His Lost Fiance

Untitled Episode

Monday morning slid in behind rain clouds. The streets outside Armandi Group shimmered with leftover puddles and the smell of wet concrete. Aira arrived early, her shoes tapping softly against the marble as she crossed the empty lobby.

She told herself that the anxious flutter in her stomach came from nerves, not from the fragments of her dreams. In those dreams, tall glass walls had surrounded her while a voice whispered her name—warm and cold at once.

By eight‑thirty, the office was alive again. Phones buzzed, printers hummed, and the polished corridors filled with footsteps. She nodded to Miss Sana, whose usual briskness felt gentler today.

“Director Arman asked for you first thing,” Sana said without looking up from her files.

Aira’s heart gave a small, disobedient kick. “Do you know why?”

“No. But if he summons you on a Monday, it’s better to walk in before he calls twice.”

Aira tidied her hair, checked her reflection in the glass partition, and walked toward the executive elevator.

The doors opened onto the quiet of the thirty‑second floor. Only the faint hum of the air conditioner broke the silence. She hesitated outside his office until a voice from inside said, “Enter, Aira.”

He didn’t look up when she stepped in. He was reading a document, jacket off, sleeves rolled, hair perfectly neat. The morning light made sharp edges of his profile. He signed the last page before speaking.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“You were out of town this weekend?”

She frowned, surprised. “No, sir. I stayed in the city.”

“Ah.” He finally met her eyes. “I assumed you left. You looked... rested.”

The smallest smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth. She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a question.

“It was quiet,” she said.

He nodded once, motioned to the folders on his desk. “The files for our northern suppliers are delayed. I want you to carry the paperwork personally this afternoon. You’ll accompany Callen. It’s routine.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned back to his laptop, dismissing her with silence. She lingered one second too long, then left.

Outside, the corridor stretched long and pale. Somewhere behind those walls, she could feel hidden eyes—whether real or imagined, she couldn’t tell.

Downstairs, in a dusty office far from the main tower, Malik Shaheen leaned over a map of shipping routes. Years of stress had carved his features into stone; only his eyes still moved quickly.

He was second‑in‑command again now, though everyone in the organization knew “again” was just a polite way of saying under permanent watch. The fateful deal he had lost years earlier had cost him everything but his life.

A knock at the door. One of his old associates, Karim, slipped inside.

“Packages from the central office,” Karim said, dropping a folder on the desk. “And a rumor.”

Malik’s gaze sharpened. “Speak.”

“Someone new in the tower. A receptionist tied to your name.”

The words froze the air between them.

“What name?”

“Malik Shaheen’s daughter. Aira.”

His pulse slammed in his throat. For a second, the room blurred. “That’s impossible. She’s—She doesn’t know—”

Karim shrugged. “Maybe the boss knows more than she does.”

Malik stared at the map again, tracing a meaningless line with his finger. The thought made his stomach turn. For years he had stayed away to keep her invisible, safe beyond the shadow of their world. If she was working in that building now, it could not be coincidence.

“Tell no one you came,” he said finally. “Not even your wife.”

Karim hesitated. “You think they’ll use her?”

Malik’s voice turned flat, heavy with old fear. “If they remember what I lost, they already have.”

By noon, the rain had cleared. Aira accompanied Callen to the docks, where the smell of oil and salt filled the air. She carried a folder thick with contracts and invoices, careful not to drop it as men shouted directions to one another in the distance.

Callen walked beside her, polite but impersonal. “You’ll deliver this to our local manager,” he said. “After he signs, call the office.”

She nodded. He hesitated before adding, quietly, “Don’t wander. The docks aren’t safe for new faces.”

Aira almost laughed. “You all speak like there’s danger hiding behind every door.”

Callen looked at her then, the faintest shadow in his eyes. “In this company, there usually is.”

He left her at a small office that smelled of rust and paper. The meeting took less than an hour. When Aira walked back outside, the clouds had broken open again, scattering light like shards of glass on the wet concrete. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the wind.

Across the road, high above on a shipping balcony, a figure watched her through binoculars. Rafeel lowered them slowly, a glint of satisfaction in his expression.

She had done exactly what he wanted—followed schedule, played her part, taken her first step deeper into his world.

“Everything in order?” asked the man beside him.

“For now,” Rafeel replied. “Tell the security team to rotate surveillance. No contact unless I say so.”

The man nodded and walked off. Rafeel remained at the railing, gaze fixed on the narrow street below where Aira’s scarf barely moved against the wind.

His phone vibrated. He didn’t check the name before answering.

“You’ve been busy,” his father’s voice said.

Rafeel’s eyes stayed on the road. “I’m always busy.”

“Busy watching women who don’t know they’re being watched?”

“Careful, Baba.”

The old man chuckled softly. “She’s a distraction you can’t afford. Her father still serves under this family. You want to punish him, do it cleanly. Not like this.”

Rafeel said nothing.

“Or,” his father continued, “you want to protect her. Which is worse. Protection grows into attachment. Attachment into weakness.”

Rafeel ended the call without answering. The rain started again, and through the downpour he could barely make out Aira stepping into a cab.

He smiled slightly. Weakness, his father had said. But obsession had never felt like weakness to him—it felt like possession, sharp and certain.

Aira returned to the main tower by late afternoon, hair damp from the rain. She handed the completed files to Miss Sana and was halfway through writing the entry report when her phone buzzed with an unlisted number.

She hesitated before answering. “Hello?”

A low voice spoke through static. “Aira.”

Her breath caught. “Who is this?”

“I don’t have much time.” The voice trembled slightly; older, familiar, but distant. “You’re working for them again. You have to leave that place.”

“Baba?” Her throat tightened. “Where—why are you calling? What’s happening?”

Static swallowed half his reply before she heard only fragments: “Not safe… old debts… Arman knows—”

The line went dead.

For a moment Aira sat frozen, phone pressed to her ear, the buzz in her head louder than the noise of the office. When she finally set it down, her hands shook.

Outside, through the glass wall of his office, Rafeel looked up from a report. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he saw the way she turned pale. His expression shifted—something between annoyance and interest. He called through the intercom.

“Send Miss Aira Malik in.”

Her pulse tripped as she rose and crossed the room.

Inside, the air felt cooler than before. Rafeel gestured to a chair. “You look disturbed. Something I should know?”

She forced a tense smile. “Just a phone call, sir. Wrong number maybe.”

He studied her face. “You’re not good at lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

He let the silence drag until she looked away.

“Be careful who contacts you,” he said finally. “In my world, wrong numbers can be fatal.”

Aira nodded, confused and frightened, her father’s words echoing louder now: Not safe. Arman knows.

She didn’t realize that across the city, Malik Shaheen was already packing a small bag, preparing to leave his office for the first time in years. He didn’t know if Rafeel meant to punish or protect his daughter—only that the past had risen again, and it would bring blood if he didn’t intervene.

That night, the rain didn’t stop.

Rafeel stood in the shadows of his penthouse, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand. On the screen behind him, footage from the afternoon played again: Aira lifting her face to the wind.

“She’s beginning to ask questions,” Callen reported.

Rafeel didn’t look away from the image. “Let her. By the time she gets answers, she’ll already be mine.”