His Arrogant CEO

The One-Year Contract

"The marriage will last for 1 year only," Zayan Malik's cold voice echoed in the huge glass office on the 50th floor of Malik Industries. His grey eyes, sharp as daggers, showed no emotion as he pushed the 20-page contract towards me across the mahogany desk.

I, Inaya Ahmed, stared at the papers with shaking hands. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. "Mr. Malik, I... I can't do this. Marriage is... it's sacred."

"Marriage is a business deal, Miss Ahmed," he cut me off, leaning back in his leather chair. His expensive suit, his cold demeanor, everything about him screamed power and arrogance. "And this is the only deal that will save your father's dying company from bankruptcy."

My father, Ahmed Saeed, was sitting beside me, his head down in shame. At 55, he looked 70. The stress of his failing textile empire had aged him overnight. "Inaya beta, please," he whispered. "5000 workers will lose their jobs if we don't sign. Your Dada built this company with his blood. For our family honor... please."

I looked at Zayan again. 28 years old, 6'2", billionaire CEO of Malik Industries, Pakistan's biggest business empire. The most arrogant and ruthless man in Karachi. Voted "Most Eligible Bachelor" by every magazine, but known for never dating, never smiling, never loving. And now he would be my husband?

"Why me?" I finally asked, my voice barely a whisper. "You could marry any model, any actress. Why the daughter of your bankrupt competitor?"

Zayan's lips curved into a cruel smirk. "Because you are perfect, Miss Ahmed. Innocent, untouched, from a respectable but failing family. The media will love the story. The ruthless CEO saving his damsel in distress. It will boost Malik Industries' stocks by 20%. And after 1 year, we divorce quietly, I keep my image, you get 10 crore, and your father's company survives. Everyone wins."

Everyone except my heart, I thought.

"Rule number 1," Zayan continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he stood up and walked around the desk towards me. "You will never enter my bedroom without permission. Rule number 2, No emotional drama. No crying, no fighting, no falling in love. Rule number 3, After exactly 365 days, we divorce and you disappear from my life. Agreed?"

He was so close now I could smell his expensive cologne. Tom Ford. My knees went weak. "And if I... if I break a rule?"

"Then your father's company dies the next day," he said simply. "I will buy it for 1 rupee and fire every single employee. Including your father."

Tears rolled down my cheeks but I picked up the Mont Blanc pen. For Abbu, for our workers who called me 'Beti', for Dada's legacy... I signed. Inaya Ahmed. On every page. Selling my life for 1 year.

"Good girl," Zayan smirked, taking the contract back. "Pack your bags. You are moving to my mansion tonight. Mrs. Malik."

Mrs. Malik. The title felt like a prison sentence. Little did I know, this contract marriage would change both our lives forever.

The Malik Mansion was bigger than any palace I had ever seen. Set on 10 acres in DHA Karachi, with marble floors imported from Italy, crystal chandeliers from France, and 20 servants lined up to greet me. But it felt colder than ice. No photos, no warmth, no life.

"This is your room," Zayan said, opening a door on the second floor. The room was beautiful - king-sized bed, walk-in closet, attached bathroom bigger than my old house. But it was empty. Sterile. Like a hotel.

"My room is at the end of the hall," he pointed. "The master bedroom. Don't come there unless I call you. Don't touch my things. Don't wait for me for dinner. We are strangers living in the same house. Remember that."

I nodded, tears still fresh. "Can I... can I call my Abbu?"

"Once a week. For 5 minutes only. On Sunday. My secretary will monitor the call," he said without looking at me. "Remember the contract, Inaya. No emotional attachment. You are my wife on paper only. In reality, you don't exist for me."

He left, closing the door behind him. The sound echoed like a jail cell locking.

That night, I cried myself to sleep in a bed bigger than my whole room at home. I was Mrs. Zayan Malik now. A wife on paper, a stranger in reality. The richest woman in Pakistan by name, the poorest by heart.

But as I heard his footsteps pass by my door at midnight, stopping for just a second before walking away... I wondered if the arrogant CEO was as heartless as he pretended to be. Or was he just a broken man hiding behind ice walls?

Only time would tell. I had 365 days to find out.