Yusuf stopped right at the door infront of Ibrahim's cabin, brushing his hands nervously over his shirt. "My shirt's clean, right? No wrinkle? No stain?"
Aqil shifted the bag on his shoulder and groaned. "For the 119th time, yes, your shirt is clean! Now stop acting like a groom on his wedding day and open the door already."
Yusuf reached for the handle, then pulled back again. "I… I don't think I can," he muttered. "Do you even realize who's inside? Zainab's cousin—he works in a place like this. Look around, Aqil. The Golden nameplates on the office doors, the polished marble floors, the crystal chandeliers ...even the chairs look like they belong in a palace, not an office. This is not the world we belong to. What if I go inside and mess up? What if I say something wrong? What if—"
Before he could finish, Aqil kicked him in the leg. Yusuf winced, grabbing his shin. "Ouch! What the hell, man?"
Aqil glared, "Yesterday you weren't scared to make me do all the crappy stuff. And now, when it's just opening a door, you've suddenly turned into a coward? Move, I'll do it myself."
Just then, the door swung open. Both Yusuf and Aqil snapped to attention, standing straight. A young man stepped in,wearing a sharp three-piece suit. He gave a polite smile, "Hey, it's Amir. Come inside."
Yusuf gulped nervously, and Aqil adjusted the bag in his hands as they stepped further inside. Their eyes immediately fell on Ibrahim Rahman. He was leaning casually on the edge of his big wooden desk, one hip resting against it. His suit was perfect, his shoes polished, and even the way he rested his hands made it clear—this was a man used to getting what he wanted.
Faisal, standing near the sofa, gestured politely. "Sit down boys."
Then he turned to Yusuf, "Let me introduce properly. As I told you yesterday, I work for Rahman Enterprises. Specifically for Ibrahim Rahman. You might have seen him in magazines, on news channels, or at big business events. And this is Amir," Faisal added, pointing to the young man beside him. "He's an upcoming politician you can say. We have been friends for a long time, so you don't need to worry—they're both fine with you here. They won't bite."
Aqil spoke up, "I… I actually saw Mr. Ibrahim once. Last year, I went to a seminar. Many students from different schools were there. And… he was giving a speech there. He really impressed everyone."
Ibrahim's lips curved into a faint smile. A school kid remembering him fondly? That alone was a small, unexpected compliment.
Faisal nodded approvingly. "That's perfect. Even better that you already has some idea about Ibrahim's nature. That's exactly why I asked both of you to come here directly. Ibrahim paid the bill on my behalf last night. And he doesn't plan to accept repayment. But since you two wanted to… well, settle it, it's better you speak to him directly."
Faisal then pointed toward Aqil's backpack, resting quietly beside the sofa. "And I assume this is what you've brought, right? Let's see what we're dealing with."
"First of all," Ibrahim said, straightening from the desk and taking a slow step closer, "I want to know… from where exactly did you two get that much money?" His eyes shifted between Yusuf and Aqil.
Yusuf wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, "Uh… we, uh… saved it, sir. Bit by bit, from part-time jobs… you know, collecting over the years. Just… keeping it aside for emergencies."
"That's a lie," Ibrahim said, "If you're going to lie to me, Yusuf, at least come up with something believable. Try harder next time. Now… give me the truth."
Aqil suddenly blurted out, "Drugs… we sold drugs last night in a club. That's where the money came from."
The room fell dead quiet for half a beat.
Amir's eyes widened, "You did what!!!??"
Faisal exhaled hard, rubbing his temples, "Are you two out of your minds???"
Yusuf snapped his head toward Aqil so fast it almost hurt his neck. He couldn't decide whether to punch Aqil for opening his mouth or beg him to stay quiet, "This wasn't supposed to be said! You idiot."
Deep down, Ibrahim had already guessed this. He knew no one could collect such a huge amount of money in just one night unless it was from some dirty work. For him, it was no shock—only a confirmation of what he had thought all along.
Slowly, he slid both hands into his pockets, "So that's why… when I went to the hospital yesterday, you two were nowhere to be seen. Tell me then.... for whom were you working?"
