The evening sunset lingered on the horizon, spilling warm hues across the quiet sky. Golden light melted into lavender shadows, as if the day itself sighed a gentle goodnight before sinking into the cool embrace of evening. Ayra rode her bicycle home beneath that fading splendor, but her mind was not on the sunset; it echoed only with Mr. Paul's words. They floated in circles inside her thoughts, making her unusually silent on her way back.
She parked her bicycle, checked her watch, and saw it was exactly seven o'clock. The house glowed softly under the warm lights inside. As Ayra stepped in, Peter Johnson emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a small smile stretching across his gentle face.
"How was your day, darling?" he asked.
Ayra smiled back faintly. "Good, Dad."
She walked straight to her bedroom, showered, and changed into her favorite nightwear—a soft white shirt and matching pants. She barely had time to brush her damp hair when her father's voice echoed through the hallway.
"Ayra! I made you a burger and french fries. Come eat, baby."
"I'm coming, Dad," she replied.
They sat together at the dining table, sharing small conversations, laughter, and the quiet comfort of companionship. After dinner, they washed the plates together, a routine both of them secretly adored. Peter kissed Ayra's forehead and said, "I know you stay awake on weekends to watch your shows or read your books, but don't stay too late. I kept extra food and juice in the kitchen. If you're hungry at midnight, have it. Tomorrow is a holiday. Rest. Have fun. Take care of yourself."
Ayra hugged him back, and he went to bed.
She sat at her study table, journaling and writing a few pages of her book. But her mind drifted to Tommy and Timmy—the stray dog and cat she hadn't visited since yesterday. The thought of them alone in the cold gnawed at her chest.
"I'll bring them here," she whispered to herself. "I'll hide them in the storeroom. Dad won't even know… If only he didn't have allergies."
When she checked the time, it was 9:30 PM.
"I have to go," she whispered. "It'll take half an hour with the shortcut. Dad won't wake up."
She wrote a note and stuck it on the study table:Dad, I went to the ice-cream shop on our street. I'll be back in 10 minutes.
"Please forgive me, God," she murmured. "I'm doing this for the pets."
Quietly, she took her bicycle and slipped out into the cold night.
Within ten minutes, she reached the pond area. The streetlights flickered with a ghostly glow, and the wind whispered through the trees. She called softly, "Tommy? Timmy?"
The streetlight blinked again.
Then she heard it—small rustling sounds behind another tree. She called louder, "Tommy! Timmy!"
Both pets appeared, happily playing with a ball near the pond. Ayra smiled at the sight—the moon reflected beautifully in the water, creating a shimmering silver path. She took a picture to capture the moment.
The pets ran to her, tails wagging and paws tapping. She knelt and patted their heads lovingly. Then, stepping near the pond, she dipped her foot in.
"I'm just checking if the water is as cold as the air," she said when Tommy barked in panic.
But the surface was slippery. Ayra lost her balance and fell into the pond with a splash.
"HELP!" she screamed. "Someone help! I don't know how to swim!"
Tommy barked frantically. Timmy meowed desperately.
On the other side of the pond stood a tall, striking man beside an expensive luxury car. He looked like he had stepped out of a royal portrait—clean-cut, handsome, and dressed in a flawless suit, the kind that hinted at wealth and impossible charm.
He saw Ayra drowning.
Without hesitation, without a thought about his clothes or the cold, he dove into the pond.
Ayra, losing breath and sinking deeper, thought miserably, I lied to my father… I deserve this. I hope someone adopts Tommy and Timmy. Dad should live happily…
Her senses faded—until she saw a figure swimming toward her. She reached her hand out weakly.
He caught it.
With swift, powerful strokes, he pulled her to safety and laid her on the ground.
"Miss! Miss! Crazy girl—will you get up or not?" he said, pressing gently on her jacket to push the water from her lungs.
Ayra coughed and slowly regained consciousness.
His driver, Das, arrived breathlessly. "Sir! What are you doing here?"
"Nothing," the Prince-charming stranger muttered, standing up as he checked his phone. It flashed: Dad with an angry emoji.
"I'll take this call. Give her a water bottle."
Das tried to explain. "Sir, this girl… she—"
"What?" the man snapped. "I saved her. And now everyone thinks every girl I help is my girlfriend. For the last time—I don't want a girlfriend."
Ayra heard only never wanted a girlfriend, but not his face.
When she woke fully, she saw Das.
"Mr. Das… did you save me?"
"No, Miss. Our Boss did. He's a good person."
Ayra's eyes widened. "Can I meet him? I want to thank him."
But the man had already left in his luxury sports car.
Then Das received a call.
It was him—Prince Charming himself.
"Drop her home safely. She'll say she came on a bicycle. Follow her. Make sure she reaches home."
Ayra grabbed the phone. "Thank you so much, Mystery Man—sorry, Stranger—sorry, Sir—"
"Don't call me Mystery Man or Sir," he said sharply. "Just go home safely."
He cut the call.
Ayra found his expensive jacket around her shoulders. When she tried to return it, Das refused.
"If I take this jacket back, he'll scold me for bothering you. Keep it."
Ayra finally returned home with Tommy and Timmy. She bought strawberry nut ice creams from the almost-closing shop, so her note wouldn't be a lie.
Back home, she hid both pets in the storeroom, wrapped them in blankets, and fed them ice cream. Their happy howls melted her heart.
Das texted his boss:Sir, the girl reached home safely.
Meanwhile, the Prince Charming—whose real name was Virat Malhotra—entered his mansion, Virat Palace. His father glared at him, but Virat silently walked past, took a long bath, changed into white nightwear, and stared at his reflection.
He remembered Ayra.
He remembered her drowning.
And he remembered the strange anger he felt—anger not at her mistake, but at the thought of losing her.
"Why did I get angry… like she mattered to me?" he whispered to himself.
Thor, his dog, barked loudly.
Virat sighed. "Buddy, I'm okay. Don't tease me."
A knock came at the door.
His mother's voice floated in warmly—
"Virat?"
And the night settled around him, heavy with questions he couldn't yet understand.