Chapter-4

The final day had arrived.

The day Meher had quietly dreaded for the past two weeks.

Her suitcase stood by the door of the orphanage, neatly packed, zipped shut like a chapter she wasn’t ready to end. Children clung to her legs with tearful eyes, and the older staff stood in a quiet semi-circle near the gate, their gazes filled with pride and sadness.

Sister Marie wrapped Meher in a long, trembling hug.

“You’ll do great things, chérie,” she whispered. “But if the world ever becomes too loud, too cruel—remember this place. Come home.”

Meher couldn’t speak. Her throat was tight, her heart heavier than her suitcase.

After her final goodbyes at the hospital—where even the sternest nurses hugged her and her fellow doctors promised to write—she took one last glance at the elegant glass building she had called her second home.

Then, she stepped into a taxi, her heart a storm of grief, dread, and quiet bravery.

The sun was setting when the taxi pulled up to the Marseille Provence Airport.

Golden light spilled across the pavement, casting elongated shadows that danced around the people bustling to and from the terminal.

Meher stepped out, adjusting the strap of her sling bag and pulling her coat tighter around her. The wind carried a soft chill. Her hair blew gently around her face as she looked up at the building—her gateway to a new, unknown life.

She inhaled deeply and began walking towards the entrance, dragging her suitcase behind her.

And then—chaos.

There was a muffled cry, followed by gasps.

People rushed toward the right side of the entrance, gathering in a circle.

“Pardon! Excusez-moi!” someone shouted in panic.

An elderly man had collapsed near the curb, his wife beside him, trembling, shrieking in French for help.

Meher didn’t hesitate.

The doctor in her took over before the woman in her could even blink.

She dropped her bag and ran toward the crowd, pushing through gently until she knelt by the old man’s side. His skin was pale, clammy. His eyes had rolled back. He wasn’t breathing.

She leaned down, checked for a pulse. Nothing.

Her fingers moved with calm urgency. “Je suis médecin! Écartez-vous!”

I’m a doctor. Step back!

Someone in the crowd translated to English. The space around her cleared as if parted by invisible hands.

She tilted the man’s head, opened his airway, and began chest compressions. The rhythmic push of her palms was strong and precise—each motion a plea against death.

“Madame, what condition does he have? Any medications? Heart issues?” Meher asked the elderly woman beside her.

Through sobs, the woman stammered, “Oui—oui! He has a pacemaker... and blood pressure! He collapsed before—we were about to enter…”

“Call the ambulance!” Meher ordered, voice sharp yet calm. “Now!”

Someone was already dialing.

The minutes stretched like eternity.

She gave the man two rescue breaths, continued CPR. Her breath quickened, sweat forming on her brow despite the cold.

And then—

A faint pulse.

A twitch of fingers.

A cough.

The old man’s eyes fluttered open.

Relief surged through the crowd. His wife broke into sobs of gratitude, clutching Meher’s arm.

The ambulance arrived seconds later. The paramedics jumped out, taking over the scene with practiced ease. Meher gave them a quick summary of what happened, her French fluent and crisp.

They loaded the man into the ambulance. His wife turned one last time, pressing Meher’s hands between hers.

“Merci… merci beaucoup, docteur. Vous lui avez sauvé la vie.”

Thank you… You saved his life.

Meher nodded, lips quivering with humility.

And then—like nothing had happened—she dusted off her palms, picked up her bag, and disappeared into the airport.

What she didn’t know…

Was that someone had seen everything.

Not just anyone.

Aaryan.

He had just landed in Marseille an hour ago.

Not for leisure. Not for escape.

But because a stubborn legal dispute with a European pharma partner required his personal presence. One of his companies had been accused of breaching contract—false allegations, really, but ones that needed cleaning up.

He had intended to head straight to his hotel, but the noise outside the terminal pulled his attention.

A crowd.

Commotion.

Curious, he approached, cutting through the sea of people with his usual commanding presence—low gaze, sharp jawline, all tailored arrogance in a charcoal coat.

From the right side of the crowd, he could barely see the girl’s face.

All he could see was a woman with trembling hands performing CPR. Her eyes were fierce. Her actions, swift. Not a second of hesitation. Not an ounce of panic.

Her voice was calm thunder.

Her courage—louder than any siren.

And something about her stopped Aaryan in his tracks.

The way she moved…

The way the old woman held her hand like she was a miracle.

The way she disappeared without waiting for praise or applause.

Just like that.

Gone.

That night, Aaryan sat in his hotel room, sprawled across the luxurious bed with the city lights flickering through the window behind him.

But he wasn’t thinking about contracts or lawsuits.

His mind was back at the airport.

To the girl who knelt like a warrior before a crowd of strangers.

To the woman who spoke French and saved a man’s life with her bare hands.

He hadn’t even seen her face properly.

But something deep in his chest… stirred.

Not in desire.

Not yet.

But in awe.

For the first time in a very long while, someone had impressed him—not with power, not with fear—but with raw, unflinching compassion.

He closed his eyes, the image of her silhouette flashing in the dark.

“Who are you…?” he murmured.

He didn’t know that she was already leaving the city.

Didn’t know that fate had carved out a second meeting.

Not in France.

But far away, in a city where chaos and destiny would clash.

In Mumbai.

Where Aaryan would soon return—

And find the girl whose face he never saw…

But whose strength had already carved a space inside him.

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