THE LEAP YEAR PROMISE

Chapter Three: The Leap Year Promise

The trail of blue smoke from the blown-out candle curled into the dim, warm air of the restaurant and vanished.

The silence that followed was heavy, yet incredibly soft. It felt like the entire city of Paris had held its breath just for her to make that wish.

For the first time all day, Khauthar’s shoulders relaxed completely. The constant, buzzing pressure in her head—the voices of investors, the flashing cameras, the endless demands—simply ceased.

She looked up, her soft and sincere eyes meeting Jawad's. "Thank you," she said. Her voice was quiet, stripped of the commanding pitch she used in the boardroom. It was calm, raw thank you. "That was… incredibly thoughtful of you."

"A rare day deserves to be celebrated" Jawad replied, his tone smooth and grounding.

Khauthar reached for her sleek leather handbag, opening the clasp to retrieve her wallet. "Let me pay for the cake, please. And the wine. You’ve stayed past your closing time."

Jawad gently shook his head, taking a small step back. "The cake is a gift. Do not mind the bill, Madame Malik. It is on the house."

He began to turn, intending to give her the space she was clearly used to having. But as he took a step away, Khauthar looked at the empty chair across from her. She looked at the rain lashing against the dark window, and then back at his tall, imposing figure. For some reason she couldn't explain, the thought of him walking away and leaving her alone with her thoughts again felt suddenly, deeply unwelcome.

"Wait," she said.

Jawad stopped, turning back to look at her.

"Do you have somewhere to be?" she asked, her voice carrying a rare note of hesitation. "Or... would you care to join me for a drink? At least let me buy you a glass for your trouble."

Jawad stared at her for a heartbeat, reading the subtle vulnerability behind her invitation. He didn't hesitate. "I would be honored."

He walked back toward the bar, unbuttoning his waiter's vest and untying the black apron from around his waist. He tossed them onto a stool behind the counter. It was a small, simple action, but to Khauthar, it felt incredibly symbolic.

The moment he removed the uniform, the invisible wall between server and customer dissolved. He was no longer just a waiter working a late shift. He was simply a man—confident, tall, and remarkably poised.

He retrieved a fresh bottle of the same rich, deep red vintage and a clean glass, then walked back to the corner booth. He slid into the plush leather seat opposite her, his movements effortless and fluid.

He poured a measured splash into her glass, then filled his own. He raised it slightly. "To the twenty-ninth of February."

Khauthar touched her glass to his, the crystal letting out a clear, ringing chime. "To the rarest day."

They both took a slow sip. Khauthar watched him over the rim of her glass, her sharp, analytical mind immediately taking notes. She noticed the way he held the stem of the glass—it was a natural, refined grip, not the clumsy hold of someone who only handled dishes. She noticed his posture; he didn't slouch or look intimidated to be sitting across from one of the most powerful young women in the business world.

"So," she began, leaning back against the leather cushion, her guarded mask sliding back over her features, though it was slightly softer now. "How did you know my name? I don't recall introducing myself."

Jawad let out a soft, low chuckle that sent a strange, pleasant vibration through the air between them. "I didn't need a formal introduction. I heard your mother call you Khauthar Malik about ten times during your phone call. And she was loud enough that even the kitchen staff probably knows your name by now."

Khauthar blinked, then a genuine, amused smile broke across her face. She shook her head, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Ah. Yes. Mama does not believe in keeping her volume down. Especially not when she is on a mission to deport me."

"She loves you deeply," Jawad said softly, his eyes steady on hers.

"She does," Khauthar agreed, her smile turning a bit nostalgic.

"You are loved," Jawad added quietly. He took a sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving her face. "A woman who has a family like that waiting for her... she shouldn't be celebrating her birthday alone in a quiet restaurant in a foreign city."

The words were so simple, yet they struck a chord so deep within her that she felt a physical pang in her chest. She let out a soft, quiet laugh.

But Jawad, who was highly observant, didn't hear any joy in it. It was a bitter, defensive sound.

"In my world," Khauthar said, her voice turning cool, "being alone is a luxury. It is the only time nobody is trying to take something from me."

Jawad didn't rush to reply. He didn't try to offer cheap comfort or change the subject to make her feel better. He simply sat there, a calm and patient anchor, silently refilling her glass as the rain continued to beat a steady rhythm against the glass window.

There was something about his silence that felt incredibly safe. It wasn't the awkward, empty silence she usually felt with people. It was a listening silence.

"Do you always sit with strangers?" Khauthar asked suddenly, tilting her head as she studied him.

