back.

“How are you, ma’am?” I asked warmly.

“I’m good. Tell me about you—how are you? How’s school?” she asked, settling into her chair.

“Good,” I replied with a small nod, sitting back down.

Her eyes fell on my plate, and her smile quickly turned into a frown. “Sudhu cake ar kichu deini tokey?!” (They gave you only cake?!)

Before I could answer, she turned around sharply and yelled, “Ei Riya! Tui sudhu cake diyechhis?! Boba tea nei?!” (Hey Riya! You gave her only cake?! Where’s the boba tea?!)

I laughed nervously. “No, no, it’s okay. I just wanted this.”

“What, why?” she demanded, eyebrows raised.

“I… I just had tiffin,” I admitted.

Just then, the waitress came over, looking a little flustered.

Swastika ma’am leaned forward, still eyeing me. “Seriously? You don’t want anything else?”

I shook my head, smiling faintly. “Really, ma’am. This is enough.”

“I’ll have a double-shot cappuccino with skim milk, no sugar. Make it extra hot, please. And a dash of cinnamon on top—just a whisper, not too much.” She paused before adding, “Also, two slices of sourdough toast, lightly buttered with only organic, grass-fed butter. And could you drizzle a little honey over it? Just enough to taste, not overpowering.”

The waitress nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She smiled politely and walked away.

“And how is Bijoya di?” Swastika ma’am asked casually.

Bijoya is my mother.

“She’s good, ma’am. As always,” I replied.

“And Sourabh da?” she continued.

Sourabh is my father.

“Much better,” I said softly.

She nodded with a small smile, and then we drifted into conversation, chatting about different things until her order finally arrived. The waitress set the tray down and left, leaving the two of us alone.

Then her face shifted into nervousness and cold. An expression you’d almost never see on her, and one that didn’t suit her at all.

“So, as I already told you… I need your help, Kaushiki. First of all, I just want to make sure—just because this is a request from me, you don’t have to do it. You’re not obliged, okay? I just… I don’t know what I’m doing, seriously. I don’t even know why I’m here asking you. My mind is so puzzled, so messed up that… even KV says I’ve gone mad.”

KV is her manager.

Mrs. Mukherjee wasn’t just anyone. She owned five of the most luxurious salons in the city.

“What are you saying, ma’am? For you, I’m ready to give my whole life. And you’re hesitating… with me?” I asked, a little sad, a little disappointed, letting it show clearly on my face.

“Exactly! That’s the problem—you’re too self-sacrificing.”

“Just tell me what it is,” I said firmly.

“As you already know, Riv’s marriage with Inayat has been four years now,” she said.

And in that moment, I felt my heart stop beating.

How could I forget? Four years ago, in one of the grandest banquet halls, filled with glamour and VIP guests, I had watched my one-sided crush, my unrequited love, get married.

Nirvaan Mukherjee.

The elder son of Swastika and Gaurav Mukherjee. The heir to Regal Capital Bank, and now its chairman. He oversees one of India’s most exclusive private banking institutions, a legacy that dates back to his great-great-grandfather founded during the colonial era.

And his wife, Inayat Chandra. Daughter of Kolkata’s most prominent jewellery house, with showrooms across the country.

Their marriage had been written in stone long before it even happened. An arrangement between two best friends, Swastika ma'am and Inayat's mother. From playing house together as children to studying abroad, Nirvaan and Inayat had always been side by side.

So tell me, what place is there for me? A chauffeur’s daughter?

“But the problem is… Inayat can’t get pregnant,” Swastika ma’am continued, her voice heavy. “We’ve done the checkups. The doctors confirmed she’s infertile.”

I frowned, a strange ache rising in my chest. God had given her everything from wealth, beauty, a good husband, yet took away something so precious.

Inayat wasn’t exactly a likable person, but still… I felt bad for her.

"So, I was thinking of getting a surrogate mother for Nirvaan," she began carefully, her voice carrying a strange urgency. "But I want someone trustworthy, someone known. I’m not comfortable with just anyone being the mother of the heir. I don’t want a stranger to take that place... to cooperate for nine months, give birth, and handle the aftercare. Ugh!" She exhaled sharply, then finally looked straight at me.

"So I thought... if... if you could be the mother of my son’s child."



The world around me froze.

What?! Me? A surrogate mother?!

"I won’t ask for much," she rushed on, her words tumbling over each other. "Just nine months, the childbirth, and then breastfeeding the baby—that’s all. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’ll provide. Anything—cash, power, help—you know, baby, how much I can give, how powerful we are..."

I had never seen her so frantic.

"Anything you ask for will be at your feet, baby. Just... please. You’re like my daughter, and I want you to give me my grandchild," she pleaded.

