Aleena's POV
The rain had followed us home that night.
I remember watching it streak softly down the car window, the city lights blurring into trembling gold. Dadu hummed an old ghazal under his breath beside me, the kind he always did after a good evening. I smiled faintly, though my mind wasn't really in the car anymore — it lingered somewhere between the laughter, the scent of chai, and the way that house had felt alive.
Or maybe, it lingered on him.
Azlaan.
The name had echoed in the back of my mind long after the goodbyes were said. Seeing him again — after all these years — had been... unexpected. I hadn't realized how much time could change someone and yet leave fragments behind. His presence carried the calm weight of someone used to being looked at, spoken to, listened to. But what unsettled me wasn't that — it was the way his gaze had found me, steady but unspoken, as if he was searching for something he couldn't name.
And when little Zoya had called me "Elle"... the name had fallen between us like an old secret neither of us was ready to acknowledge.
That night, after everyone slept, I lay awake for a long time — the rain whispering against my window, my thoughts circling back to that fleeting look, that quiet familiarity.
A few days later
The office buzzed softly — the steady rhythm of keyboards, low hum of conversation, the occasional ring of a distant phone. The kind of sound that filled silence without ever truly breaking it. My desk sat by the glass wall, overlooking the stretch of the city — calm, predictable, almost mathematical.
I liked it that way.
Numbers never demanded more than precision. They didn't need eye contact, or the right tone of voice. They didn't look through you.
I was halfway through a quarterly report when Ms. mahek appeared beside me, smiling the way she always did before assigning extra work.
"Aleena," she said, "Mr.Khan from Daydreams design have asked to discuss the deal in person. They'd like to meet at Café Aristo this evening. I'd like you to handle it — you know the spreadsheets and profit data better than anyone."
My fingers froze above the keyboard. "Me?"
"Yes, you," she said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. "You'll do just fine."
I nodded, though the quiet unease in my chest tightened. Public meetings were never my strength. I could read trends, summarize losses, build reports in color-coded perfection — but sitting across from people, trying to explain those things aloud... that was different.
Still, I gathered my notes, printed out the yearly data, and spent the afternoon preparing for every possible question. I repeated the figures under my breath, practiced the phrasing, tried to convince myself it was just another client. Just another meeting.
But all that preparation dissolved the moment I walked into the café.
The soft murmur of evening chatter wrapped around the scent of roasted coffee and warm pastries. The light from the tall windows spilled gold across polished tables. And there — near the window — sat the man I hadn't expected to see again so soon.
Azlaan.
For a moment, I stopped breathing.
He sat with quiet composure, the afternoon light catching faintly in his hair, a file open before him. His expression was calm, businesslike — but unmistakably him. His secretary sat beside him, tablet ready, his posture sharp and professional.
When he looked up, his gaze found mine almost instantly. Recognition flickered — a soft, almost imperceptible light in his eyes.
"Ms.Hadi?"
His voice was low, polite, formal but there was something beneath the surface — something that remembered laughter. something that didn't belong in a café full of strangers.
I swallowed, clutching the folder a little tighter. "Mr.khan," I greeted, my voice barely above a whisper.
He rose to shake my hand — formal, courteous — and I tried not to notice the way the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, the warmth that didn't quite fit the tone of business.
We sat.
The spreadsheets spread neatly between us — my armor of numbers and precision. I began explaining, my tone steady at first: quarterly profits, investment returns, comparative growth. My fingers pointed across columns, highlighting the steady incline of revenue across the last three quarters.
But even as I spoke, I could feel it — his eyes.
Not fixed, not overt, but flickering toward me every few moments. A quiet awareness.
He wasn't staring — it wasn't that — but somehow I knew when his gaze moved from the figures to my face. It was like sensing warmth before the flame touches skin. My breath would catch briefly, my words faltering for half a second before I steadied myself again.
I focused on the numbers — percentages, margins, ratios — the safe things. My voice softened slightly as I continued, trying to drown out the sound of my own heartbeat. I turned a page, my hand trembling just faintly, hoping he wouldn't notice.
He did.
For a fraction of a second, I saw it — his expression soften, his brows knit together slightly, as though he wanted to ease the tension he could sense. But he said nothing. He just listened — quiet, intent, the kind of stillness that makes you aware of yourself in ways you wish you weren't.
His secretary occasionally asked questions — small clarifications about expenditure trends or regional data — and I answered them as clearly as I could, grateful for the distraction.
Finally, when I finished, I set the file down and exhaled. "Would you like me to provide any further information about the data or company profits?"
He closed the folder slowly, his gaze still steady on me.
"No, thank you," he said, then paused — a faint, thoughtful hesitation. "I'll get back to you..."
He held my gaze for a heartbeat longer. "...on this topic."
Something in the way he said it made me blink — unsure, searching his face for meaning.
Then his mouth curved, just slightly. "I mean — your company," he clarified.
I let out a quiet breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Of course," I murmured.
For a moment, silence stretched between us — soft, steady. The kind that holds more than words. He seemed to be studying me, as if trying to piece together something half-forgotten.
Finally, I gathered my papers, careful to avoid meeting his eyes again. "I'll send you the digital copies by tomorrow morning," I said, rising from my seat.
He stood too, polite as ever. "Thank you, Ms.Hadi."
My name — spoken like that, low and deliberate — lingered longer than it should have.
As I stepped out of the café, the evening air hit me, cool and gentle. I drew in a breath, pressing the folder to my chest, my pulse finally beginning to settle. The meeting had gone well — at least on paper. Professionally, it had been flawless.
As i sat in in my car i rested my head against the seat as i have won victory and then went back to office.
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