Chapter 1
Vani POV
The sun was setting, and the faint, dusty rays filtered through the windows, falling straight into my classroom. By this time, most of the teachers and staff had already gone home in their luxurious cars. But I was still here, sitting alone on the tiny wooden chair meant for my students, surrounded by chart papers and flashcards—trying my best to make learning fun and approachable for my 2nd graders.
Global Heights School—one of the top-tier schools for the rich. Only a handful of people could even dream of getting their children admitted here. And an even smaller handful could teach here. People with strong educational backgrounds, people with “class,” people who could pass their highly competitive entrance exam.
Out of the 100 college graduates who appeared for the test, I was the only one who cleared it. That’s how I landed this job… or rather, this opportunity that still feels unreal.
Even after three months of working here, my fellow colleagues haven’t managed to welcome me. To them, I’m the girl from the small village. The girl who doesn’t “fit in.” The girl who doesn’t know the brands they wear or the restaurants they casually drop into conversations.
But the people who do get excited to see me—are the kids.
Kids love differently. They don’t judge you based on your clothes, your accent, or the place you come from. They just… love you, honestly and purely. And that is the best part of this job.
Working here, I’ve realized something: these rich kids might have everything at their fingertips—gadgets, toys, nannies, gourmet food—but what they crave the most is love. Simple, undivided, warm love.
“Oh shoot, it’s already 7!” I gasp, glancing at the wall clock. “Oh no, I’ll miss the last train.”
I rush to pack my bag, gather the scattered papers, and switch off the lights. After informing the clerk, I hurry out of the school building. Just as I’m about to leave, I notice someone sitting alone on a bench in the garden.
A little figure. Shoulders slumped. Head lowered.
Who is this kid still here?
I walk closer and my heart softens immediately—
Dhruv.
My sweetest student. The one who always holds my hand during morning assembly, the one who saves extra stickers from his notebook just to give me later.
But right now, he’s nothing like his usual cheerful self.
“Hey Dhruv,” I say gently, sitting beside him. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Waiting for someone to pick me.” His voice is so flat, so small, it almost disappears in the evening air.
My chest tightens.
“Are you hungry, Dhruv?”
“No.”
The way he says it—quiet, brave, but trembling a little—tells me everything he’s not saying.
“Did you try calling someone?”
“Yes. No answer.”
He swallows hard, and I see his eyes glisten.
That’s it. I can’t just sit and watch him pretend to be strong.
I open my arms slightly.
“Come here,” I whisper.
He hesitates for a second—maybe because he’s not used to being comforted like this—but then he leans in. Slowly. Carefully. Like a child who has been holding it together for too long.
I wrap my arms around him, warm and tight, and he lets out a tiny breath… almost a sigh of relief.
His small hands grip the fabric of my kurti as if anchoring himself to something safe.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, rubbing his back softly. “I’m right here.”
For a moment, he stays like that—quiet, vulnerable, just a little boy who wants someone to show up for him.
And in that moment, I feel something shift inside me.
A protective warmth.
A connection deeper than teacher and student.
Just then, a sleek black Rolls Royce enters through the gate, its headlights cutting through the dim garden. It honks once, crisp and cold.
Dhruv stiffens. He slowly pulls away from the hug, wiping his eyes quickly with the back of his hand—as if emotions are something he needs to hide.
Without a word, he stands up and walks toward the car.
No smile.
No excitement.
No goodbye.
Just a quiet little boy returning to his lonely, luxurious world.
And I sit there watching him go, wishing someone at home would hold him the way I just did.
