His Lost Fiance

Chapter 4 — The Weekend

By Friday evening, most of the building’s lights had dimmed. The hum of printers and telephones gave way to muffled conversations and the metallic echo of elevators closing. Aira finished stacking the last of the week’s reports into labeled folders.

Rafeel’s door had stayed closed since morning. He was in meetings outside the headquarters, and even without seeing him, Aira could feel his presence—like a weight that lingered over the office.

When Miss Sana appeared with her coat in hand, she said, “Enough for one week, Malik. Go home before the cleaners start mopping the floor.”

Aira smiled faintly, slid her ID card into her bag, and stepped out into the evening air. The warmth of the day had cooled; the sky was a smoky violet behind the towers. For the first time since starting at Armandi Group, she didn’t feel entirely trapped.

Saturday brought sunlight and restless noise. The market near her tiny apartment brimmed with color—spices stacked in pyramids, vendors calling out discounts, children chasing each other through puddles left by a brief morning drizzle.

Aira stood at a stall filled with scarves, running her fingertips over soft silk and cotton. It wasn’t that she needed one; she liked the quiet concentration of choosing for no reason at all.

“Which color?” asked a voice beside her.

A young woman—a student from the nearby art institute, judging by the camera hanging from her neck—smiled curiously. Behind her, two friends flipped through bracelets and bangles on a wooden tray.

“The green one,” Aira said. “It feels like spring.”

“Too calm for the city,” the girl teased. “You should try red.”

Aira laughed. It startled even her. “I think red would wear me instead.”

The group laughed with her, easy and light. When they invited her for tea at the food stall across the road, she hesitated only a second before agreeing.

They talked about classes, films, music—simple things she hadn’t discussed with anyone in months. One of the boys asked where she worked, and when she answered “Armandi Group,” he whistled softly.

“Big company,” he said. “Heard the boss is strict.”

Aira smiled awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know. I barely speak to him.”

They didn’t notice how her voice thinned when she said it.

When the group left to catch the bus, Aira stayed a while longer, sipping tea that tasted of cardamom and dust. The joy felt temporary but real, like a fragile bubble of the life she might have had if everything had been different.

What she never saw was the black sedan parked beyond the fruit stalls.

Inside sat a man in a gray suit, hands folded neatly on his knees. Rafeel watched through the tinted glass, the reflection of his own face merging with hers in the window.

He had known where she was since morning; his assistant had sent the location updates. But seeing her surrounded by strangers, smiling, made something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

It wasn’t anger exactly. It was the uneasy recognition of what freedom looked like on her face.

His phone buzzed. “The investors will arrive in an hour,” said Callen, his deputy. “Should we delay?”

Rafeel’s eyes stayed on Aira. “No. Bring them in. I’ll join you at the northern branch.”

He reached for the door handle, then stopped. She laughed again—soft, unguarded—and the sound rippled through the glass.

“Drive,” he ordered quietly. “Keep observance only. No contact.”

The driver nodded. The car pulled away just as Aira turned toward a street musician strumming an old guitar, her green scarf fluttering in the sudden breeze.

By late afternoon, Rafeel arrived at the northern office where his father and senior advisers waited. The boardroom window faced the docks; ships stood like shadows against silver water.

“You’re late,” his father said.

“Traffic,” Rafeel replied, dropping into his chair.

One of the advisers slid a document across the table. “The Macelli arrangement—port shares and transport route. We need your signature before Monday.”

Rafeel signed without reading. “Handled.”

His father watched him over steepled fingers. “You think you’re ready to run everything without asking?”

“I’ve been doing that for two years.”

“Then you should know distraction is expensive.”

Rafeel looked up slowly. The older man’s voice was mild, but his eyes were steel.

“There are rumors,” his father said. “A girl in your office. Someone connected to an old debt.”

Rafeel leaned back, unconcerned. “Rumors keep people interested.”

“Until they keep them suspicious,” the old man replied. “I remember her father’s mistake. Do you?”

“I remember everything.”

The older man’s jaw tightened. “Then do not repeat it.”

Rafeel didn’t answer. He watched the rain start to smear across the glass, his reflection darkening beside the city’s skyline.

When night came, Aira walked back to her tiny apartment. Her shoes were wet from puddles, her hands full of groceries she didn’t remember buying. The day had passed like a blink, bright and fleeting.

She cooked rice, made tea, and sat by the window, watching streetlights glow through the drizzle. For once, her chest ached less.

She didn’t see the faint flash from a lens across the road, didn’t know that every movement was being recorded.

Elsewhere, in his penthouse suite, Rafeel stood by the window, reviewing a grainy image—Aira laughing beside three strangers at the market, green scarf vivid against the crowd.

He zoomed in until her face filled the frame.

“She smiles too easily,” Callen remarked, glancing at the screen.

“She’s trying to forget,” Rafeel said.

“And you?”

“I remember for both of us.”

He turned off the monitor. The city became silent beneath him again.

Tomorrow she would come back to work. Tomorrow she would walk his halls believing the weekend was hers.

He poured a drink, the faintest smile ghosting across his expression.

Let her enjoy the illusion. The sky always feels wider right before the door locks