His Lost Fiance

The city rushed past Aira in streaks of gray and red, light bleeding across the bus window until everything looked blurred, just like the last few months of her life. Her mother’s funeral had been quiet. No one from the old neighborhood came except the landlord who wanted the keys. The house emptied too quickly, leaving behind silence and the smell of incense that refused to fade. Since then, Aira had counted her money, sold her mother’s jewelry, and bought a one-way ticket to the city. The file in her lap was thin: certificates, a résumé printed on borrowed paper, and a letter confirming an interview with Armandi Group. She didn’t know who had sent her name, and she didn’t care. A clean job meant a clean start. The bus hissed to a stop. The air outside was hot, thick with exhaust and wet asphalt. Aira took her small suitcase and stepped into the crowd. People pushed, shouted, and hurried forward. For a heartbeat she wished her mother were there, but death had taken even that comfort. She stopped before the Armandi building, a tower of dark glass rising above the street. A guard checked her name on a list and waved her through. Marble floors. Cold air. The lobby smelled faintly of lemon and expensive polish. Her reflection floated in the glass walls, pale and uncertain among dark suits and careful faces. The elevator hummed as it climbed. Fifteenth floor. Reception. She caught her reflection again and whispered, “You can do this.” The doors opened to a bright corridor lined with framed photographs of men shaking hands. A woman at a desk looked up. “Interview?” “Yes. Receptionist.” The woman handed her a form. “Fill this in. Mr Varen will see you next.” Aira sat on a sofa in the waiting area. She filled the form quickly until she reached “Next of kin.” She left it blank. There was no one now. The office door opened, and a tall man stepped out, his suit pressed sharp enough to cut. “Miss Aira Malik?” “Yes.” “Come in.” The office smelled faintly of cedar, with one wide window overlooking the city. He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Your résumé says you’ve worked in a clinic and a textile shop. Why Armandi Group?” “I wanted something stable. A new start. I’m good with people.” He nodded slowly. “Any family in the city?” “No.” “Anyone for references?” “Some from the village,” she said quietly. “But I lost my phone when I moved.” He studied her, eyes sharp and searching. After a pause, he smiled. “We’ll keep your file for review. If the position suits, someone will contact you.” Relief slipped into her shoulders. “Thank you.” She stood to leave, but the intercom on his desk crackled. A low voice spoke words she couldn’t catch. Mr Varen paused, then looked up with a different expression. “Actually,” he said, “our director would like to meet you before you go.” “Now?” “Yes. He takes interest in new names.” The elevator light blinked. Thirty‑second floor. Aira’s heart quickened. She smoothed her scarf and stepped inside when the doors opened. The elevator moved in silence. The numbers climbed too slowly. She pressed her palms together, feeling the sweat gather in her hands. Each ding of the next floor echoed in her ribs. When the doors finally slid open, cool air touched her face and she stepped out into a dark corridor that seemed quieter than the others, carpet soft under her shoes. A man waited by the corner—a tall figure in black, his expression unreadable. “This way, Miss Malik.” He led her through double doors into a wide office where floor‑to‑ceiling windows showed the city glowing beneath the rain. Behind a long desk, a man stood with his back to her, sleeves rolled, hands resting on the table’s edge. When he turned, her breath caught. He was younger than she expected—late twenties, maybe—but everything about him carried weight: the stillness, the voice low enough to feel before hearing. He nodded once. “Miss Aira Malik.” “Y‑yes,” she said, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m told you’re here for a receptionist position.” “Yes, sir.” He came around the desk slowly, each step calm and deliberate. “How long have you been in the city?” “Only a few days.” “Who recommended you?” “I’m… not sure. My father worked for your company years ago.” His eyes sharpened, though his smile stayed polite. “What is your father’s name?” “Malik Shaheen,” she said. For a flicker of a second, something crossed his face—recognition, amusement, maybe anger—but it vanished as quickly as it came. “Of course,” he said. “I knew him once. A loyal man.” Aira blinked, unsure how to respond. Rafeel looked down at her form still clutched in his hand. “I think we can find a place for you here.” “Truly? Thank you. I—” He lifted a finger and the words died on her tongue. His smile returned—gentle, almost kind, but the air in the room felt heavier now. “Report tomorrow morning,” he said. “Eight sharp.” She nodded, clutching her folder, grateful and uneasy. When she turned to leave, she felt his gaze follow her until the door closed behind her. When the room was quiet again, Rafeel looked at the empty doorway and let the faintest hint of a smile touch his mouth. “You came back after all,” he murmured. “And this time, you won’t run.” Outside, the elevator slid down toward the lobby where Aira waited, unaware that every camera in the building still followed her.