Chapter One: A Script of Fate
A crisp, sun-drenched morning in January. The camera lens zooms in, sweeping past the grand, ornate arches and the sprawling halls of the Cairo International Book Fair. It is a masterpiece of architectural elegance, decorated with intricate geometric carvings. In the heart of this bustling sanctuary of literature stands a young woman—petite, perhaps even younger than she appears. She is olive-skinned, with wide hazel eyes and smooth, dark tresses that graze her shoulders. She carries herself with a pride that seems a size too large for her stature.
"Move that camera aside," she mutters to an invisible audience. "Yes, it’s me, the world-renowned author, Saba Mehran. Stunning, isn’t she? Thank you, thank you, my darlings! I’ve graced the 2023 Book Fair today just to meet my dying fans. What can I say? Fame is a heavy burden, but someone has to—Ouch!"
Her internal monologue shattered as a sudden impact sent her reeling. A young man had collided with her, sending his coffee cascading down the front of her sweater.
"Are you out of your mind?!" she shrieked, clutching the damp fabric.
"I’m so sorry," the man murmured, his voice steady. "I didn’t see you."
Saba seized the moment, her faux-outrage boiling over. "You’re incompetent! An animal! You’re blind!"
The man stared at her, his expression a mixture of indifference and mild bewilderment, as if watching a particularly loud street performer. Without a word of retort, he turned and walked away.
Saba stood there, jaw dropped in disbelief. "And there he goes," she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Another 'Handsome Stranger' opportunity wasted. I was trying to pull off that dramatic heroine trope from those cheap novels, but I can't even get that right. Fine, I’ll admit it—I’m no famous author. I’m just a girl who writes short scripts in her bedroom. I only came here to see her—the one and only Samar Khalaf."
After devouring Samar’s viral hits on f*******: and w*****d, Saba was obsessed. Stories like A Bird in His Den had left her in tears, and Rebel, But... had stolen her heart through its hero, Taher Zeidan. Today, she was on a mission to buy her latest book, Trace. At twenty-two and a fresh commerce graduate, Saba's heart was far more invested in fiction than in finances.
Months later, the heat of summer had settled over Cairo. Inside a modest apartment in a middle-class neighborhood, Saba sat cross-legged on her bed, her hair tied in a chaotic bun. Tears streamed down her face as she gripped her phone.
Outside the room, a persistent knock echoed. Madiha, a stout, elderly woman, opened the door to find her niece, Heba, standing there with a bright smile.
"Hey, Auntie! Where’s Saba?" Heba asked, kissing her cheek.
Madiha scoffed. "Look what the wind blew in. She’s locked in there, rotting away with those stories of hers since her vacation started."
Heba rolled her eyes playfully and headed toward her cousin’s room.
"Hey, girl!" Madiha shouted after her. "Tell your mother to return my tray! She’s been holding onto it since she polished off that Basbousa, or I’ll have my brother kick her out of the apartment!"
Heba raised an eyebrow. Her aunt’s tongue was sharp, but her heart was gold. "Spoken like a true villainess, Auntie!" She dodged just in time as Madiha swung a slipper at her. "Missed me!"
Heba sat across from Saba, waiting for her to finish a chapter that had her looking visibly shaken. Bored, Heba finally reached out and snatched the phone away.
"Heba! Stop it! I need to know if Hassan and Dunya get the Jinn out of that guy!" Saba complained.
Heba glanced at the screen. "Samar Khalaf again? She’s driven you mad. And what on earth is Forced Fall?"
Saba crossed her arms. "What do you want, Heba?"
Heba sighed, her tone turning serious. "There’s a company looking for accountants. I wanted to give you the address so you can apply. Seriously, Saba, you need to snap out of this dream world before it swallows you whole."
Saba’s eyes turned dreamy. "I can’t. Oh, Heba... imagine if someone just kidn*pped me, gave me a life of suspense, loved me, and married me."
Heba’s mouth hung open before she burst into sarcastic laughter. "Oh, sure! And he’ll lock you in a dark cellar, own massive mansions, and run the biggest conglomerates in the Middle East, right?"
Saba glared at her. "Are you mocking my dreams?"
"Saba, books are for fun, or for learning something new—not for living in 24h. That 'Hero' doesn’t exist in the real world. Wake up, you crazy girl!"
Saba rested her chin on her fist, her gaze drifting. "He exists. In fact, I’ve decided to write my own novel. I’m going to be an author and try my luck. I just need a name for the hero."
Heba shook her head. "You’re hopeless. Anyway, here’s the interview info. Don't be late. Goodnight."
A few nights later, Saba sat in the living room, scrolling through f*******: on her laptop. She had been rejected from the accounting job—"No experience," they said.
Sipping her coffee, her eyes caught a name on a sponsored ad. Without even reading what the ad was about, she closed the tab and opened a Word document. Her fingers hovered over the keys before she began to type, starting with the description of her protagonist: Fahd Ahmed Azzam.
