Chapter One: Fated Paths
2105 Words
The afternoon sun of February 14th filtered through the tall, arched window of a decent, cozy one-room apartment in Paris. Outside, the city of love was celebrating. Florists on the cobblestone streets below were swamped, red balloons drifted past the classic Parisian balconies, and the chill in the air carried the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts.
Inside, Jawad was trying to catch up on his sleep. He lay on his bed, his long legs tangled in a warm gray blanket. It was a proper, comfortable bed—the one luxury he had made sure he could afford. On a plastic chair right next to him, his laptop sat closed, its indicator light blinking slowly. Beside it was a box of cold pizza from yesterday.
He had just finished an exhausting night shift at the restaurant and was deep in sleep when his friends burst in, bringing the noisy chaos of Valentine's Day with them.
Ammar stood near the mirror, aggressively spraying a sweet, expensive-smelling cologne until the air was thick. Across the room, Nathan was hunched over the small table, frantically ironing a crisp white shirt with an old, sputtering iron.
Jawad groaned, pulling the blanket over his head to block out the light and the sweet scent of the cologne.
Ammar laughed, throwing a crumpled piece of paper at the bed. "Bro, are you really spending Valentine’s Day sleeping? Get up!"
"Forget him," Nathan chimed in, not looking up from his ironing. "He’s married to his programming. His laptop is his wife."
"Honestly, Jawad," Ammar teased, adjusting his collar. "I'm beginning to think you're actually gay. No girls, no dates, just code."
Jawad only shook his head under the covers, a small, tired smile on his lips. He loved these guys, but they had no idea how much energy it took to rebuild a life from scratch in a new country.
Suddenly, Ammar gasped, his eyes glued to his phone screen. "Guys! Oh my God. Have you seen this woman?"
Nathan unplugged the iron and immediately scrambled over to crowd around Ammar’s small screen. "Who is that?"
"Khauthar Malik," Ammar whispered, as if speaking a holy name. "She’s the youngest self-made billionaire. She just made the cover of this global business magazine. They say she's in Paris this week for a major corporate merger."
On the screen, a video interview was playing. Khauthar was breathtaking. She wore a tailored emerald-green suit that fit her like armor. Her dark hair was styled perfectly, and she carried herself with an elegant, untouchable confidence. She looked like a queen.
Nathan let out a long, slow whistle. "Bro... if she asked me to leave my girlfriend today, I'd escort my girl home, lock the door, and run right back to her." They both laughed.
"That woman isn't human," Ammar sighed dramatically, clutching his chest. "She's a goddess. One smile from her and I’d forget my own surname."
Under his blanket, Jawad rolled his eyes. He slowly pulled the cover down, exposing his face.
"You guys need to relax," Jawad commented, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. "You can't possibly be talking about a common human girl like that. Guys, have some restraint."
Ammar turned around, grinning mischievously. "You need to see her first to comment, Mr. Holy Monk. Shoot your shot."
"Pass... I'm not interested," Jawad said, closing his eyes to go back to sleep.
"He's scared," Nathan teased, nudging Ammar. "Our tech genius is intimidated."
Jawad felt a sudden, playful spark of challenge. He opened his eyes, sat up, and stretched out his long arm. "Give me the phone."
Ammar handed it over, still snickering. Jawad pulled the screen closer. But the moment his eyes landed on her face, the laughter of his friends seemed to fade away into complete silence.
His heart skipped a heavy, sudden beat. The camera had zoomed in on Khauthar's face as she answered a question. Her dark, piercing eyes were looking directly at the camera—and it felt as if she was looking straight through the screen, directly into his soul.
Jawad zoomed in on her eyes, completely transfixed. He didn't see the flashing lights, the expensive suit, or the reporters around her. All he felt was a profound, overwhelming pull in his chest. It wasn't just attraction; it was a deep, undeniable feeling that felt utterly right. Like a missing piece of code finally clicking into place. It was a connection so strong it left him breathless.
Click.
Nathan snapped his fingers right in front of Jawad's face, a smug grin on his lips. "Gotcha!"
Jawad blinked, pulled out of his thoughts, and quietly handed the phone back to Ammar.
"She's beautiful," Jawad said softly.
The guys grinned, nudging each other. Finally! Their stoic friend was showing a sign of human emotion.
"See?" Ammar laughed. "I told you! Even the monk has a weakness."
"Go ahead, shoot your shot," Nathan teased.
"Send her a DM. Tell her you're a waiter who can write Python code. She'll definitely fall for you."
Jawad looked at his friends, his expression calm, his eyes incredibly steady. "I'm going to marry her."
The room went dead silent. Ammar and Nathan stared at him. Then, the apartment absolutely exploded with laughter.
Ammar fell backward onto the bed, howling and kicking his legs. Nathan laughed so hard he had to hold onto the wall for support.
"Bro! Are you out of your mind?" Nathan wheezed. "She can buy this entire building just to store her shoes!"
"She can buy this entire street in Paris!" Ammar added, wiping tears from his eyes. "She can build a bridge using people like us just to avoid stepping in a puddle! You? A waiter? Marry Khauthar Malik? Oh, my head!"
Jawad didn't get defensive. He didn't argue. He just sat there on the edge of his bed, a soft, small smile on his face. It wasn't a joke.
Nathan, who was still chuckling, happened to catch Jawad's eyes.
