INNOCENT BILLIONAIRE

Echoes of Absence

The day dawned with golden sunlight slipping through gossamer curtains, their delicate folds casting intricate patterns across the polished mahogany surfaces of Haidar’s bedroom. The rays danced over the sleek lines of a minimalist four-poster bed, its dark wood frame draped in crisp ivory linens that glowed softly in the morning light. Haidar stirred, his tall, athletic frame unfolding as he reached instinctively for his phone, his fingers trembling with the faint hope of a message from Shikha. Her laughter, once the vibrant heartbeat of this home, now lingered only as a ghost in its corners, and the silence that greeted him was a familiar sting, sharp and unrelenting. His jaw tightened, his chiseled features—high cheekbones, a strong brow, and deep-set eyes shadowed with longing—etched with the weight of her absence.

Haidar’s home was a masterpiece of intention, perched on a rugged bluff where emerald pines met the sweeping sands of a private beach. Designed with Shikha in mind, every detail spoke of a future he had envisioned for them both. The house was neither garish nor understated, its sweeping verandas exuding old-world charm while floor-to-ceiling windows invited the wild beauty of the coast inside. The grounds were a vision of curated elegance—seashell pathways wound through sculpted hedges and vibrant wildflowers, their colors vivid against the muted greens of the lawn, offering a sanctuary of privacy and possibility. To the west, the private beach shimmered, its rolling waves crashing against silvered granite outcrops, their foam catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds. Eastward, a dense forest stood as silent sentinels, their canopies rustling in the morning breeze, whispering secrets to the solitude that enveloped the estate. A vine-wreathed iron gate guarded the entrance to a quiet lane, the distant city a mere murmur in this enclave of tranquility.

Haidar rose, his movements fluid yet deliberate, and crossed the plush Persian rug—its intricate patterns of sapphire and gold glowing faintly underfoot—to the expansive window. He paused, his gaze tracing the ocean’s endless blue, a hue that had always been Shikha’s favorite, her laughter once tumbling on the wind like the waves below. With a heavy sigh, he turned to the vast walk-in wardrobe, its polished cedar shelves lined with dozens of custom-fitted suits. He selected a classic grey Armani, its tailored lines accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame, paired with a crisp white dress shirt that gleamed like fresh snow. Silver cufflinks glinted at his wrists, their subtle shine matched by an ebony silk tie knotted with precision. Hand-polished black Oxfords completed the ensemble, their mirror-like finish reflecting his meticulous nature. His dark hair, neatly styled, framed eyes that held a quiet ache, softened only by the crisp scent of his cologne, a blend of cedarwood and bergamot that lingered like a signature.

Descending the curved marble staircase, its banister gleaming under the soft glow of a wrought-iron chandelier, Haidar entered the sunlit first floor. The dining room was a study in elegance, its shining mahogany table set with fine bone china and gleaming silverware. Mrs. Fernandez, his housekeeper, greeted him with a gentle smile, her grey hair pinned neatly beneath a simple navy scarf, her starched black dress a testament to her steadfast routine. The kitchen buzzed with quiet efficiency, the aroma of fresh-baked bread mingling with the tang of citrus. Breakfast awaited—crisp toast, perfectly fried eggs with golden yolks, and a glass of fresh orange juice that sparkled in the morning light. Haidar thanked her, his voice low and warm, and ate in measured silence, each bite tinged with nostalgia for mornings shared with Shikha’s radiant presence.

He considered lingering in the music room beyond the sunroom’s graceful arch, where a grand piano stood, its ebony surface reflecting shafts of early light. The instrument, Shikha’s favorite, seemed to hold her essence, its keys untouched since her departure. But the demands of the day pressed in, and with a soft nod to Mrs. Fernandez—

“No need for dinner tonight,” he murmured—he stepped through the stately front doors.

The garden’s scent, a heady mix of roses and salty air, followed him down the seashell path to the porte-cochère, where his deep-blue Porsche glimmered like a polished sapphire. He slid into the driver’s seat, the mansion retreating in the rearview mirror, its windows flashing with promises untouched by time, their reflections fading as he drove toward the city’s pulsing heart.