I sat there in stunned silence.

A child… with Nirvaan da?

(Da: Brother. It's something Bengali call elder boys with. It doesn't mean that person is literally their brother, it's a sign of respect)

To carry his seed, to grow his baby inside my womb?

The thought made my heart twist. As much as I longed for it in secret, I cringed at the idea.

He was a married man. He belonged to another woman. To dream of such a thing was sin…

But again, surrogacy was nothing new. Shahrukh Khan had done it. Akshay Kumar too. All of them were married.

And it’s not like I’d be sleeping with him. Machines would do the work. No intimacy and no betrayal.

My eyes lifted slowly to Mrs. Mukherjee. Her face was lined with worry, her hands trembling as if she were afraid of losing the last thread of faith she held.

Nine months. That’s all it would take. Nine months, and I could finally make Mrs. Mukherjee happy. I could take away her worries. I could finally do something for that family, maybe even repay some of my debt… maybe even stand equal to them.

I swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

“Okay… I will.”

“What?!” Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? No, no… don’t rush. Don’t take such a decision in one day. Think about it properly. There’s no force from us. You are a young and unmarried girl,I can’t let you ruin your life on a whim—”

“I told you before,” I cut in, my voice trembling but firm. “For you, I could give my life. And here you are asking me for a life. I’d be grateful to give this family its heir.”

She froze, searching my face for hesitation. “R-really? Are you sure?”

I nodded.

She had gone quiet, lost in thought, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

Then, almost reluctantly, she spoke.

"But… there’s something you need to know."

Her voice was calm but distant, her eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. Her expression had shifted into colder and more serious.

"I… want it to be a natural process. Actually, it wasn’t even my decision," she admitted softly. "It was Inayat. She insisted, she wanted the conception to happen in a natural way."

My brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

At last, she lifted her gaze to meet mine. There was no hesitation in her eyes now, only a grave certainty.

"The baby will be conceived… through sexual intercourse."

I froze. My eyes widened, and a chill raced over my skin, goosebumps rising instantly.

"Sorry?" I could barely form the word.

She gave a small nod, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I know. It shocked me too. In today’s world, with science offering so many options, why would anyone insist on… this? But you know Inayat. You know how stubborn and how erratic she can be. She’s made it a condition, she’ll only accept a child from a surrogate mother if…" she gave a bitter laugh, "her husband is the one to… do the act with her."

Her laugh faded into a sigh. She shook her head slowly, almost helplessly. "I couldn’t hold my ground against her. You know I’m not good at drawing hard lines. And this… this was too grave to dismiss outright."

Her eyes softened, though the weight of her words still lingered.

"So, I cannot force you. This choice isn’t mine to make for you. I need you to think about it… carefully. And then… give me your answer."

"But having sexual intercourse with a married man? How can I even do that? I really want to help you, ma’am, but this? Seriously?" I asked, my voice almost breaking between disbelief and disgust.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she turned her face away from me. "It’s just sex... not like you’re making love," she muttered, and even she cringed as the words left her mouth. "God, I don’t even know what I’m suggesting... but I trust you, so I shared this with you. Whatever decision you take, let me know."

"I never thought of Nirvaan da in that way. And now you’re telling me—" I stopped halfway.

Lies. Of course, I had thought of him that way, over and over again in my teenage years. Every single night before I fell asleep, he was the face in my imagination. Only after his marriage did I finally force myself to stop. I’m no saint.

But still, in front of her, I had to act like an innocent lamb.

"I’m sorry, baby... I just don’t know what to do," she whispered, her tone drenched in helplessness. "I’ve spoken to Inayat so many times! Every day I try to knock some sense into her. Her parents, her best friends, everyone tried to convince her that this is completely wrong and unethical... but you know how stubborn she is."

I frowned. "I’m sorry, but what’s wrong with her?! Who in their right mind wants their own husband to have sex with another woman?"

She looked at me with hollow eyes. "Inayat."

I sighed.

And then silence followed.

"What about Nirvan da? What's his opinion?" I asked.

"Uh… he doesn’t know yet. For a business trip he was in Russia for a few months, he’s returning today," she said.

"Inayat di didn’t go with him?"

"Oh no! They never go anywhere together. I don’t understand their relationship. Out of 365 days, probably for 300 days they live apart. What kind of marriage is that?!" she shrieked.

I stayed silent.

"...But... they love each other," I said softly.

"Yeah, they’re good friends… only those deranged two know what they’re doing. I’m so tired and sick of them!" she snapped.

I looked at her but didn’t say anything.

Surely Nirvaan would never agree to this. That made it easier for me to reject the proposal, so for now I would just wait and ask for more time.