2. MY FAVOURITE PEOPLE
DIYA
Have you ever come across a man who melts your heart in ways you never thought possible?
A man who can turn the worst day of your life into something bearable just by existing?
A man so enchanting that spending time with them never feels like enough?
No? Neither have I.
At least not in the way people usually mean it. No mysterious boy. No soulmate. No grand love story. No dramatic movie moment where violins magically start playing in the background.
But I do know a group of people who fit every single one of those descriptions.
The children sitting outside my office.
I smile despite myself as laughter drifts through the half-open door. The sound is loud. Chaotic. A little destructive. And absolutely perfect.
I lean back in my chair and glance through the glass partition separating my office from the main activity room.
Rani is currently chasing Laila with a paintbrush. Laila is screaming like she's being murdered.
Jay is attempting to referee.
Keshav is encouraging the violence.
No one is listening to poor Manisha.
Which is honestly impressive considering she's been trying to get them to finish their art project for almost twenty minutes.
A burst of laughter escapes me.
Immediately, four tiny heads snap toward my office.
Caught.
The children grin. I grin back.
Then Rani waves enthusiastically before returning to her mission of painting Laila blue.
My heart does that thing it always does around them. That warm, aching squeeze. The one that reminds me why I do this. Why I fought for this place. Why every sleepless night, every taunt, every sacrifice has been worth it. Because of them. Always because of them.
People like to talk about children as though they're fragile. Broken. Damaged. Especially children who grow up without families. I've heard it all.
Poor things. Unfortunate. Unwanted. As though their lives can be summarized by what was done to them.
What people fail to understand is that children are resilient in ways most adults never manage to become. These kids have every reason to be angry at the world.
And yet somehow they're still kind. Still hopeful. Still capable of loving with their whole hearts. I honestly don't know how. Because if life had treated me the way it treated some of them, I would've burned cities down.
Probably.
Maybe.
Fine.
Definitely.
A soft knock sounds against my office door. I glance down at the paperwork spread across my desk.
Funding reports.
Volunteer schedules.
Supply requests.
My daily companions. For a brief moment my gaze lands on a photograph tucked beside my laptop. The edges are worn from being handled too often. It's a picture taken nearly three years ago.
The first day this building officially opened.
The children are crowded around me, half of them smiling, half of them making ridiculous faces.
Rani is missing a front tooth, her expression serious. Jay has chocolate all over his shirt. Laila is holding a stuffed rabbit bigger than her head.
I remember that day vividly.
The excitement. The fear. The certainty that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Somehow it worked anyway. A small smile pulls at my lips.
Family doesn't always look the way people expect. Sometimes family is messy. Sometimes family steals your fries. Sometimes family draws doodles on official paperwork. And sometimes a family consists of twenty-seven children who somehow convinced you they own your heart.
A familiar ache settles in my chest.
The kind that arrives whenever I think too much about where I came from.
Or rather—where I didn't. I don't remember my biological parents. I don't remember being left behind. I do remember the orphanage but most of my memories start after the Goyals adopted me.
And adopted is a generous word for what happened. Acquired might be more accurate. Purchased for public relations purposes. A charitable headline. A photo opportunity. A feel-good newspaper article. Look at this wealthy couple changing a little girl's life.
How inspiring. How generous. How kind.
The irony is that despite everything, I am grateful. Because regardless of why they took me home, how they treated me. I still got a bedroom. An education. Opportunities. And eventually this NGO.
There are children who never receive even that much. So no. I don't spend my life feeling sorry for myself.
There's no point. But there are moments. Small moments. Moments where I wonder what it would feel like to be wanted.
Not displayed.
Not tolerated.
Wanted.
I shake my head before my mind can go anywhere dangerous. "Come in."
The door opens and Manisha appears. Our counselor. My best friend. The only person in this building capable of keeping me remotely sane. Her expression immediately tells me something is wrong. Or annoying.
Usually annoying. "What happened?" I ask.
"He's here."
I sigh, "Already?"
She nods. I groan dramatically, making her laugh. "You've known he was coming for two weeks." She bemuses.
"That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."
"You don't even know him."
"I know enough."
"Diya."
I raise a hand. "No."
She folds her arms. "You're being judgmental."
I gasp in mock offense. "Me? Never."
"You're literally judging him before meeting him."
"Because I know exactly how rich people operate."
Her expression flattens. "There it is."
"What is it?"
"The thing."
I narrow my eyes. "What thing?"
"The rich people rant."
"It's not a rant."
"It is absolutely a rant."
I point at her accusingly. "You don't get an opinion because your parents actually loved you." I know it's rude but Manisha knows me, understands where I am coming from.
She bursts out laughing.
I hate when she does that. Mostly because she's right.
The truth is, when the call first came from the Shekhawat family, I thought someone was joking. The Shekhawats don't exactly need introductions. Everyone knows who they are. The Royal family. Business empire. Ridiculous wealth. Ridiculous influence. Ridiculous everything.
Then came the second surprise.
Not only were they interested in supporting the NGO. Apparently Prince Veeraj Singh Shekawat himself would be working here for an entire month.
A whole month.
Helping.
Volunteering.
Participating.
I had nearly dropped my phone. Not because I was impressed.
Because I wasn't. Rich people love charity when cameras are involved.
The timing alone screamed PR. But money is money.
Funding is funding. And if a prince wanted to spend a month pretending to care about social work while helping my children receive resources they desperately needed—Fine.
I'll survive. Probably. Maybe. Depending on how annoying he turns out to be.
Manisha checks her watch. "He's waiting."
"Good."
She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Diya."
"What?"
"Don't start a fight."
I gasp, "I never start fights."
She stares at me expressionless and then shakes her head, "You are impossible."
I smile sweetly. "Thank you."
Manisha pinches the bridge of her nose. Again.
I laugh. The sound comes easier around her. Easier around the children. Easier in this building. Because this place feels like mine in a way nothing else ever has.
I glance around my office.
The colorful artwork taped to the walls.
The shelves overflowing with books. The small potted plant Rani insisted I needed despite the fact that I regularly forget to water it.
This place wasn't built from money. It was built from love.
The kind people choose every day. The kind that shows up. The kind that stays.
My gaze drops to my phone and very immaturely I decide to unlock the screen and open social media. And I begin scrolling. Five minutes pass. Then another. Then another.
Manisha stares at me from the doorway. "You're making him wait."
I don't look up. "Correct."
"Why?"
I smile. "Because he's probably used to everyone running the second he enters a room."
"Diya."
"I want to establish dominance."
She laughs so hard she has to grab the doorframe. I finally stand. Sliding my phone into my pocket. Picking up my cardigan from the back of the chair. The fabric settles across my shoulders as I push my arms through the sleeves. My reflection catches in the glass cabinet beside the door.
Dark hair. Determined eyes. Vitiligo tracing pale patterns across my skin. Patterns I spent years learning to love. Patterns my children taught me to see differently. Beautiful. Unique. Mine.
I square my shoulders.
Manisha watches me carefully. "Behave."
"No promises."
"Diya."
"I'm kidding."
She doesn't look convinced.
Fair.
I probably wouldn't trust me either.
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the door.
Somewhere out there is a prince I already dislike on principle.
A prince who's probably here because a public relations team decided charity work would improve his image.
A prince who undoubtedly expects everyone to be impressed by his title.
Unfortunately for him, titles have never worked particularly well on me.
I flip my hair over one shoulder. Straighten my cardigan and smile. "Okay, Diya," I mutter to myself. "Let's get this over with.”