Chapter Two: Once Every Four Years
2117 Words
12 Hours Earlier
The morning sun over the Paris Fashion District was crisp, cutting through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the temporary European headquarters of KAY Beauty.
The entire building buzzed with an intense, electric current. Assistants sprinted down the minimalist corridors with garment bags, designers argued over lipstick swatches in rapid French, and the PR teams frantically rehearsed their opening night speeches. The countdown to the launch of their first European flagship boutique was down to mere hours.
Khauthar Malik glided through the chaos like a silent storm. Her heels clicked in a steady, unhurried rhythm against the polished marble.
She wore a flawless cream trench coat structured perfectly at the shoulders, her dark hair neatly tucked beneath a chic silk turban.
Sarah, her executive secretary, hurried to keep up, a tablet clutched tightly in her hands as she read off the schedule. "The luxury retail investors from Milan have just confirmed their arrival. Vogue France is already setting up their lighting in the main lounge, and your exclusive interview with Global Business starts in exactly twenty minutes."
Ashraf, the newly appointed Paris branch manager, stepped into Khauthar's path, sweating profusely through his designer suit. He nervously turned his tablet toward her. "Miss Malik, if you could just give a final approval on the financial presentation for the board—"
Khauthar didn't even pause her stride. Her eyes swept over the screen for a mere two seconds before she stopped dead in her tracks. She didn't raise her voice, but the absolute cold authority in her tone made the entire hallway go dead silent.
"Slide fourteen," Khauthar said smoothly. "The projected overhead margin for the Champs-Élysées store is off by 1.4%."
Ashraf blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He quickly looked down, tapping through the slides. He hadn't even noticed. Nobody had. But Khauthar remembered the entire quarter's financial blueprint from memory.
The surrounding employees silently exchanged wide-eyed looks. The woman was terrifyingly brilliant.
Khauthar looked directly into Ashraf’s nervous eyes, her expression unreadable. "Perfection isn't a luxury in this company. It's the minimum."
Leaving him frozen in the hallway, she continued walking. That single sentence left no room for error. It was exactly why the corporate world feared her—and why they respected her.
The afternoon was a blinding blur of flashing camera lenses and applause. The grand auditorium was packed with international press, beauty moguls, and high-fashion elite.
Standing behind the podium, Khauthar commanded the room effortlessly. She spoke with a brilliant, calm eloquence about KAY Beauty's massive European expansion, their cutting-edge skincare innovation, and their unwavering commitment to inclusive luxury.
When she spoke about building a global brand that fiercely catered to hijab-friendly beauty without compromising on high-end luxury, the crowd erupted.
Immediately following the presentation, the head journalist from Global Business took the microphone for the live-broadcast interview.
"Miss Malik, you are only twenty-seven years old," the reporter said, looking at her with genuine awe. "You have built one of the fastest-growing beauty and lifestyle empires in modern history. Looking back at the journey, what would you say is your biggest, most proud achievement?"
The audience leaned in. Investors expected her to say the company's net worth. The press expected her to say her international expansion.
Instead, a soft, incredibly genuine smile touched Khauthar's lips. "My mother," she said.
A sudden, warm silence fell over the bustling auditorium. The sharp, intimidating Ice Queen profile softened into something profoundly human. But before anyone could ask a follow-up question, the smile vanished, and the impenetrable CEO mask was firmly back in place.
"Now, if we look at the projected revenue for the next fiscal quarter..." she smoothly transitioned, In a matter of seconds, the glimpse of the real Khauthar was gone, buried beneath the unstoppable weight of her empire.
By 6:00 PM, the flashing lights were gone, and the sleek corporate office was finally quiet.
Khauthar sat at the head of the massive mahogany conference table, reviewing the final press releases. She stopped typing, her gaze drifting across the room.
Her staff was scattered around the tables. Their morning energy was completely gone. The assistants' makeup was fading, some hadn't eaten a proper meal since dawn, Ashraf was aggressively rubbing his temples in a dark corner, and Sarah had quietly slipped her feet out of her painful high heels under her desk.
Khauthar closed her laptop with a soft snap.
"Everyone," she announced. The entire room jumped slightly, looking up at her immediately, bracing themselves for another critique.
Khauthar looked at their exhausted faces, and a faint, gentle smile touched her lips. "Go home."
Nobody moved. They stared at her in utter disbelief.
"You've all worked very well, kudos everyone," she added, her voice dropping its corporate edge.
Ashraf hesitated, standing up. "But Miss Malik, there are still the final logistics reports for the morning launch—"
"Tomorrow," Khauthar interrupted softly but firmly.
Sarah let out a breath she’d been holding all day, a massive, grateful smile spreading across her face. One by one, the staff began packing up, murmuring heartfelt whispers of, "Thank you, Miss Malik," and "Bonne soirée."
Within ten minutes, the office completely emptied. For the first time all day, Khauthar was left in absolute, total silence.
The shadows of the Parisian evening lengthened across her desk. Khauthar finally reached into her bag and pulled out her personal smartphone, which had been turned on silent since 6:00 AM.
The screen illuminated her face in the dim room.
29 February
Khauthar froze, staring at the numbers. A faint, hollow sensation settled in her chest. ...Right, she thought bitterly. My birthday.
She had completely forgotten. Because her birthday only technically existed once every four years, she had trained her brain to treat it like just another grueling workday.
