The Karachi Contract

The man across the desk slid a single sheet of paper toward her. "Marry me," he said. "For one year." Zara Ahmed stared at him. She had walked into this office on the thirty-second floor of the Sheikh Tower expecting a job interview. Instead, Daniyal Sheikh — Karachi's most eligible bachelor, the man whose face stared at her from business magazines in her father's shop — was offering her marriage like it was a business deal. Because, she realized slowly, that was exactly what it was. --- Three hours earlier, Zara had been counting crumpled hundred-rupee notes behind the counter of Ahmed Electronics, her father's tiny shop in Saddar. "Four thousand, two hundred," she murmured, stacking the notes. "Baba, the rent—" "I know." Her father didn't look up from the ancient ceiling fan he was repairing. At fifty-six, Ahmed's hands trembled more than they used to. "I'll talk to Seth Sahab tomorrow." Zara bit her lip. She had already talked to Seth Sahab. Yesterday. The landlord had given them seven days. Seven days to pay three months of back rent, or the shop — the shop her grandfather had opened forty years ago — would be locked. And the rent was the smallest of their problems. The bell above the door jingled. Two men walked in, and the air in the shop seemed to drop five degrees. Zara recognized the taller one. Everyone in Saddar recognized Imran Lala's men. "Ahmed Sahab." The tall man smiled without warmth. "Lala Sahab sent his salaam. And a reminder." Ahmed set down his screwdriver carefully. "Tell Lala Sahab he'll have his money by Friday." "It's Wednesday, Ahmed Sahab." The man's smile widened. "Lala Sahab is a patient man. But fifty lakh rupees is a lot of patience." Zara's blood turned cold. Fifty lakh. She had known about the loan — her father's desperate attempt to save the shop during the bad year — but she hadn't known it had grown teeth. "Friday," her father repeated quietly. The men left. The bell jingled. And Ahmed sank onto his stool like a man twice his age. Zara went to him and put her arms around his shoulders. "Baba—" "Don't." His voice cracked. "Just... don't, beta." Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. A message from an unknown number: Miss Zara Ahmed, Mr. Daniyal Sheikh would like to meet you regarding a position at Sheikh Enterprises. Today, 4 PM. Sheikh Tower, 32nd floor. Come alone. Zara frowned. She hadn't applied to Sheikh Enterprises. She hadn't applied anywhere in weeks — who had the time, between the shop and her mother's medicines? But a job at Sheikh Enterprises... even an assistant's salary could change everything. She showed her father the message. He read it twice, then looked at her with something like hope. "Go, beta. Go." --- The receptionist on the thirty-second floor was too polished, the carpet too thick, the air too cold. Everything about Sheikh Tower whispered money. Zara smoothed her simple white kameez — the best one she owned — and tried not to stare at the wall of glass overlooking the Arabian Sea. "Miss Ahmed?" A woman in a sharp black suit appeared. "Mr. Sheikh will see you now." It wasn't an interview room. It was an office the size of her entire house, all dark wood and glass, with a man standing at the window with his back to her. He turned. Zara's breath caught. Magazine photos hadn't prepared her. Daniyal Sheikh was taller than she'd imagined, with sharp features and eyes so dark they looked black. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her father's shop made in a year. "Miss Ahmed." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit." No handshake. No smile. No chai, coffee? "I'll be direct," he said, sitting down. "My grandfather died six months ago. His will contains a condition: I inherit controlling shares of Sheikh Enterprises only if I am married within one year of his death." Zara blinked. "I... I'm sorry, but what does this have to do with me?" "My lawyers have reviewed forty candidates. You are the most suitable." He said it the way other men might discuss a car engine. "You need money. I need a wife. Temporarily." And then he slid the paper across the desk. "Marry me. For one year." Zara looked down at the paper. It was a contract — dense legal Urdu and English, with a figure printed in bold at the bottom. Her hands started to shake. Rs. 2,00,00,000. Two crore rupees. Enough to pay Lala. Enough to save the shop. Enough to get her mother the surgery she needed. "You're insane," she whispered. "I'm practical." Daniyal leaned back in his chair. "The terms are simple. We marry. We live in the same house — separate rooms, of course. We appear together at family functions. In one year, we divorce quietly. You walk away with two crore rupees. I walk away with my company." "And if I say no?" "Then you walk out of that door, and I call candidate number two." His dark eyes held hers. "But Miss Ahmed — Lala's men were at your father's shop this morning. I make it my business to know things. How long do you think you have?" Zara's throat went dry. "How do you—" "I told you. I know things." He stood, signaling the meeting was over. "You have twenty-four hours. My driver will wait downstairs tomorrow at the same time — if you come, we sign. If you don't, this conversation never happened." She stood on legs that barely held her. At the door, she turned. "Why me? There must be a hundred women in Karachi who would—" "Who would sell the story to the press within a week?" A flicker of something — amusement? bitterness? — crossed his face. "You have no social media presence, no journalist friends, and a family to protect. You're... safe, Miss Ahmed." Safe. Like a locked drawer. Zara walked out of Sheikh Tower into the blazing Karachi afternoon, the contract burning a hole in her handbag. Twenty-four hours. Two crore rupees. One year of her life. Her phone rang. Her father's name flashed on the screen. She answered with a shaking hand. "Beta?" Her father's voice was small. Frightened. "Lala's men came back. They said... they said if the money isn't ready by Friday, they'll take the shop. And Zara—" his voice broke. "They mentioned your mother's clinic. They know where she goes." Zara closed her eyes. The sea glittered beyond the tower. Somewhere below, a black Mercedes waited — though whether it was Daniyal's driver or Lala's men, she couldn't tell. She had twenty-four hours to decide. She had a feeling she was going to say yes. ---