"No," Jawad replied smoothly.

"Then why me?"

"You invited me, plus you looked like you needed someone to stay," he said simply.

Ofcourse yes she invited him she remembered, looking down at her wine glass, swirling the dark liquid. The walls she had spent years building—the thick, impenetrable fortress that protected her from the deceptions, the robbery of her ideas, and the men who only wanted to steal her empire—felt suddenly fragile.

"I have built a very large company," she said quietly, almost as if she were talking to herself. "And the larger it gets, the smaller my circle becomes. When you have what people want, they stop seeing you. They only see the crown on your head. They smile at you, they pretend to be your friend, they tell you they love you... but they are only waiting for the right moment to take it all."

She looked up, her eyes reflecting the faint golden candlelight. The fragility in her voice was unmistakable now.

"My father left my mother because she couldn't give him an heir," she continued, her words pouring out in layers, like a confession she had kept locked away for a lifetime. "He wanted a boy to carry his legacy. So, I decided I would be that legacy. I worked until I couldn't sleep. I built KAY Beauty from nothing. But the moment I started succeeding, the wolves came. My first business partner... a man I thought I could trust, a man I actually thought..." She paused, her throat tightening. "He tried to steal my formulations. He wanted to claim my entire brand as his own."

She took a sharp breath, her fingers tightening around her glass. "And my love life? It’s an absolute mess. I was rejected by a man’s family once because I was raised by a single mother. They told him I wasn't 'well-trained' or from a suitable background. He left me for a wealthier, more established heiress. And then, when I finally made it, when I was successful... the next man who claimed to love me was only using me to get to my board of directors. He wanted to merge my empire into his family's struggling firm."

She let out a long, ragged breath, looking out at the dark Parisian street. "So, yes. I built walls. I became a lone ranger. Every relationship, every friendship in my life right now is superficial. I keep everyone at a distance because I know—I know—that the moment I let someone close, they will find a way to hurt me. I’m always waiting for the price tag on kindness."

She had poured her heart out. She had spoken about things she had never even whispered to her sisters or her mother. She had laid her soul bare to a waiter in a quiet restaurant.

Jawad listened to every single word. He didn't blink. He didn't interrupt. He watched the subtle clenching of her jaw, the way her fingers trembled slightly, and the deep, ocean-like sorrow in her eyes.

He felt a profound, burning desire to protect her—to tear down those walls himself and show her that she didn't have to carry the weight of her world alone.

But then, as if realizing what she had just done, Khauthar suddenly froze. Jawad watched as the invisible, icy shield slammed back down over her face. Her posture straightened. Her eyes sharpened. She pulled her hands back, folding them across her chest as if physically locking herself away again.

She hooked his gaze, studying his face intensely. She tried to analyze his subtle features, looking for the telltale signs of a scammer, a opportunist, or a man who was about to use her vulnerability against her.

But there was nothing. His face was entirely serene, his eyes holding a depth of understanding that left her completely disarmed.

She smiled faintly, a look of pure confusion passing over her face. "I don't know why I just told you all of that. I never talk about my personal life. Especially not to strangers. There is something about you..." She trailed off, unable to put her finger on it.

To change the subject and regain control, she decided to turn the spotlight on him. "You know a lot about me now," she said, leaning forward, her eyes narrowing playfully. "But I know nothing about you. What is your story Jawad? Why is someone who speaks such flawless French, has impeccable taste in wine, and carries himself like a gentleman working as a late-night waiter in Paris?"

Jawad smiled, a slow, mysterious curl of his lips. He was too smart to reveal his true identity. "Atleast you know my name" he said

Khauthar laughed softly "yeah from the name tag" she gestured to his shirt.

He followed her gaze "yeah of course " he realized, shaking his head softly.

"But who are you really?" She asked again, her curiosity taken best of her.

"I am just a man finding his own path," Jawad replied smoothly, keeping his answer simple yet entirely honest. "Sometimes, you have to leave everything behind to figure out who you really are without the noise of everyone else's expectations."

Khauthar studied him. Her business-trained mind knew when someone was hiding something, but she also respected privacy. She could tell he wasn't a simple waiter—his vocabulary, his calm aura, and the way he spoke suggested a highly educated, sophisticated background. He was a puzzle she suddenly wanted to solve.

As she stared at him, lost in her thoughts, Jawad simply sat there, his gaze locked onto her face.

Khauthar caught him staring.

She immediately felt a flush of heat creep up her neck. She raised a hand, brushing her fingers against her lips. "What? Is there something on my face? Did I get chocolate on my mouth?"