Aqil glanced at Yusuf, silently telling him to continue. Yusuf's throat felt dry but he forced himself to look at Ibrahim. "Rafi… Rafi Ahmed. I worked with him before. Only once. That's how I knew him."
Ibrahim's brows arched high, his gaze shifting slowly to Aqil, "And you? How many times have you done this before?"
Aqil stared down at the floor, unable to meet Ibrahim's eyes.
"Yesterday was my first."
Ibrahim exhaled slowly through his nose, "When the bill was already paid then why did you two still take such a step? What if you had been caught and the police had dragged you into a case? Tell me—who would save you then? Did you believe the law would be kind to you just because you're minor. Once you step into that world, no one comes to pull you back out."
The silence that followed was unbearable. The ticking clock on the wall sounded louder than breathing.
One minute passed. Two. Three. Four.
Finally, Yusuf broke. "I did it for Nayla. I swear, it was only for her. She doesn't like to borrow money. She used to live a different life. Luxurious. Comfortable life. When she was in London, she had everything. Her father gave her the kind of childhood any kid would dream of—nice house, good clothes, best schools. She was only ten when it all ended. Her father died suddenly. And with that, everything broke. She and her mother had to come back here. They didn't come back to family waiting with open arms. No… her mother's relatives didn't want them. They hated that her mom had married against the family's wishes. So instead of support, all they got was closed doors. They were left alone to survive. Since then, her mother carried everything on her own shoulders. Working endlessly, sacrificing every bit of comfort, just so Nayla could have some kind of normal life. And Nayla… she learned early what struggle meant. So, when you stepped in and paid… I was grateful. More than I can say. But Nayla, she doesn't like to owe anyone. If she feels like she's in debt, it eats her alive. I couldn't stand to see her feel small, like she owed the world again."
Amir straightened his coat and looked at Ibrahim. His eyes stayed on him, searching for a sign. Ibrahim stood with his arms crossed, lost in thought. Hope he would listen to this boy. That maybe Ibrahim's anger would soften a little after hearing Yusuf's words.
Maybe Amir's prayer had been answered. Almost a month passed, and life felt peaceful again. Everyone was slowly healing. Maybe even Ibrahim. Or maybe… he had something else hidden in his mind.
One morning, the kitchen smelled sweet with milk and sugar. Zainab was standing with a spoon in her hand, trying to stir the pudding mix inside a big bowl. The maid was helping here and there, but most of the mess was Zainab's creation. Her wrists hurt from whisking, and she had already dropped a few drops of milk on the counter.
Aliya quickly caught her hand. "Zainab! Not like that! It's not washing machine. Stir gently, darling, gently!"
Zainab pouted, her nose wrinkling. "Mom, it's not my fault. The spoon is too big! Why don't they make small spoons for small girls?"
The maid covered her mouth, hiding a laugh. Aliya gave the maid a sharp look and then turned back to her daughter. "You're not small, Zainab. You're fifteen. If you can spend two hours putting lipstick and eyeliner before going out, then you can surely stir pudding for five minutes."
"Uff, Mom!" Zainab groaned, "Makeup is important. Pudding is not."
Aliya raised her brows, her hands on her hips. "So when you get married, will you serve your husband eyeliner instead of food?"
"Mom! What are you saying?! First of all, I'm never getting married. Second, if I do, my husband will cook for me. We're in Kuala Lumpur, not in some old village!"
"This girl will make me crazy one day." Aliya muttered, turning back to the stove.
Zainab quickly washed her hands, still muttering under her breath. "Hmph. You all don't appreciate my talent. I'm an artist, not a chef." She leaned over, gave Aliya a quick kiss on the cheek, and darted out of the kitchen before her mother could say anything more.
Her slippers tapped against the marble floor as she ran upstairs. She pushed open the door to her room—a world completely different from the rest of the mansion.
Unlike the modern interior of the mansion, her room had an old royal charm—soft pastel pink walls, heavy curtains, and a large carved bed that felt fit for a princess. A cabinet held jars of dry fruits for her little cravings, a mini fridge stocked with soft drinks, and a neatly arranged dressing table with her makeup products and perfumes.
