The CEO's Secret Bride

--- The hospital corridor smelled like antiseptic and desperation. Ayesha Khan sat on the cold plastic chair outside ICU Room 3, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. She hadn’t noticed. Through the glass door, she could see her younger brother Hamza. 19 years old. Tubes in his arms. Machines beeping in a rhythm that had become the soundtrack of her last three weeks. Kidney failure. Stage 4. The doctors’ words echoed in her head on loop. “Without a transplant in the next 10 days, we can’t guarantee anything, Miss Khan.” “And the cost of the surgery plus donor arrangements is... 50 lakh rupees.” 50 lakh. Ayesha let out a shaky breath and pressed her forehead against the glass. Her reflection stared back at her - 22 years old, dark circles under her eyes, hijab slightly crooked because she’d been running on 3 hours of sleep for days. She used to work as a junior accountant at a small firm in Saddar. 60,000 a month. It had been enough for rent, groceries, and Hamza’s university fees. Not enough for this. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. 3 missed calls from the landlord. 2 messages from the bank. And one text from an unknown number. `Unknown: Miss Khan, Mr. Zayan Malik would like to meet you tonight. 9 PM. Coffee Point, Clifton. Come alone.` She frowned. Zayan Malik. The name hit her like ice water. Everyone in Karachi knew that name. CEO of Malik Industries. 28 years old. Billionaire. Ruthless. The man who bought out three companies last year and fired 200 people over email. Why would he want to meet her? She almost deleted the message. But then she looked back at Hamza. At the way his chest rose and fell with the help of machines. She had nothing left to lose. --- *COFFEE POINT, CLIFTON - 9:07 PM* The café was almost empty. Soft jazz played in the background. Ayesha sat in the corner booth, picking at the rim of her cup. She wore the only clean shalwar kameez she owned. Navy blue. Simple. At exactly 9:10 PM, the door opened. And he walked in. Zayan Malik. Tall. At least 6'1". Black tailored suit that probably cost more than her yearly salary. Hair slightly messy, like he’d been running his hands through it. And his eyes... God, his eyes. Dark, sharp, and assessing. Like he could see every debt, every fear, every secret she had. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say hello. He slid into the seat across from her and placed a single black folder on the table between them. “Miss Khan,” he said. His voice was low, controlled. “Thank you for coming.” “Mr. Malik,” Ayesha said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can I ask why you asked to meet me?” Zayan leaned back. “Direct. I like that.” He opened the folder. Inside were photos of Hamza in the hospital. Copies of her bank statements. Her rent agreement. Her father’s death certificate from 5 years ago. Ayesha’s face went pale. “How did you—” “I have people,” Zayan cut in. “Your brother needs a kidney transplant. You need 50 lakh. You have 4 days before the hospital discharges him due to unpaid bills.” Ayesha clenched her fists under the table. “What do you want from me?” Zayan closed the folder. “A wife.” The word hung in the air between them. Ayesha blinked. “Excuse me?” “My board of directors,” Zayan explained, like he was discussing a quarterly report. “They think I’m ‘unstable’ and ‘not ready to lead’ because I’m single at 28. They want me married in 30 days or they’ll vote to remove me as CEO.” He said it so casually. Like he was talking about the weather. “And you want me to... pretend to be your wife?” Ayesha finished for him. “Not pretend,” Zayan said. “Legally marry me. For 6 months. Live in my house. Attend 3 public events with me. That’s it.” Ayesha stared at him. “And in return?” “50 lakh deposited to the hospital tomorrow morning. Another 50 lakh transferred to your account after 6 months. A new apartment. Full medical coverage for your brother for life.” Ayesha felt dizzy. It was too much. Too easy. Too wrong. “This is insane,” she whispered. “You don’t even know me.” “I know enough,” Zayan said. “You’re responsible. You’re desperate enough to say yes. And you’re not stupid enough to fall in love with me.” The last sentence hit her like a slap. “Why would I?” Ayesha said, trying to keep her voice steady. Zayan’s jaw tightened for half a second. The only sign that her words had affected him. “Exactly. This is business, Miss Khan. Nothing more.” He pushed a contract across the table. 12 pages. Legal terms. Clauses. Signatures. Clause 4: _No physical intimacy._ Clause 7: _Either party may terminate with 30 days notice._ Clause 9: _Public appearances must be convincing._ Ayesha read the last line three times. `In exchange for services rendered, Zayan Malik agrees to pay Ayesha Khan a total of 1 Crore PKR.