~CHAPTER 2~ THE CEO
1537 Words
Monday morning.
The rain from yesterday had left the city wet and grey. Puddles everywhere. The sky looked like it might cry again. Traffic was a mess. Honking. People running late.
The lobby of Fahren Holdings was a warzone of suits and heels. Employees rushed with files, laptops, and coffee that threatened to spill on the white marble floor. The sixty-story glass building stood proudly in the middle of the city, a symbol of its owner's wealth and power. A monument to money. The Fahren logo was everywhere. Gold. Shiny. Arrogant. It reflected on the floor like fire.
Security scanned everyone. 3 layers. Metal detector. Bag check. ID scan.
Aimaara took a deep breath before stepping inside. The cold aircond hit her face and made her shiver. It smelled like expensive perfume and power and something she couldn't name. Fear, maybe.
Today she was scheduled to present her interior design proposal for Fahren Holdings' new headquarters. This project was the biggest opportunity of her career. If she got it, 6 months rent settled. Mama’s grave settled. She wouldn’t have to eat Maggi for dinner anymore. She could breathe. She could live.
But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Because of yesterday. Because of him.
"Aimaara, are you ready?" asked her colleague, Liyana.
Liyana looked perfect. white blazer, flawless mskeup, smile confident. She had no idea what happened last night. She didn't know Aimaara almost died.
"InshaAllah." Aimaara forced a smile. Her lips felt stiff. Her throat was dry.
Even though she tried to smile, her mind was still stuck on the man from the bookstore.
Emmeer Fahren.
The grey eyes. The cold hands on her wrist. The way he said "hunt list" like it was normal. The way he covered her body when the glass broke. The way he smelled like winter and blood.
A name that kept playing in her head on loop. Like a curse. Like a prayer.
She shook her head violently. Focus. This was work. This was money. This was survival. Don't think about the gunshots. Don't think about his body on top of hers.
On the top floor of that building, 60 stories above the chaos...
A man stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, looking over the Kuala Lumpur skyline. The city looked small from here. Like toys. Like ants. Easy to crush. Easy to burn.
"Boss."
A man in a black suit entered the office without knocking. His face was blank. Bodyguard. Ex-military by the way he stood. Earpiece. Gun under the jacket.
"The file has been found."
Emmeer didn't turn around. His hands were in his pockets. His black suit was perfect. Not one wrinkle. Tailored to kill.
"Where?" His voice was flat. Dead. No emotion. Like talking about the weather.
"A woman has it."
Emmeer closed his eyes for a second. The only sign of emotion. A flicker of something. Anger? Relief? Fear?
"Has she opened it?"
"Not yet."
"Make sure she doesn't get hurt." There was a pause. His jaw ticked. "And make sure no one else touches her. No one. I mean it."
"Yes, boss."
After his assistant left, the room went silent again. Only the hum of the aircond. Only the sound of his own breathing.
Emmeer walked to his desk. Black marble. Empty except for one laptop and one pen. Minimalist. Cold. Like him. He opened the top drawer with a key from his pocket. The key was on a chain. Old.
Inside was an old photo. Edges yellowed. Burnt a little on the corner.
A man. Tall. Smiling. Arms around a woman. Happy.
A woman. Beautiful. Holding the man’s arm. Eyes bright. Alive.
And a little girl in the middle. Around 8 years old. Pigtails. Her face had been torn off until it was unrecognizable. Just jagged paper. Violent. Angry.
Emmeer gripped the photo tightly. His knuckles turned white. A vein popped on his forehead. His chest rose and fell.
"It's not time yet..." he whispered.
His voice was hoarse. Broken.
"Not until I find who did this. Not until I make them pay. Not until I get her back."
He put the photo back and locked the drawer. His face was stone again. No weakness.
Meanwhile, 60 floors below...
Aimaara walked into the meeting room with her team. 12 people. All senior. All older. All men except her and Liyana.
The room was huge. Glass walls. View of the whole city. The table was 20 feet long. Made of one piece of wood. Probably cost more than her life. Probably cost more than her soul.
All the company directors were already inside. Sitting. Talking in low voices. The moment she entered, they stopped.
