What a freaking long day. I sighed as I rang the doorbell.

It was already evening.

After a minute, Ma opened the door with her usual smile.

I stepped inside and saw Baba sitting on the bed, dressed only in his lungi, eyes glued to the TV. He was watching his serials with enthusiasm. The moment he noticed me, his face lit up.

“Mimi, you’re back? Did you bring what I told you?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Day by day, he’s becoming more like a child. But honestly, I don’t mind. He’s my sweet Baba after all.

I nodded with a smile, slipped off my sandals, and went straight to the kitchen. Pulling out plates, I felt Ma’s presence right behind me.

“Hey! What did Mrs. Mukherjee say?” she whisper-yelled.

“I’ll tell you later,” I muttered.

“What?! Okay then,” she huffed.

I stacked a plate with jalebis, the syrup glistening.

“Oof, don’t give him too much!” Ma yelled from behind.

“Shh!” I said with a smile as I walked back to Baba, holding the plate.

His eyes lit up, and his smile widened the moment he saw the jalebis.

I broke off a piece and hand-fed him. He sat there with such innocence, it melted my heart instantly.

“Th-thank you… thank you so much, Maa,” he stammered, his voice breaking as tears rolled down his cheeks.

My chest tightened. I quickly set the plate aside and hugged him, my own eyes stinging.

“I couldn’t give you anything, Mimi,” he whispered, trembling. “But you… you never lack in care.”

Tears spilled from my eyes too.

“What are you saying, Baba? You’ve done more than enough. You always loved me, supported me. There are so many children who grow up with wealth but no father’s love. I would choose you over any father, always.”

He cried harder, his shoulders shaking against me.

“Don’t cry, Baba,” I said softly, wiping his tears with my dupatta. “This is a happy moment. I brought you jalebi, and you’re crying instead? Don’t spoil it now.”

He chuckled through the tears, nodding. “Hmm, okay… okay.”

Then he patted my hand gently. “You must be tired. Go and rest for a while.”

I nodded and went to my room. After washing my hands, I slipped into my nightwear. A few minutes later, Maa came in after feeding Baba the sweets.

“Oh, I have to tell you something,” she said.

I looked up. “What is it?”

“Your father’s medicine bill this month was fifteen thousand. The shopkeeper has been asking for some payment. I told him it’s the end of the month and things are tight, but if possible, can you manage at least a few thousand?”

I sat down on the bed. “Maa, I only have seven hundred and fifty-five rupees left in my account.”

She went quiet.

A heaviness settled between us. I felt guilty. To be honest, being just a preschool teacher at a small missionary school, I only earn eighteen thousand a month. Out of that, ten thousand disappears into Baba’s medicines alone, and with the remaining eight thousand we somehow stretch through the month.

Maa broke the silence. “I just paid the fridge EMI and the electricity bill with the money Mrs. Mukherjee sent us.”

I sighed.

“Maa, my head is aching… will you massage it?” I asked softly.

She gave me a small and tender smile and nodded.

Smiling in this economy?

She sat on the bed and patted her lap. I lay down, resting my head there, and she began massaging my temple with her warm hands.

“What happened? You didn’t tell me what Mrs. Mukherjee said.”

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. “Nirvaan can’t have a child because Inaayat is infertile.”

“What? Tch tch! Poor woman. She has everything, but God took away something so precious from her?” Maa muttered with pity.

“Hmm…” I swallowed hard. “So… she’s looking for a surrogate mother. And because they want someone trustworthy, she wants me to give her a grandchild.”

Her hands froze. “W-what?!”

“Yes,” I whispered, “that was her request.”

Silence stretched between us.

“So… what did you say?” she finally asked.

I closed my eyes and shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

“I was so eager to tell you to say yes,” she murmured, “but now I’m confused… What should I even say? What will you do?”

I didn’t reply. She simply continued massaging my head, her fingers moving more slowly now.

