WRECKED BY HIM

Chapter 2: The Deal

KHALID

I should not have texted her.

I know myself—once I want to reach out, I convince myself it is nothing, hit send anyway, and then end up exactly where I am now: lying on my back at midnight, staring at the glow of my phone like it owes me something.

A reply that isn’t coming.

“Bro, go to sleep,” Zane mutters from the couch.

I glance over. He is half-lying, half-sunk into the cushions, controller on his chest, the paused game screen flashing on the TV.

“I’m not waiting for anything,” I lie.

“You have checked your phone eight times in ten minutes,” he says without looking up.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Khalid.” He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “We have been best friends since we were twelve. You suck at lying. Who is she?”

“Nobody.”

“The bike girl from today?”

I stay silent. That is all the confirmation he needs.

He bursts into laughter. “Oh damn. You are gone.”

“I’m not gone,” I snap. “She just looked like she needed help.”

“And you just happened to give her your personal line? For what? Customer service follow-up?”

“For business.”

“Right. Totally business.” He grins. “So? She hot?”

I throw a pillow at him.

But yes. She is.

Not the glossy, polished kind of pretty I grew up around. Mia has a different kind of beauty—sharp in some places, soft in others. A girl who looks like life hasn’t been easy, but she survived anyway.

Beautiful in a way you feel before you see.

And I’m an i***t for thinking about her this much.

My phone buzzes.

I sit up so fast Zane snorts.

But it is not her.

It is Mom.

Mom: Family dinner tomorrow. 6pm. Your father wants to discuss the expansion. Be there.

Great.

“Your mom?” Zane asks.

“Family torture night,” I sigh.

“Can’t you tell them you don’t want the job?”

“I’ve told them. They just pretend they didn’t hear.”

The Mansours love one thing: legacy. Appearances. Power. The empire my father built and expects his sons to expand. Boardrooms, suits, handshakes that cost millions.

Not me.

Not the guy who likes grease on his hands and engines humming under his palms.

My phone buzzes again.

And this time—

My heart stutters.

Unknown Number: This is Mia. Got home fine. Thanks for checking. Need to talk about the bike tomorrow. What time works?

I read it twice.

Then once more, just because I can.

Me: Morning? 9AM? Or whenever works for you.

A pause.

Mia: 9 is fine. I’m bringing my brother.

Brother.

Makes sense. She doesn’t trust me.

Me: Cool. See you then.

I try not to smile. I fail.

Zane’s staring at me like he is watching a slow-motion car crash.

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He throws the controller aside. “The great Khalid Mansour. Brought down by a girl with a broken bike.”

I flip him off.

But he might be right.

Because something about Mia crawls under my skin. Not her looks. Not her toughness. It is the way she doesn’t fall for anything. She doesn’t trust, doesn’t soften, doesn’t give me the easy reactions I’m used to.

She is real.

And I want to know why.

9:00 AM — Next Morning

She arrives right on the dot.

I’m under another bike when I hear the rumble of an engine outside the garage. I wipe my hands, step out—

—and see a beat-up pickup parking in front of the bay.

The driver climbs out first. Tall. Built. Alert. Brother, definitely.

Then Mia steps down.

Jeans. Leather jacket. Hair in a ponytail. Simple. Clean. No makeup that I can spot.

Beautiful in a way that hits harder in daylight.

Her face hardens the second she sees me.

“Morning,” I call.

“Morning.” She gestures at the guy beside her. “This is my brother, Marcus.”

Marcus shakes my hand like he is testing my bones.

“So you are the Mansour kid,” he says.

“That are my family. Not me.”

“But you are got money.”

“Marcus,” Mia hisses.

“What? Facts are facts.”

He is protective. I get it.

I explain everything wrong with the bike—the fuel pump, electrical wiring, the cable that’s hanging on to life by a thread.

Marcus listens. Really listens.

“You are looking at twelve hundred minimum?” he repeats.

“Yeah. Could be more.”

“That is a lot.”

“It is the actual cost.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Mia’s voice drops. Quiet. Tight.

“I can’t afford that.”

Marcus steps toward her. “We can do a payment plan—”

“No.” She backs up slightly. “I’m not owing anyone anything. I’ll find another way.”

“Mia, you can’t just—”

“Marcus. Drop it.”