Eyes on her. Judging. Measuring. Undressing her with their eyes.
"That’s the new designer?"
"She looks 20."
"Can she even handle a project this big? Fahren doesn’t do charity."
"CEO picked her personally. Strange. He never picks vendors."
"Maybe she knows someone."
Aimaara ignored them. She set up her laptop. Her presentation. 40 slides. 2 weeks of no sleep. Dark circles she covered with concealer. Her hands were cold.
The chair at the very end of the long table was still empty. Black leather. Bigger than the rest. Like a throne. Like an execution seat.
"That's the CEO's chair," Liyana whispered, leaning in. Her voice was nervous now.
"Strange. He hasn't arrived yet? He’s never late. Not even 1 second. Not ever."
Before Aimaara could answer, the lights in the hallway dimmed for a second. The air got colder. The temperature dropped.
The meeting room door opened.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The sound of leather shoes echoed through the entire room. Slow. Measured. Like a countdown. Like a death march. Like the last steps before a firing squad.
Everyone stood up instantly. Like robots. Like soldiers. Like they were scared of dying.
"Good morning, Dato' Emmeer."
Aimaara's eyes widened. Her heart dropped to her stomach. Her laptop almost fell.
Slowly she turned.
The man she met at the bookstore yesterday was now standing in front of everyone.
Wearing a tailored black suit that cost more than her car. A luxury watch that could buy her house. And that same unreadable face. Cold. Perfect. Dangerous. Like he was carved from ice. Like he was death in a suit.
Emmeer also looked at her.
No smile.
No sign of surprise.
No "we met yesterday".
No "are you okay".
No "did you sleep".
As if their meeting yesterday never happened. As if she was a stranger. As if he didn’t have her pinned to the floor 12 hours ago. As if he didn’t save her life.
His grey eyes swept over her for 0.5 seconds. From her hair to her shoes. Judging. Scanning. Then moved on. Dismissed. Like she was nothing.
"Proceed with the meeting."
Emmeer's voice was calm. But the whole room went silent. You could hear a pin drop. You could hear people breathing.
The meeting started.
Aimaara clicked to slide 1. Her voice shook on the first sentence.
"Good morning. Today I will present the concept for the new headquarters..."
But while Aimaara was presenting her design, talking about marble and lighting and "warm minimalist"...
She could feel it. Burning on her skin. Like fire.
That pair of eyes never left her.
Not because of her design.
Not because she stuttered on slide 7.
Not because her voice cracked.
But because of something else.
Something dark. Something heavy.
Something only Emmeer knew. A secret.
Every time she looked up, he was watching. Arms crossed. Jaw tight.
Like he was waiting for her to slip. To say the wrong thing. To open the file. To run. To cry.
Her mouth went dry. Her palms were sweating. She could feel her heart in her throat.
30 minutes felt like 3 hours. Like torture.
Finally. "Thank you. That’s all from me." Her voice was barely a whisper.
Emmeer didn’t clap. He just nodded once. Sharp. Final.
"We’ll inform you of the decision."
Meeting dismissed.
Everyone left. Fast. Like escaping. Like running from a bomb. Except Aimaara. She was packing slowly. Her hands were trembling.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. Once. Twice. Three times.
Unknown number.
She answered softly, hands still shaking. Voice small.
"Hello?"
A hoarse voice on the other line. Male. Distorted. Like through a machine. Like from hell. Like from a grave.
It only said one sentence. Cold. Final. Deadly.
"Don't open the black file... if you still value your life."
Tuut...
The call ended.
The phone in Aimaara's hand almost slipped. Her blood went cold. Her vision went black for a second. Her knees went weak.
How did they know about the file? Who was watching her? Was it Emmeer?
On the sixtieth floor, behind the tinted glass...
Emmeer stood by the window, looking down at the tiny cars. His reflection looked like a ghost. His reflection looked tired.
His phone lit up. One text.
`Warning sent.`
He typed back one word.
`Good.`
Then he whispered to the empty room. To the ghost of the little girl.
"The game has begun, Aimaara Daneesha..."
He clenched his fist.
"And he was both the player and the prize. Whether she liked it or not. Whether she ran or not."
*TO BE CONTINUED...*
- Writer