The phone listed thirty-seven missed calls and hundreds of notifications. She scrolled through them mindlessly—automated wishes from international banks, dry texts from business partners, superficial greetings from luxury brands, and generic messages from celebrities trying to stay in her good graces.
She swiped past all of them, ignoring the noise. But then, one specific notification at the very top caught her eye.
Mama ❤️
A genuine, beautiful smile broke across Khauthar’s tired face.
Mama ❤️:Khauthar Malik! If you do not call me this exact minute, I am boarding a plane. Do not test me, oh! Call me immediately!
Khauthar let out a soft laugh, but looking around the dark, empty office, she stopped. She knew her mother far too well. If she called Mama right now from a cold, silent boardroom, Yasmine would instantly know her daughter was alone and working. She would hear the lack of celebration in Khauthar's voice.
Determined to find a place that actually looked festive before making the call, Khauthar stood up, grabbed her coat, and took her umbrella.
An hour later, Khauthar was walking down a cobblestone street, a black umbrella held over her head against the steady Parisian rain. The chilly air nipped at her face, and her heels splashed through small puddles.
She was beginning to panic. Because of the rain, almost every single restaurant, bistro, and café she passed was completely dark, their doors locked tight for the night.
She let out a long, weary sigh, her breath turning to mist in the cold. "Seriously? Am I really going to get deported back to Nigeria by my own mother because I can't find a single open café?"
She was just about to give up and head back to her hotel room when a warm, golden light caught her eye at the end of the street.
Le Crépuscule.
The elegant brass sign glowed under the rain. It was open. Relief washing over her, she quickly pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside.
The brass bell above the door gave a lonely chime, cutting through the quiet jazz playing over the speakers.
Khauthar stepped into the dim, elegant warmth, shaking the rain from her umbrella. She immediately noticed the waiter standing behind the bar. He was tall, with a striking, commanding physique, but he didn't look happy. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense as if he had come in late or was right in the middle of closing up for the night.
Normally, Khauthar might have apologized and walked out. But right now? All she cared about was calling her mother before Yasmine actually carried out her threat.
Without saying a word, she hurried to a secluded corner table by the window. She sat down, pulled out her phone, and dialed her mother.
It picked up on the very first ring.
"Khauthar Malik!" Yasmine’s dramatic, worried voice boomed through the speaker so loudly Khauthar had to pull the phone back a bit. "Ya Allah, this girl wants to give me hypertension! Are you eating? Are you celebrating? Don't tell me you are still staring at spreadsheets!"
"I'm fine, Mama," Khauthar laughed, looking around the warm restaurant to convince herself "I'm at a restaurant right now."
"Good! Because I already checked the Air France flight prices, ehn!" Yasmine warned, though her voice quickly softened into pure, maternal warmth. "Happy birthday, my beautiful daughter. I wish you were home with us."
Suddenly, the phone was violently snatched away as the twins joined the call. "Happy birthday, Big Sis!" Farida cheered.
"Twenty-seven and still no wrinkles! Make sure you eat a massive slice of cake, okay? We love you and miss you so much!" Fadila shouted over her sister.
They showered her with prayers, laughter, and endless affection, repeatedly telling her how much they wished she was home in Nigeria with them. After a round of deep, heartfelt "I love you's, they finally hung up.
The moment the screen went black, the silence of the restaurant rushed back in.
Khauthar lowered her phone and suddenly realized the waiter was still standing there. He had been rooted to the spot the entire time, politely waiting for her to finish her call.
She hadn't actually planned on ordering anything heavy—she just needed a alibi for her mother—but seeing him standing there so patiently, she couldn't just get up and leave. Besides, she had promised Mama she would celebrate.
"I'd like a glass of wine," she said softly, her international accent smooth as she looked up into his unusually steady eyes. "To relax a bit. Your choice."
He nodded respectfully and walked away. A few minutes later, he returned with a ruby-red vintage wine" Khauthar took a small sip and her eyes widened slightly. She had to admit, the exhausted waiter had absolutely flawless taste.
She sat in the quiet booth, staring out at the rainy Paris streets, letting the minutes tick by. She finally felt a sense of peace.
But a few moments later, she heard his footsteps approaching again. She expected the bill, but to her utter surprise, he wasn't holding a check.
He was holding a small, perfectly glazed slice of chocolate cake.
In the center, a single golden candle flickered warmly, and written elegantly in chocolate syrup across the plate were the words: Happy Birthday.
Khauthar froze. She was utterly speechless. She couldn't remember the last time someone had done something so simple, yet so incredibly thoughtful for her without expecting anything in return. Her breath hitched as she stared at the little flame, her eyes wide with amazement.
Jawad stood beside the table, his deep, grounding presence filling the quiet space. He looked down at her, his voice smooth, quiet, and deeply impactful.
"A birthday that comes only once every four years," Jawad murmured, "deserves more than a glass of wine"
Khauthar looked from the cake up to his face, her heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter.
"Go ahead," Jawad said softly, a gentle warmth in his eyes. "Make a wish."
Like a little girl who had completely forgotten she had grown up, Khauthar found herself obeying. She slowly closed her eyes, letting her defenses drop for just one second, and made a silent, fragile wish for her own heart.
Jawad stood over her, his gaze locked onto her face. He watched the way the golden candlelight danced across her flawless skin, watching the quiet peace that finally settled over her sharp features as she blew out the flame.
When she opened her dark, piercing eyes through the faint trail of smoke, he caught her gaze, his voice a deep, unforgettable whisper.
"Happy Birthday, Khauthar."
- Writer
