Chapter-2

Advait's POV

Advait stared at his computer screen without really seeing it, his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. Another nanny. Another stranger his mother was trying to bring into their lives, into Aarav's life, as if anyone could just step in and—

He cut off the thought viciously. It had been two years. Two years since Meera's accident. Two years since his world had shattered into pieces he was still trying to glue back together while running a company and raising a son who barely remembered his mother.

He didn't need help. He especially didn't need some young woman with a savior complex who'd probably quit within a month like all the others, leaving Aarav confused and him having to pick up the pieces again.

A soft knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Aanya Sharma stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. She stood there for a moment, taking in the study—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the massive desk with three monitors, the wall covered in whiteboards filled with algorithm equations and business projections. He was used to people being intimidated by this space. It was designed to be intimidating.

But she just smiled slightly and said, "Impressive. Do you actually use all three monitors, or is one just for show?"

Advait blinked. No one had ever asked him that. "All three. Different functions. Sit."

She settled into the chair across from his desk, placing her folder neatly on her lap. Up close, he noticed details he'd missed before—the way her dupatta had small mirror work that caught the light, the silver jhumkas at her ears, the faint scent of jasmine that seemed to follow her. Her face was open, friendly, with warm brown eyes that looked at him without the usual mixture of awe and fear most people exhibited around him.

It was... unsettling.

"I'll be direct, Ms. Sharma. I don't believe in wasting time." He opened the folder his mother had given him—her file. Basic information, recommendations, certifications. All looked legitimate, but paper meant nothing. "Why do you want this position?"

"Because Aarav needs someone who sees him, not just supervises him," she said simply. "And because I'm good with children. I understand them."

"That's not an answer. That's a generalization."

Her smile didn't waver. "Okay. The real answer? I grew up without parents, without a family I could call my own. I know what it's like to crave connection, attention, love. Your son is three years old, Mr. Singhania. He's at the age where every interaction shapes his understanding of the world. Right now, he needs consistency, warmth, and someone who has the patience to let him be a child while guiding him to grow. I can be that person."

Advait leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You grew up in an orphanage."

"Yes."

"And you think that qualifies you to care for my son?"

Something flickered in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or anger—but her voice remained steady. "I think it makes me uniquely qualified to understand what he might be feeling, having lost his mother. I think it makes me appreciate the value of family more than someone who's always had it. And I think my three years of hands-on experience with children of all ages, combined with my degree, speaks for itself."

"Aarav has lost fifteen nannies in the past year."

"I read that in the brief your mother provided. May I ask why?"

"You may not." He picked up a pen, clicking it repeatedly—a nervous habit Meera used to tease him about. "I have very specific rules about Aarav's care. Routine, structure, boundaries. Can you follow instructions?"

"Of course. But children also need flexibility, Mr. Singhania. Too much rigidity can—"

"I didn't ask for parenting advice. I asked if you could follow instructions."

The room went quiet except for the soft hum of his computer. Aanya's expression remained pleasant, but he saw her fingers tighten slightly on her folder. Good. If she couldn't handle his directness now, she definitely couldn't handle working for him.

"I can follow instructions," she said finally. "As long as they're in Aarav's best interest."

"I decide what's in my son's best interest."

"Of course. You're his father." She paused. "But respectfully, sir, part of my job would be to provide input on his developmental needs. If you're looking for someone who'll just be silent and obedient, you might want a robot, not a nanny."

Despite himself, Advait felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Almost a smile. He suppressed it immediately. "You're bold."

"I prefer honest."

He was about to respond when his office door burst open—which should have been impossible, given that he'd specifically instructed everyone never to interrupt his meetings—and Aarav barreled in, holding a juice box.

"Papa! Dadi said I could bring you—" His small feet caught on the edge of the carpet, and suddenly everything happened in slow motion.

Aarav stumbled forward. The juice box flew from his hands, sailing through the air in a perfect arc. Advait started to rise, but he was too far away. The juice box hit his desk, exploded, and bright orange mango juice splattered across his keyboard, his papers, his white shirt.

"Aarav!" The sharpness in his voice made his son's face crumple immediately, tears welling up in those big brown eyes.

"I-I'm sorry, Papa, I didn't mean—"

But before Advait could say anything else—before he could take back the harshness, before he could figure out how to comfort his son without feeling like he was doing it wrong—Aanya was there.

She moved swiftly but calmly, scooping Aarav up and away from the mess. "Hey, hey, Aru. It's okay, beta. Accidents happen. Look, even superheroes spill things sometimes. Even Spider-Man probably spills his juice."

"R-really?" Aarav hiccupped, tears still streaming down his face.

"Absolutely. And you know what superheroes do when they make a mess?" She pulled a packet of tissues from her purse—who carried tissues in their purse?—and gently wiped Aarav's face. "They help clean it up. Want to help me?"

Aarav nodded, sniffling. Aanya set him down, grabbed more tissues, and started blotting the desk while Advait just stood there, watching. She made it seem so easy—the comfort, the redirection, the way Aarav's tears dried up as he "helped" her clean.

"Mr. Singhania," she said without looking up, "if you have another shirt, you might want to change. Mango juice stains."

He glanced down at his shirt, now splattered with orange, and felt the absurdity of the situation wash over him. His perfectly controlled morning had devolved into chaos in less than thirty seconds.

"I'll call housekeeping," he muttered, reaching for his phone.

"No need. Aru and I have it handled. Right, Aru?"

"Right!" his son chirped, suddenly cheerful again.

Advait watched them for another moment—this stranger and his son, working together like they'd known each other for years, not minutes—and felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. It wasn't quite anger. It wasn't quite relief. It was something in between, something that felt dangerously close to hope.

And he hated hope. Hope was what got you hurt.

"Fine," he heard himself say. "One week. Trial basis. If you can't follow my rules, you're out."

Aanya looked up, surprise flickering across her face before she smiled—genuinely smiled, like he'd just given her the world instead of a probationary job offer. "Thank you, Mr. Singhania. You won't regret this."

"I already regret this," he muttered, but quietly enough that maybe she didn't hear.

Except she did, because her smile widened slightly, and he realized with a sinking feeling that this woman—this sunny, optimistic, frustratingly calm woman—was going to be very, very difficult to maintain his walls around.

"Come on, Aru," Aanya said, taking his son's hand. "Let's let your papa finish his work while we go make some real mischief. What do you say?"

"Yeah!" Aarav cheered, already forgetting his tears.

As they headed for the door, Aarav turned back. "Papa? I like her. Can she stay forever?"

Forever. Such a childish concept. Nothing lasted forever.

"We'll see," Advait said, which was the closest thing to a commitment he could manage.

After they left, he sank back into his chair, staring at the orange-stained papers on his desk. His mother appeared in the doorway, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

"Well?"

"One week, Ma. That's it."

"One week," Savitri agreed, but her knowing smile said she didn't believe him for a second.

Neither did he.