The next day, the café remained closed , the owner had some personal emergency.
That meant no morning shift for me, which left me with endless hours before my first evening shift at the restaurant.
It was supposed to be my first day, and I couldn't contain my excitement. From the moment I woke up, I kept glancing at the clock every few minutes, counting down the hours.
Eventually, boredom won. I dozed off on the sofa, the afternoon sunlight warming my face. I didn't know how long I'd been asleep until my father's gentle voice woke me up.
"You look bored," he said, smiling faintly. "Let's spend some time together — me, your mom, and you."
His offer immediately lifted my mood. "Really?" I said, jumping to my feet.
He chuckled. "Yes, really."
We walked to the balcony where Mom was already sitting, the light breeze gently stirring her hair. I thought we'd be playing some board games like we used to when I was little.
I sat beside her and asked, "So, what are we doing today?"
Mom smiled. "Your father wants to go through some old photo albums."
"That's great!" I said eagerly. "I've always wanted to see your childhood and teenage photos."
Dad laughed, shaking his head. "I hope you don't make fun of my hairstyle."
We sat in a circle, the photo book open on the table. The smell of old paper and the soft crackle of turning pages filled the air. Every picture told a story, laughter frozen in time, days long gone but alive in my father's eyes.
Then, one photo caught my attention , a young man standing beside my father, both smiling widely, their arms around each other's shoulders.
"Dad," I said, pointing to the man. "Who's this? He's in so many pictures with you."
Mom looked over too. "Yes, I've seen him in several of your albums. You never mentioned him."
Dad's smile softened, his eyes distant. "Then I guess I should tell you about him now."
We both leaned closer as he continued, "You've heard of the Malhotra Empire, right? The richest family in the country."
I nodded immediately. "Yes, of course. Arvind Malhotra is the CEO, isn't he?"
Dad nodded. "That's right."
Mom frowned. "Why bring them up suddenly?"
Dad looked at the picture again and said, "Because the man in this photo is Arvind Malhotra himself."
For a second, both Mom and I froze.
"What?" I blurted out. "You're joking."
Dad laughed at our shocked faces. "No, I'm serious. Here" he reached for an old school yearbook and opened a page. Sure enough, there was the name Arvind Malhotra printed beside a younger version of the same smiling boy.
"But Dad," I said, "he doesn't look anything like the billionaire Arvind Malhotra we see on TV."
Dad chuckled. "That's because he wasn't rich back then. His father had passed away suddenly when he was sixteen. It was his mother, Savitri Malhotra, who became the backbone of their empire. She built everything they have today."
There was a glimmer in his eyes as he spoke, admiration mixed with nostalgia.
Hearing that somehow inspired me. If they could rise from nothing to become billionaires, maybe our family could find light at the end of our debts too.
Dad smiled to himself and continued, "We were inseparable back then. And when we were young and foolish, we made a promise to each other."
I leaned forward, curious. "What kind of promise?"
He hesitated for a moment, then said quietly, "I can't tell you yet. Not now. I'll tell you when the time is right."
Mom scoffed playfully. "Your billionaire friend probably doesn't even remember you anymore. You think a man that powerful still holds on to childhood promises?"
"Don't speak ill of him," Dad said gently but firmly. "He isn't like that. We still meet once a year."
My eyes widened. "Wait, you still meet him? When?"
Dad smiled. "On the 8th of June. Every year, without fail."
I gasped. "But that's only three days from now!"
Dad nodded. "Yes. We meet for lunch, talk for a while, and remember the old days."
I couldn't believe it, my father, the same man struggling with bills, was still friends with one of the richest men in the country.
We spent the next hour talking, flipping through more photos and laughing at stories from his youth. For the first time in a while, I saw my parents smiling without a trace of worry.
After lunch, I got ready for work, putting on a neatly ironed shirt and tying my hair back. The restaurant was quite far from our home, so I left early, taking the bus across the city.
When I arrived, the restaurant's golden letters gleamed under the lights. Inside, the faint melody of instrumental music mixed with the soft chatter of customers. I was asked to report to the same man who had taken my CV the previous night, the manager.
