Cute Prince

The garden air felt suddenly charged, the quiet peace fractured by the weight of the man approaching. You didn't know who he was, only that the surrounding air seemed to thin, his presence commanding a space that everyone else felt compelled to yield.

"Alright, Mr. Handsome Prince," you whispered, trying to keep your voice light to coax the boy out of his shell. "Before any investigations, we need a treat. Ice cream?"

The boy didn't answer, his small hand remaining glued to yours, a lifeline he refused to relinquish. He was leading you toward the garden’s edge, toward the brightly lit catering area, when he suddenly stiffened.

 His small head whipped around, his eyes locking onto something—or someone—beyond your shoulder.

"Krish."

The voice was low, resonant, and carried a tremor of barely contained relief.

You turned. Emerging from the shadows of the trellis was the man from the veranda—Mr. Kim. He looked less like a corporate tycoon now and more like a man whose world had just tilted on its axis.

 He walked slowly, his eyes fixed entirely on the boy, his gaze bypassing you as if you were merely a part of the scenery.

Before Mr. Kim could reach the boy, the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack of heels announced another arrival.

 Nithyamathi swept into the scene, her face transforming from a mask of frantic irritation into a performance of polished, wide-eyed concern.

She shoved herself between you and Mr. Kim, her eyes darting between his expensive suit, the boy, and your joined hands.

"Oh, my heavens!" Nithyamathi gasped, her hand flying to her chest in a display of practiced shock. "Mr. Kim, is this your darling son? My daughter, Priya—she’s such a soft heart, always looking out for the little ones. She’s had such a difficult time lately, but she’s just an angel with children. She found him crying, didn't you, Priya?"

You felt your stomach turn. The way she was "selling" you—the artificial tilt of her head, the way she was already calculating her next sentence—made you want to recoil.

 You looked at the boy, then at Mr. Kim, who seemed entirely unimpressed by your mother’s performance.

Mr. Kim finally looked at you. His eyes were dark, tired, and unreadable, flickering with a strange, searching quality as they landed on your face.

He reached out, his hands offering a silent, firm invitation to the boy. "Krish. Come here."

The boy didn't move immediately. He looked up at you, his small fingers still curled tightly around your palm, then back to his father.

You felt a surge of indignation on the boy’s behalf. Your mother’s grating, sycophantic praise echoed in your ears, and you suddenly felt a desperate need to distance yourself from it.

You stepped slightly aside, putting a clear physical barrier between you and Nithyamathi.

You turned your back on your mother’s fluttering hands and looked down at the silent boy, your voice soft, ignoring the tension hanging between the two adults.

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