“I want you to help her, truly I do,” she said after a pause, “but not like this. Not by putting yourself through something so heavy. Being a mother at such a young age, what will people say? No, forget people and what about you? It isn’t even good for your body. Why should you carry such stress, such pain, when it’s not your responsibility? No… no need to do this.”

"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..."

Her words keep echoing in my head.

Ten thousand for medicine bills.

Nine hundred for gas.

Seven thousand for groceries.

Five thousand for fish and meat. The doctor had strictly said father needed chicken and good fish every day.

Medical insurance: fifteen hundred a month.

The EMIs for the fridge, phones and TV.

The water leakage every monsoon. The broken pipes. Repairs. I have to repair the pipes and the water leakage too.

Mrs. Mukherjee covers Father’s checkups so it's handled.

And in my bank there's how much? seven hundred fifty-five rupees.

Every month's end, I feel like jumping off of a bridge.

How did Father manage all this… alone?

"What will you say when Mrs. Mukherjee asks?" Mother pulled me back.

"That I can’t do it," I said.

"Wouldn’t it feel bad? They’ve done so much for us," she whispered.

"Young master will say no," I replied.

"I hope so," she sighed.

"Okay, I’ll go now. It’s time for your father’s medicine… and I also have to make the chicken stew," she said, standing up.

"Yeah…" I murmured, resting my head against the pillow.

A few minutes later after she left. I drifted into sleep, too tired to fight it.

And then came the dream. A dream of me and Nirvaan da, back when we were just kids.

Flashback:

Third person's point of view:

The dialogue of Chhota Bheem flew through the living room and into the kitchen from the TV, Bheem’s heroic voice shouting something about courage and tuntun mausi's laddoos. Kaushiki’s eyes were glued to the chef’s hands, watching each slice of cucumber fall neatly, the sharp knife catching the light. Around her, the maids whispered and giggled, their chatter blending with the clatter of pots and pans.

She was tiny in the middle of it all, small and delicate, her frock a little faded, one stray hair band resting loosely over the crown of her messy hair. Her chubby cheeks were slightly flushed from the warmth of the kitchen.

“Mimi?” one maid called.

Startled, Kaushiki jumped, blinking and shaking herself out of the trance of watching the cucumbers fall.

She took slow, careful steps toward the maid. “Yes?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, gentle as a breeze.

“Can you bring this to young master?” the maid said, handing her a tray heaped with pieces of cake from vanilla white forest, chocolate, mango and what not, each slice perfectly cut.

Kaushiki gulped and nodded, her small hands wrapping carefully around the tray as she made her way through the bustling kitchen.

She walked slowly, balancing the tray with both hands, her small steps were careful. Her eyes flickered toward the couch, and there he was.

An eight-year-old boy sat comfortably, eyes fixed on the TV, a soft smile tugging at his lips as Chhota Bheem swung into action. He didn’t even glance around, as if the whole house revolved around him, and in a way, it did.

Nirvaan.

He looked every bit the heir he was born to be, even in the most ordinary moment. His posture was relaxed but proper, back straight against the velvet couch, his crisp white shirt neatly tucked into tailored shorts. His socks reached just below the knee, spotless against polished leather shoes he hadn’t bothered to take off indoors. The faint glint of a thin gold bracelet peeked from his wrist whenever he shifted. His hair was combed neatly, but a soft wave fell across his forehead.

Kaushiki’s heartbeat quickened. She should have been watching the cartoon too, like any other child, but the boy in front of her was far more fascinating. Something about him made her nervous, curious, and shy all at once.

Keeping her head low, she carefully placed the tray of colorful cakes on the polished table in front of him. She made sure not to let the clink of china disturb his moment, her gaze fixed on the plate instead of his face.

Then, as quietly as she could, she moved behind the sofa and lowered herself onto the floor, her knees tucked under her frock. Hidden there, she tilted her head slightly, peeking at the screen from the narrow space between the cushions and the armrest. Making sure he doesn't notice her.

Her lips curved into a smile as Bheem began fighting off the villains.

“Mimi?”

She jumped at the sound of his little voice.