Their argument builds like a storm brewing.

I step between them.

“Hold on.” I look at Mia directly. “I might have another option.”

She narrows her eyes. Suspicious.

“What kind of option?”

This is the part where she either walks out or throws something at me.

“My family is hosting this big charity gala next month. Fancy. Pretentious. Annoying. My mom wants me to bring someone who looks—”

I gesture to her.

“—respectable, confident, and not one of the girls from my usual crowd.”

Marcus blinks. “Are you serious?”

But Mia… Mia just watches me.

“You want me,” she says slowly, “to pretend to be your girlfriend.”

“One night. That’s all.”

“Why me?”

Because you are real. Because my family will hate it. Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since yesterday.

“Because you are smart, beautiful, and clearly immune to my charm. Perfect fake girlfriend material.”

Silence.

Marcus mutters, “This is insane.”

“It is practical,” I counter. “I fix the bike for free. She helps me at the gala. We both get what we need.”

Mia folds her arms.

“What is the catch?”

“No catch. Just one night. Act interested, hold my hand a few times, smile at my mom. In return, I fix your bike before the gala so you are not depending on me.”

Another pause.

“I need time to think,” she says.

“Take the week.”

They step outside to talk. Through the garage windows, I see Marcus gesturing wildly while Mia stays calm, arms crossed, stubborn as a brick wall.

Five minutes later, they return.

Mia faces me head-on.

“I want rules.”

My pulse jumps.

“Okay.”

“Rule one: Business only. No personal feelings.”

“Fine.”

“Rule two: No touching unless necessary.”

“Sure.”

“Rule three: You fix the bike first. Before anything else.”

“Deal.”

“Rule four: Nobody knows it is fake.”

That one hits harder.

“Not your friends. Not your family. Not your mechanic buddies. Nobody.”

She stares at me like she is daring me to object.

I don’t.

“Done.”

She steps closer. Close enough that I smell engine oil and faint citrus on her jacket.

“Why are you really doing this?” she asks. “No smooth lines. No jokes. Real answer.”

The real answer is messy.

My family is suffocating me. They want their legacy, their image, their perfect son. And bringing a girl like Mia, a woman who doesn’t bow to anyone, would shake their world.

“I’m doing this because I’m tired of letting them decide my life,” I say. “And because you look like someone who doesn’t let anyone push her around.”

Something flickers in her eyes.

Understanding.

“One night,” she says.

“One night.”

“And then we are done.”

“Done.”

She holds out her hand.

We shake.

And for a moment, neither of us lets go.

Marcus is still grumbling as they leave. Mia turns at the door.

“Khalid?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Then she’s gone.

And I’m standing in my garage wondering if I have just made the best deal of my life—or the biggest mistake I will ever make.

My phone buzzes.

Zane.

Zane: Family dinner tonight. Come to mine after. Also—details. I want DETAILS about bike girl.

Right.

Family dinner.

Perfect.

6:00 PM — Mansour Estate

The house is huge. Expensive. Cold. A monument to everything I’m supposed to want.

I park my truck (which Dad hates) and head inside.

Mom greets me in the foyer, elegant as always.

“You are late.”

“I’m on time.”

“In this family, on time is late.”

Of course.

She kisses my cheek and sends me into the dining room.

Dad and Rashid sit there in full suits like they are about to negotiate a million-dollar deal instead of eat roasted chicken.

“Khalid,” Dad says. “Glad you could fit us into your schedule.”

“Always a pleasure,” I answer dryly.

Rashid smirks. “Nice outfit. Very… garage.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

Dinner is a performance. My brother boasts, my father lectures, my mother pretends everything is perfect.

I stay silent until Dad turns to me.

“So. The regional manager position. Have you reconsidered?”

“I have,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Still not interested.”

My father exhales sharply.

“Khalid, working with your hands is a hobby. Not a career.”

“It is my career.”

“It is an embarrassment,” Rashid adds.

I lean back, jaw tightening.

“Maybe I don’t care how it looks.”

Dad’s glare hardens.

“That,” he says, “is exactly why you are not ready.”

If only he knew.

If only he knew I had already made a decision they would absolutely hate.

Soon, I would be walking into their perfect little Gala with Mia on my arm.

And everything would change.