Jawad didn't look away. Instead, his gaze softened, becoming incredibly focused.

"No," he muttered, the words leaving his lips like an involuntary impulse. "You are beautiful."

Khauthar’s breath caught in her throat. She raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain her cool, defensive demeanor even as a sudden warmth spread down her cheeks. She was used to compliments—men told her she was beautiful every single day—but the way Jawad said it felt entirely different. It wasn't a line to get into her good graces. It was a statement of absolute truth.

"Flirting with a customer, are we?" she teased, her voice dropping to a slightly husky register.

"No," Jawad said, his voice deep and steady. "I mean it."

Khauthar let out a soft, amused chuckle. She decided to go with the vibe, leaning in slightly. "You know, you only say that because I am here right now. Because it is a rainy night in Paris, and we are sharing a bottle of wine. If you saw me else where, or on the news, you would think differently."

"I saw you on the news," Jawad said quietly. "Two weeks ago. On Valentine's Day."

Khauthar paused, her playful smile faltering. "You did?"

"Yes," Jawad said. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the distance between them. The intense, magnetic energy radiating from him made her heart start to pound wildly against her ribs. He looked directly into her eyes, his expression completely devoid of any playfulness.

Then, he said it "I'd like to marry you."

The world froze. The low hum of the jazz music seemed to stop. The sound of the rain outside faded into nothingness. Khauthar’s mind went completely blank. She stared at him, her lips parting slightly in sheer, unadulterated speechlessness.

She had been proposed to before—mostly by wealthy heirs at elite galas who wanted a corporate merger disguised as a marriage. But those proposals were always wrapped in negotiations, business talk, and family approvals.

This man, a waiter in a quiet restaurant, had just looked her in the eyes and said he wanted to marry her with the calm, unshakable confidence of a man stating that the sky was blue.

A tiny, stunned smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She had to give it to him—he was incredibly bold.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she said, her voice dropping to a soft, defensive whisper.

Jawad didn't back down. He didn't laugh it off as a joke. He simply kept his steady, intense gaze locked onto hers.

Khauthar checked her watch, suddenly feeling the need to escape before this mysterious man completely dismantled the rest of her defenses. The time read 11:30 PM.

"I should leave," she said, her voice slightly breathless.

She quickly stood up, grabbing her coat and handbag. She pulled a crisp, one-hundred-dollar bill from her purse and dropped it onto the table.

Jawad stood up as well. His tall, intimidating height suddenly loomed over her, but he didn't try to stop her or block her path. He didn't ask for her phone number, her i********:, or her address. He didn't bring up his marriage proposal again.

He simply looked down at her, a warm, gentle smile on his face. "Don't miss your birthday again, Khauthar," he said softly. "You deserve to celebrate yourself. You deserve to be happy."

Khauthar’s heart did a violent, dangerous flutter. What a man, she thought, a deep, consuming curiosity washing over her. She wanted to know him. She wanted to know everything about him, but she simply didn't have the time. Her life was a chaotic storm, and his was a quiet sanctuary she wasn't sure she belonged in.

She took a step back, looking up at him with a challenging, brilliant smile.

"If you truly mean what you just said..." she began, her eyes flashing with a playful, possessive spark. "Find me on my next birthday."

She stepped closer, her perfume wrapping around him. "If you do... I might let you take me on a date."

It was a challenge. A beautiful, nearly impossible challenge. Her birthday was on the twenty-ninth of February—a date that wouldn't happen again for another four years. She was giving him a task that required ultimate patience, determination, and fate.

Jawad didn't hesitate. He simply nodded, the looks he gave her needing no long words.

"I'll be there," he promised.

Khauthar’s breath hitched at the absolute certainty in his voice. Suddenly feeling incredibly intimidated by his quiet power, she quickly turned, pushed the glass doors open, and hurried out into the rainy Paris night.

As her luxury car drove away, she leaned her head against the cool glass window, a strange, warm flutter in her chest. She told herself it was just a game. A temporary distraction with a handsome stranger to make her feel alive on her birthday. No feelings attached.

But Khauthar Malik didn't know that some people aren't meant to be taken for granted.

Back inside the quiet restaurant, Jawad stood by the window, watching her tail lights disappear into the Parisian rain. He walked back to the table and picked up the one-hundred-dollar bill she had left behind.

A soft, knowing smile touched his lips.

She had left the money for the wine, but she hadn't paid for the cake. She had accepted his birthday gift.

He folded the bill and slipped it into his pocket, whispering to the empty, quiet restaurant:

"See you next birthday."