Head still bowed, she slowly walked towards him. She didn’t want to, every step felt heavy—but her father’s words echoed sharply in her ears: never defy anyone from that family.

“Come and sit here,” Nirvaan said, patting the seat beside him with his small hand. “Let’s watch Chhota Bheem together.”

Her fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of her dress.

“What happened? Come…” His tone softened and patient, like a little gentleman. “The floor is cold. You’ll catch a cold. Please sit here with me.”

After a pause, she nodded and carefully sat down at the very edge of the cushion, keeping a polite distance from him.

“You can eat the chocolate cake,” he suddenly said, pointing at the plate on the table.

Her eyes widened, and she quickly shook her head.

“Why? Do you have an allergy to chocolate?” Nirvaan tilted his head, curiosity written all over his innocent face.

Her brows furrowed. “What’s allergy?” she asked softly.

He chuckled, a bright smile tugging at his lips seeing her innocence,“Allergy is when you eat something and then get sick.”

Understanding dawned on her, and she shook her head slowly. “I don’t have any.”

"Then eat? Or do you not like chocolates? I thought you liked them a lot. I saw you gulping down the ones my mother gave you, your cheeks were stuffed, eyes wide, and chocolate smeared all over your face." He chuckled, the memory still vivid.

Her cheeks turned hot at the reminder.

"You are so cute... like Chutki," he said, his tone softer now, eyes lingering on her with a warmth that made her shift uncomfortably.

She clenched her teeth, then nervously bit her lower lip. His gaze slipped to her mouth.

Those lips were pink and tender reminded him of the strawberry pastilles his father always brought back from Harrods in London.

A wild flutter filled his chest, the same feeling that had unsettled him a few nights ago when he’d caught his parents french kissing in their silk robes by the fireplace. That scene had planted a strange curiosity in his mind.

His eyes widened, heat rushing to his face, as if he’d thought something he wasn’t supposed to.

Before the thought could take root, he slapped his own cheek hard.

Making her look at him, she burst into a giggle the moment he slapped his own cheek.

He, too, couldn’t resist and started giggling like a fool.

Soon her soft giggles turned into loud laughter—once she started, there was no stopping her. The sound of it filled the hall like chimes, light and unpolished, so unlike the polished laughter of the high-society girls he grew up around.

He laughed with her, clutching his stomach. “Stop!” he said between breaths.

“I can’t…” she wheezed, her eyes shining.

His laughter faded first. He moved closer, suddenly serious, while she still shook with little giggles. For a moment, he only stared, his face heating up. Then, in a rush of daring, he bent down and pressed the quickest kiss to her cheek.

Straightening up immediately, he blurted, “Eat the chocolate cake before leaving or I’ll get mad.” His words came out sharper than he intended, covering the wild pounding in his chest.

And before she could say a word, he turned and bolted towards his room, heart thudding as though he had just stolen something forbidden.

Her eyes widened, her heart racing wildly.

Her father pecked her cheeks and her cousins too, it never meant anything.

So why did his kiss feel so different?

Heat rushed to her face. She shrugged it off, grabbed the slice of chocolate cake, and began nibbling at it sitting comfortably at the sofa now.

"Oye! Why are you sitting there and eating the cake like you own this place?!"" a sharp voice cracked the air. She flinched.

Inayat stood there, one hand on her hip, glaring.

"I… I’m sorry," she mumbled, sliding off the sofa and lowering herself quickly to the carpet.

"No, why are you eating that cake?!" Inayat snapped, her voice loud enough to echo. "That's my birthday cake meant for Nirvaan, not you!"

Her fingers went cold. She set the plate down at once, eyes flicking up nervously.

"I… I didn’t know," she whispered.

"You fool, you know nothing!" Inayat huffed, tossing her braid back. "Where’s Nirvaan?"

She could only shrug helplessly.

"Stupid," Inayat spat before storming off.

She looked down at the cake, not realizing when hot tears began streaming down her cheeks.

"Eat the chocolate cake before leaving or I will get mad." His words echoed in her mind.

If she didn’t eat it, he would get mad… right?