He greeted me with a smile. "Welcome back, Miss Tanvi. Let me show you around."
He gave a brief orientation, how to serve customers, take orders, and maintain professionalism. The uniform felt slightly uncomfortable, but my excitement made it bearable. I changed quickly and began working.
To my surprise, I was actually enjoying it. I loved the small exchanges with customers, the clinking of glasses, the smell of freshly baked bread. A few guests even tipped me, small amounts, but every coin counted.
By the end of the shift, I felt proud and exhausted in the best way possible. That's when the manager called me over again.
"Tanvi," he said with a grin. "You're doing well. I have a special assignment for you tonight."
"Special?" I asked, my heart racing a little.
"Yes," he nodded. "A very important guest is here. He always dines here before leaving the country. He's… special to us. He orders the same dish his late mother used to love. Serve him well, and you'll be rewarded. If he's pleased, the tips can be generous, very generous."
I smiled nervously. "I'll make sure he's comfortable. Don't worry."
"Good," he said, patting my shoulder. "Go ahead. He's at table seven."
My palms felt slightly sweaty as I walked toward table seven. The lights were dim, casting a warm glow across the restaurant. I couldn't see his face clearly at first, just a silhouette seated near the window, the faint city lights reflecting on his watch.
"Good evening, sir," I said politely, not daring to look up. "Would you like to place your order?"
His voice came softly, low yet clear, "Yes. I'd like to have the South Indian meal."
Something about his tone made me pause. It was gentle but confident, a warmth that somehow reached me even before I looked at him.
I nodded quickly. "Right away, sir."
When I returned with the tray, I finally saw him properly as I served the food. His presence felt… different.
He was dressed in a sky-blue shirt, the first few buttons undone, revealing a faint gold chain against his chest. His trousers were beige, fitting him perfectly. His skin had a golden tan, the kind that made him look like he belonged to both sunlight and luxury. His hair was brown and slightly messy, yet effortlessly stylish.
And then he smiled, a small, polite curve of his lips that revealed dimples deep enough to steal my breath for a second.
My heart fluttered, and I quickly looked away, pretending to fix the cutlery.
"Thank you," he said softly.
I nodded and walked away, my face warm.
From a distance, I saw him eating slowly, occasionally looking out of the window, lost in thought. There was a quiet sadness in his expression, though he smiled to the waiter who brought water. Something about him didn't scream billionaire arrogance, it was more… lonely.
When he finished, I returned to clear the table. As I reached for the plate, he looked up, and our eyes met for just a heartbeat, long enough for me to feel something strange and inexplicable stir inside me.
He took out his wallet and placed a folded note beside the bill. "For you," he said.
I frowned, confused. "Sir, you already paid—"
He smiled again, that same dimpled smile. "It's a tip. For good service."
I thanked him quietly and watched as he stood up, adjusted his sleeves, and left without another word.
Only when he was gone did I unfold the note — inside was ₹20,000.
I froze. Twenty thousand rupees. For one meal.
The manager came over, wide-eyed. "He tipped you that much? You're lucky, Tanvi! That man rarely smiles at anyone, let alone tips!"
I didn't even respond. My hands trembled slightly as I held the note.
When I finally left the restaurant, the city lights blurred around me. My thoughts weren't about the money anymore. All I could think of was his face, his voice, his dimples.
Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was too soon. But my heart refused to listen to reason.
By the time I reached home, my parents were already having dinner. I joined them, though my mind was miles away.
"What happened?" Mom asked, noticing my absent look. "Why are you smiling like that?"
I blinked and quickly said, "Nothing, Mom. I'm just… tired."
She didn't press further, though her eyes said she didn't believe me.
I went to my room, changed into my nightdress, and sat by the window. The night breeze felt cool against my skin, but my heart felt strangely warm.
That face — that smile — wouldn't leave my mind.
Maybe it was love at first sight.
I laughed softly to myself. "Don't be silly, Tanvi," I whispered. "He's just a stranger."
But deep down, I knew, strangers didn't leave this kind of ache.
That night, I lay awake long after the lights went out, replaying every second of that brief meeting, the softness of his voice, the calm in his eyes, and the way his smile had made the whole world blur for just a moment.