Zainab flopped onto her bed with a thud, phone in hand. "Finally, some me-time." she muttered, scrolling through the list of new movies she wanted to watch. Just as she settled in with her blanket, her phone started ringing, "Ugh, it's him again."
She groaned and hugged a pillow, letting it vibrate for a second before reluctantly picking up, "I already told you yesterday—Sania doesn't live here. This is the third day you're calling the same number, and every time I tell you the same thing. Maybe try calling the right one?"
The caller chuckled softly, "I've tried the right number. But it doesn't seem to answer the way I want it to. So I figured… why not call you instead?"
Zainab exhaled sharply, hugging her pillow a little tighter. "So this is your grand plan? Irritate me into a conversation? Must be a sad life if this is your entertainment."
"Not sad," he replied smoothly. "Just… bored. And you don't sound boring at all."
"Careful with that line." She smirked, "You do realize I can pass your number to my brother, right? He has a very special way of dealing with people who get too… persistent."
There was a pause. Then a soft laugh. "I'm counting on that. Maybe then, I'll get to meet him too."
"You're either crazy, or you've got a death wish. Either way, you should hang up before you waste any more of your last minutes alive."
"If you really wanted me gone, princess, you would've blocked me the very first time I disturbed you. Or maybe you would've tossed my number straight to your brother and let him handle it. But you didn't. You kept the line open. You answered again. And now here we are—three days later, you still holding the phone to your ear, still listening to me. Don't you see? That tells me everything I need to know. You don't hate the disturbance. You… crave it. Maybe you even wait for it. Maybe—" his voice dipped lower, intimate in a way that felt wrong, "you're waiting for me."
The way he spoke, gentle and teasing, made it sound like he wasn't threatening her at all. Like he was just stating a fact. Monsters who screamed could be fought. But monsters who whispered sweetly? They were the ones who truly knew how to break someone.
Zainab twirled the keychain hanging from her phone cover, "You talk too much for someone who thinks he's clever. Don't mistake my silence for agreement, or my patience for interest. The only reason I pick up your calls is because I enjoy watching fools like you trap themselves in their own words. Every sweet little guess you make—it's just a shovel digging your own grave deeper. And me? I'm in no hurry. I can let you dig until you're buried neck-deep, and then… maybe I'll clap while you choke on the dirt you made for yourself."
She shifted the pillow under her arm, eyes fixed on the ceiling as she added, "So go ahead. Keep talking. Keep playing this game. Because when I decide to end it, it won't be a call you'll remember—it'll be your last mistake."
"Oh, Zainab…" he sighed softly, almost as if he were smiling. "You make threats sound like poetry. Like you're not just warning me—you're performing for me. Most people scream, curse, hang up in anger… but you? You lace your words with silk and knives at the same time. It's beautiful. Addictive." He chuckled softly, a sound that crawled down her spine, not because it was loud, but because it was gentle. "But here's the truth you don't want to admit—some part of you is curious. You want to know who I am, why I keep calling. You wonder, don't you? You wonder how I dare to disturb the princess of this city and still speak like I hold the upper hand."
"Fine. You've had your little drama. Now cut the mystery. If you're so bold, then say it. Who the hell are you? I'm waiting."
"Not yet," he murmured. "Names are too easy. Faces… they're better. And I'll show you mine when the time is right. When you turn eighteen, I'll stand in front of you myself. Just you and me."
"Eighteen? So I'm supposed to wait three years for your big dramatic entrance?" Though the idea of waiting amused her.
"Yes. Three years isn't long, not for something that's already written between us. And until then… I won't call again. I'll let you have your peace, if that's what you really want. But you'll think of me. You'll miss the disturbance. And when the silence gets too loud, when you find yourself reaching for a voice that isn't there, you'll remember this number. You'll dial it. Because I know you, Zainab—you'll want me back on the line. You'll need it. You'll need me."
And then, the line went dead with a sharp beep.