At headquarters, a towering edifice of glass and steel mirrored the city’s restless energy, its sleek surfaces catching the sunlight in dazzling fractals. Haidar crossed the marble-floored foyer, his presence commanding quiet nods from employees in sharply tailored suits and chic pencil skirts, their attire as crisp as the professionalism that defined the space. Their brief greetings carried a note of respect, sensing the gravitas that clung to their leader like a shadow. Haidar moved swiftly through the maze of corridors, his polished Oxfords clicking against the polished floors, until he reached the conference room. The space was a blend of modern elegance—sleek black tables, ergonomic chairs, and digital screens glowing with data—where his team awaited, their tailored blazers and pressed shirts reflecting the day’s high stakes.

The international call that followed was a crucible of tension, but Haidar’s clarity and confidence set an unwavering tone. Presentations unfolded with practiced poise, charts and graphs flickering across the screens like a language of ambition. His voice, steady and authoritative, guided the discussion, his grey suit a visual anchor amidst the flurry of data. When the call concluded, the news was triumphant—they had secured the contract. Relief rippled through the room, brief smiles breaking the professional veneer, though Haidar’s expression remained tempered, his thoughts already drifting elsewhere.

He retreated to his private office on the top floor, a sanctuary of understated luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panorama of the city’s skyline, its towers piercing the clouds, while the distant sea shimmered like a memory of Shikha’s laughter. He removed his jacket, draping it over the back of a supple leather chair, its rich burgundy hue glowing under the soft light of a modernist desk lamp. Sinking into his work, he sifted through project files, the city’s blinking lights a backdrop to his focus. Yet, as the hours passed, his thoughts wandered back to Shikha, her silence a weight heavier than any business risk he faced. The ache was a constant companion, as persistent as the tide beyond his windows.

His phone glowed on the desk, a beacon of possibility in the dimming light. Haidar dialed Arjun, his old friend whose camaraderie had weathered countless storms. The call connected, and Arjun’s voice, usually a buoyant cascade of warmth, carried a weary edge, as if the weight of his own responsibilities pressed against him. Their conversation danced between the levity of shared memories and the deeper, anxious undertones of Haidar’s unspoken purpose.

“She still hasn’t responded?” Arjun asked, his tone softened by empathy, the question cutting straight to the heart of Haidar’s call.

Haidar hesitated, his fingers tightening around the phone.

“Not a word,” he admitted, the truth a bitter pill that lodged in his throat.

Arjun sighed, his voice heavy with shared concern. He confessed to glimpsing the unanswered messages on his sister’s phone, each one a silent plea that went ignored. His worry for Shikha’s well-being mirrored Haidar’s, and he pledged to help bridge the chasm between them. They devised a plan—Shikha was set to sign a deal at D&M Co. the next day, and Arjun would guide her afterward to the Suzuki restaurant, a quiet haven of dim lighting and intimate booths, perfect for the reconciliation Haidar so desperately sought.

For a moment, laughter broke through the tension, their banter a fleeting return to easier days.

“So, you’ve finally mustered the courage to face her head-on,” Arjun teased, his voice brightening with mischief.

Haidar chuckled, the sound a rare release.

“Don’t get too cocky, Arjun. I’m not the one who chickened out of that hiking trip last summer.”

Their laughter faded, replaced by a sober confirmation of the plan’s details. Arjun’s voice grew serious, promising to do his part, and the call ended on a note of persistent hope, fragile but unbroken.

As dusk settled over the city, its towers aglow with a thousand pinpricks of light, Haidar drove back to the mansion. The estate’s windows lit up like welcoming beacons, their golden glow a stark contrast to the shadows within. He moved through the quiet halls, his tailored suit exchanged for a soft charcoal sweater and relaxed trousers, the fabric a comfort against the weight of his thoughts. Settling into the stillness of his bedroom, he rehearsed the words he would say to Shikha, each syllable a step toward reclaiming the laughter that once filled these walls. Sleep came slowly, his dreams woven with memories of her presence and the urgent longing that tomorrow might chase away the shadows of her absence.