Aryan Malhotra prided himself on three things: his mafia reputation, his impeccable style, and his ability to control every situation in Pithampur. But today, he faced a new challenge: Meera—and her tiny accomplice, Laila.
The morning began with a simple mission: drop Laila off at the local creche while Aryan “handled some business.” Simple. Easy. Foolproof.
Or so he thought.
As they walked toward the creche, Laila spotted a pile of sweets outside a roadside stall and immediately launched herself toward it. Aryan lunged, catching her just as she grabbed a jalebi, leaving sticky orange syrup across his kurta.
“Really, Laila? Jalebi first?” he groaned, dabbing at the stain with a handkerchief.
Meera laughed, brushing her hair back. “She’s got excellent taste. You could learn something from her.”
“Excellent taste in sweets, maybe,” Aryan muttered, glaring at the sticky mess. “Not in choosing fathers for babies!”
Meera arched an eyebrow. “Fathers? I thought you were just ‘Friend Aryan’?”
Aryan froze. His reputation as a bachelor playboy—unshakable, untouchable—was suddenly being questioned by a woman and a baby. He cleared his throat. “Friend Aryan… is versatile.”
By the time they reached the creche, Laila had waved at everyone like a tiny mayor and stolen a stuffed rabbit from another child. Aryan gave Meera a helpless glance. “You said ‘quiet morning.’ This looks like war.”
Meera smiled knowingly. “Welcome to parenthood… or babysitting, in your case.”
They left Laila with a caretaker, who looked both terrified and fascinated by the whirlwind of energy she had inherited. Aryan waved reluctantly, already missing the tiny dictator.
“See?” Meera said, linking her arm with his. “She’s safe. And now you can go ‘handle business.’”
Aryan adjusted his sunglasses and attempted to look intimidating, mafia-like. “Business handled,” he muttered, though inside he was already calculating ways to sneak peeks at the creche, just to see how she was doing.
Later that afternoon, Aryan found himself in the market, trying to act casual while discreetly buying… baby snacks. Fruit puffs, tiny biscuits, a miniature chocolate bar he wasn’t supposed to admit he had eaten for quality control.
“You know,” Meera said suddenly from behind, “I can see everything you’re doing.”
Aryan jumped, nearly dropping the snacks. “I—uh… I’m… making a donation to the baby economy!”
Meera laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I… know,” he said, smiling faintly. “But sometimes, ridiculous is necessary to survive in Pithampur.”
Meera tilted her head. “Or to survive Laila.”
Aryan froze. “She’s… a tiny mafia boss, yes. But—she’s my responsibility… now. Practically.”
Meera smiled softly, and for a second, Aryan felt completely exposed. Not to the mafia, not to his rivals, but to her. The single mom who had brought a tornado into his life and somehow made him… care.
“Practically?” Meera asked teasingly.
Aryan swallowed. “Practically… emotionally… not admitting anything officially… yet.”
Meera raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Good to know. I’ll hold you to that, Friend Aryan.”
And as they walked back toward the creche, Aryan realized something terrifying and wonderful: he was falling for Meera. Slowly, chaotically, unpredictably—just like Laila.
And for once, Aryan Malhotra didn’t want to control the chaos. He wanted to live in it.
Because in Pithampur, love, laughter, and sticky fingers might just be the most dangerous—and delightful—things of all.
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