` Her hands were shaking. “Why me?” she asked quietly. “There are a thousand women who would kill for this deal.” Zayan looked at her for a long time. “Because you need the money and you won’t ask for more. Because you have nothing to lose. And because...” he paused. “Because you don’t look at me like I’m a monster.” Ayesha looked up. For the first time, she saw something other than coldness in his eyes. Exhaustion. Loneliness. She thought of Hamza. Of the hospital bill. Of the eviction notice waiting at home. “I need 24 hours,” she said. “You have 12,” Zayan replied. “The Qazi is available tomorrow at 6 PM. If you say no, I find someone else. And your brother...” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Ayesha picked up the pen. Her signature looked like a stranger’s on the dotted line. “There,” she said, pushing the papers back. “What happens now?” “Now,” Zayan said, standing up. “You go home and pack one bag. My driver will pick you up at 5 PM tomorrow. Wear something appropriate. We’re getting married.” He walked out without looking back. Ayesha sat there for 10 more minutes, staring at the empty chair across from her. She had just sold her name for 1 Crore. --- *THE NEXT DAY - MALIK MANSION, 5:45 PM* The house was bigger than anything Ayesha had ever seen. White marble floors. A chandelier that could fit her entire apartment. Staff in uniforms who bowed their heads when she walked in. Zayan was waiting in the drawing room. Also in a black sherwani now. He looked... different. Younger. Less like a CEO and more like a man. “You came,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “I had no choice,” Ayesha replied honestly. Zayan nodded once. “The Qazi is in the study. It will take 10 minutes.” The ceremony was the shortest thing Ayesha had ever experienced. No guests. No family. No music. Just a Qazi, two witnesses who didn’t look her in the eye, and Zayan. “Kabool hai?” the Qazi asked. “Kabool hai,” Zayan said first. His voice didn’t shake. The Qazi turned to her. “And you, beti?” Ayesha’s throat was dry. She thought of Hamza. Of the 50 lakh that was already in the hospital’s account this morning. She’d checked. “Kabool hai,” she whispered. “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the Qazi said. “May Allah bless this union.” Union. The word felt heavy. Zayan slipped a simple platinum band onto her finger. It was cold. “Congratulations, Mrs. Malik,” he said quietly. Only she could hear it. --- *MASTER BEDROOM - 10:30 PM* The bedroom was massive. King size bed in the center. Floor to ceiling windows showing the Karachi skyline. A separate dressing room. An attached bathroom bigger than her kitchen. And it was hers. For 6 months. Ayesha sat on the edge of the bed, still in her ivory wedding dress. She felt like she was in someone else’s life. There was a knock on the door. Zayan entered. He’d changed into a black shirt and trousers. Sleeves rolled up. He looked tired. “This is your room,” he said. “Your things will be delivered tomorrow. The guest room down the hall is mine. We agreed - separate rooms, no contact unless necessary.” “Right,” Ayesha said. “The contract.” Zayan nodded. He stood by the door, hands in his pockets. For a second, neither of them spoke. “Thank you,” Ayesha said suddenly. “For Hamza. The surgery is scheduled for next week.” Zayan’s expression softened for half a second before the mask came back. “Don’t thank me. You earned it.” “Earned it by selling myself?” “You didn’t sell yourself,” Zayan said sharply. Then he sighed. “You did what you had to do. There’s a difference.” He turned to leave. “Mr. Malik?” He paused. “Can I ask you one thing?” “What?” “Why are you doing this? You could have hired an actress. Paid her more. Why me?” Zayan didn’t turn around. “Because actresses act, Miss Khan. And I’m tired of acting.” He left, closing the door softly behind him. Ayesha lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Her wedding ring felt heavy on her finger. This was supposed to be a transaction. A business deal. So why did her heart hurt when he said he was tired of acting? Down the hall, Zayan sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. He could still smell her perfume. Light. Floral. Nothing like the women he usually dealt with. _It’s just 6 months,_ he told himself. _Don’t get attached. Don’t cross the line._ But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way she’d looked at him in the café. Not with greed. Not with fear. With quiet, stubborn strength. And that scared him more than the board ever could. --- *END OF CHAPTER 1* ---