The laugh died in Nathan’s throat. His smile slowly disappeared. He looked at Jawad, really looked at him, and felt a strange shiver go down his spine.
Because the laughter, the teasing, the noise—none of it touched Jawad. There was a quiet, unshakable determination in Jawad's eyes that made Nathan realize one terrifying thing. Jawad wasn't joking at all.
Even Jawad himself didn't understand why he had said it. But for the first time in years, his heart had made a decision before his mind could stop it.
Two weeks passed in a blur of long shifts, cold Parisian rain, and late-night coding. But the quiet routine of the apartment was broken one afternoon when Ammar walked in, tossing his jacket onto a chair with a teasing grin.
"Hey, Mr. Khauthar Malik," Ammar called out, leaning against the doorframe. "Got a chance to message your wife yet, or did you back out already?"
Jawad didn’t even look up from his laptop, his fingers typing a steady rhythm. "Ammar, you watch too many Indian movies. Life doesn't happen in the blink of an eye."
"So you’re still on your mission?" Ammar chuckled, shaking his head. "Guy, you are crazy, you know that?"
Jawad didn’t say anything. He just kept working, the faint glow of the screen reflecting in his calm eyes.
"I heard she's in town for an interview today," Ammar sighed, looking out the window toward the bustling streets. "I wish I’d be allowed to enter the building just to see her in person. She’s probably at some high-end corporate headquarters right now." He checked his watch and straightened his collar. "Anyways, I'm off to see Maya."
With a wave, Ammar left the room, leaving Jawad alone with the quiet hum of his computer.
But the silence only made the thoughts louder.
For the past two weeks, Jawad had been haunted by those piercing eyes. Every single time he closed his eyes, he saw her. He couldn't stop thinking about her, or the way her small, rare smile had looked on that screen.
Finally, out of sheer curiosity, he opened a new tab and typed her name into the search bar: Khauthar Malik.
Instantly, the screen filled with videos, articles, and images. He scrolled through them, each picture somehow more breathtaking than the last. In one, she was walking out of a glass skyscraper, looking like absolute royalty. In another, she was speaking at a global summit, her expression fierce and commanding.
"Damn it, man," Jawad muttered, rubbing his temples. What is wrong with me?
Determined to gain control of his emotions, he closed the laptop, stood up, and stripped. He stepped into the bathroom and turned the dial, letting the freezing cold water cascade over his shoulders. He hoped the icy shock would wash her from his mind and calm his frayed nerves.
Afterward, he lay down on his bed, but sleep remained elusive. His mind kept spinning, even though he desperately needed to rest. He was scheduled for the evening shift at Le Crépuscule, a prestigious, high-end restaurant in the heart of Paris known for hosting the city's elite.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and sleep stole him away.
The next day was a grueling, non-stop shift.
By the time Jawad finally made it back to the apartment, his muscles ached. He took a quick shower and was about to collapse onto his bed, looking forward to a long, uninterrupted sleep, when his phone began to buzz.
He groaned, picking it up. It was Ethan, his co-worker from the restaurant.
"Jawad, please, man, I need a massive favor," Ethan wheezed, his voice sounding genuinely terrible. "I've come down with a horrible fever. Can you please, please cover my night shift? The manager is going to kill me if I call in sick without a replacement."
Jawad was incredibly tired, but he sighed, rubbing his eyes. Ethan was a good guy who had helped him out of tight spots before. "Don't worry about it, Ethan. Go rest. I'll cover for you."
"You're a lifesaver, bro. I owe you big time."
Eight more hours won't kill me, Jawad thought as he hung up. He changed back into his crisp waiter’s uniform—a tailored black vest, white shirt, and a dark tie. Picking up his headphones, he stepped out into the crisp, cool Paris night.
The streets were quieter now, illuminated by the warm, golden glow of the streetlamps reflecting off the wet pavement.
He slipped his headphones on, pressing play. As he walked down the cobblestone streets, the melancholy melody and the lyrics hit him differently tonight. He felt a deep, strange connection to the words, as if his heart was already grieving a space that hadn't been filled yet.
At the restaurant, the hours dragged. But by 10:00 PM, the heavy rush had finally died down. The wealthy late-night customers had finished their expensive meals and left. The dining room was quiet, lit only by dim, elegant chandeliers.
Finally, I can rest, Jawad thought, wiping down the polished mahogany bar.
Just then, the brass bell above the heavy glass entrance doors chimed.
Damn it, he cursed under his breath, feeling a wave of exhaustion. He turned sharply to see who was walking in past closing time, ready to politely inform them that the kitchen was closed.
And then, his world stopped.
It was her.
Khauthar.
She walked in, shaking the light Parisian rain from her dark hair. It was as if she had walked straight out of the dreams that had been torturing him for the last two weeks. In person, she was even more beautiful. The camera hadn't done her justice. Her elegance, her posture, and the sheer confidence radiating from her seemed to charge the very air around her.
As she closed her umbrella and turned, her dark, piercing eyes locked directly onto his.
Jawad's heart came to a complete, shuddering stop. He could swear he felt a current of electric wire shoot straight through his chest, leaving him temporarily paralyzed.
Oh, just great, he thought, a sudden wave of irony hitting him. First meeting, and I'm wearing an apron.
But Jawad was not a man easily shaken. He took a deep breath, his natural confidence and quiet aura settling over him like a shield. He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his vest, and stepped out from behind the bar, walking toward her with a calm, steady stride that didn't betray his racing heart.
- Writer