Sniffling, she grabbed the cake and rushed outside. Behind the mansion, near the damp storage room, she crouched by the drain. With trembling hands, she stuffed pieces of cake into her mouth, tears falling in between each bite.

She hated crying. But she hated even more when someone yelled at her.

(Flashback ends)



Kaushiki's point of view:

The shrill ring of my phone snapped me awake. I fumbled for it, blinking against the screen.

Mrs. Mukherjee.

My chest tightened. I swiped to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, what’s up baby? You had dinner?” Her voice was all soft and happy, like the world was perfectly fine.

“No… not yet. You?” I asked, trying to sound normal.

“Same here. So, there’s good news from this side.”

My stomach twisted. “What?”

“Riv agreed on the surrogacy!”

For a moment, I forgot to breathe. My heart slammed against my ribs, too fast, too loud. I forced out a reply. “Really? That’s… great.”

It was anything but great.

“Yeah! So now only your decision is left,” she chirped.

My mouth had gone dry. Somehow, I managed to whisper, “Did he agree with… sleeping?”

"Yes. He agreed. Shocking, but he did." She said.

What?! Has he lost his freaking mind?!

Why on earth would he agree to something like this?

He must be desperate. Desperate for that baby.

Makes sense though. They don’t have any other heir.

But now… what am I supposed to do? I thought he’d reject it. That would’ve made things easier for me.

"Baby, you don’t have to worry about anything, okay? We’ll provide you a penthouse where you two can… do the process. You can live there during the pregnancy, and even after, I’ll sign the penthouse in your name. Okay?" she continued. "Oh, and I’ll give you a blank cheque. You can write whatever amount you want as your fees. And also, I’ll talk to Little Laureates school so they give you a job there. You know, the school where your Nirvaan da studied. I’ll recommend you personally. You’ll be earning at least fifty to sixty-five thousand per month doing the same work you’re doing now. Plus bonuses and perks."

I gulped.

Little Laureates.

Not only do they pay sixty thousand a month, but there’s an extra twenty to twenty-five thousand in bonuses.

Free medical facilities for the whole family.

A world trip every two years.

Three domestic trips every year.

Complimentary lunch cooked by top chefs. Celebrity functions. And teaching celebrity kids.

It’s not just a school. It’s practically heaven for teachers.

"You’ll have to leave your job for this, so I’ll send seventy thousand per month to your mother," Mrs. Mukherjee said matter-of-factly, "and I’ll arrange a housekeeper to take care of everything while you’re gone. I’ll also draft a contract so you can sue me if I fail to deliver." She gave a little chuckle.

"Anything else you want to add, you can. Obviously, once you get pregnant, I’ll give more—land, cars... And other stuff I want to gift to the mother of my grandchild. But the real deal is the contract."

I swallowed, my throat tight. "I’ll do it," I finally said. My voice shook, but I forced the words out. "Yes. I’ll do it. Whatever you said—you can give. Even if you don’t hand me a blank cheque or name the penthouse after me, you at least have to give allowance to my family and the housekeeper in my absence. And also... you’ll recommend me to Little Laureates. If you do this, it will suffice." I paused, then added softly, "Oh, but there’s one thing."

She sounded almost offended. "Why are you refusing the other things? You’ll get them anyway. Tell me, what else do you want?"

I gripped the phone tighter. "I will not tell my mother how the process will be done. And you... you won’t mention it either."

"Yes, of course."

"And..." I took a deep breath, shutting my eyes for courage. "Did you tell anyone especially him who he was going to sleep with?"

"No..."

"Then don’t. Don’t tell that I am the driver’s daughter. When we were kids, he always treated me like a friend. I don’t want to lose that dignity in front of him. So please.

.. just say I am a maid’s daughter instead." My voice trembled.

"I understand. I won’t say anything," she promised.

Maybe he doesn’t even remember me. Most likely, he doesn’t. But still, it would comfort me to believe that, in his memory, I remain just the girl he once shared his cake with. Not the woman who sold her body for money.