The lobby of Leighton Tower was bathed in marble and morning light, the clack of heels and hum of elevators filling the air like a well-orchestrated routine. Then, everything paused.
The front doors slid open—and silence fell.
All eyes turned. Whispers swept like wind.
"He's here…"
One of the receptionists instinctively stood up straighter. A janitor quickly stepped back from the main hall, tucking away his mop.
A man in a crisp charcoal suit strode through the entrance with quiet authority. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and his mere presence seemed to carry the weight of entire empires. No one dared greet him too casually—not even with a wave. Instead, they offered subtle nods, half-bows, like villagers in the presence of a king.
"Good morning, Mr. Farhan," someone muttered reverently, as if saying it too loud would be disrespectful.
He didn't stop. He never did.
He went straight to the elevator, the silence following him all the way up.
In her office, Elena's fingers froze over the tablet screen. She could feel his arrival before she even heard the door open.
He didn't knock.
"Elena. Let's go."
Her heart dropped.
"Papa—"
"I said let's go," his voice was calm, but it carried thunder beneath. "I've made the choice for you. Come."
Qis stood frozen beside her. Elena swallowed hard, closed her tablet, and nodded without protest.
Outside, the black luxury car waited like a hearse for pride. She and Qis climbed into the back seat. As the car pulled out into the city traffic, the skyline behind them faded into the rearview mirror.
No one spoke for miles.
The smooth roads became rougher. The buildings turned into wooden shops. Then trees. Then gravel.
Qis leaned in closer to Elena and whispered, "Where the hell are we going?"
"I don't know," Elena replied, her voice barely a breath.
She glanced out at the shifting scenery. Her nails dug into her palm.
Her father hadn't spoken since they left.
She hated the feeling—this silence laced with suspense. Her father didn't just go to places like this. The air smelled like smoke and soil. Old roofs passed by. Chickens scattered at the sound of tires crunching on gravel.
Then the car turned into a dirt path. Wooden fences. A small wooden house stood at the end, half-covered in vines. The walls were weathered by sun and time.
Inside the car, Elena recoiled slightly.
"This can't be it," she muttered.
Qis peeked out the window, frowned, and leaned back in. "It smells like goats and... something dead."
"I'm not going out there," Elena whispered.
Qis agreed. "Me neither. No way."
They watched as her father stepped out of the car, slowly adjusting his sleeves as though preparing for a handshake with history. He walked forward, crossing the dry grass.
Under the scorching sun, Zain swung his hoe into the dry earth, sweat tracing rivers down his back. His shirt was tattered, faded by time and toil. Holes near the shoulder revealed bronze skin baked by years under the sun. His pants were mud-stained, his boots old and cracked. And yet—there was a quiet dignity in the way he moved, the strength in each swing.
He stopped for a moment, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and leaned on the hoe.
Then… he heard it.
A hum of an engine. Too smooth for any village vehicle.
Zain turned.
A black car came into view, sliding into the clearing like a ghost in a place it didn't belong.
Zain's brows furrowed.
The door opened—and then he saw him.
A familiar figure stepped out, more aged than he remembered but still unmistakably the same.
Zain smiled faintly.
The man smiled back.
"Farhan," Zain said, setting down his hoe.
"Zain."
They walked toward each other slowly, no rush, as if reliving an old memory with every step.
When they reached, they clasped each other's arms and hugged.
"It's been too long," David said, his voice softer than usual.
"Ten years, at least," Zain replied. "You still look like a CEO. I still look like… a scarecrow."
David laughed, clapping Zain's shoulder. "You haven't changed."
"I'd say the opposite."
From the car, Elena frowned. "They're hugging."
"Wait… your dad knows this guy?" Qis squinted. "What is he, like… some old buddy? Why is he dressed like a villager from 1960?"
Elena folded her arms tightly. "I'm not getting out. It's dusty. And that place looks like it might collapse if I breathe too hard."
Qis crossed her arms. "He's literally sweating through a shirt with holes in it. I think I saw a chicken walk out of his house."
Then came the moment.
David turned to the car.
He motioned for them to come out.
Qis stiffened. "Uh oh."
Elena shook her head, panic bubbling. "No. No way."
But then—David's face hardened. It wasn't a request anymore.
"Shit," Qis muttered. "He's doing the dad stare."
Elena closed her eyes, teeth clenched. "I can't believe this…"
They opened the door slowly, like prisoners stepping out to execution.
Every step toward that house felt like a betrayal of everything Elena stood for—her perfume choked by the stench of chicken droppings, her heels sinking into soil.
And from the corner of her eye… she saw him.
The villager. The man from the robbery.
Zain.
Their eyes didn't meet this time.
But her heart remembered.
Elena stood by the car, her eyes locked on the man talking warmly with her father. His shirt was torn at the sleeves, damp with sweat, clinging to his toned back. The sun beat down on him as he stood in front of a house that looked like it had seen better decades. Wooden walls, rusted tin roof, and the faint scent of damp earth—it all struck her senses at once.
"He looks… familiar," Qis whispered beside her, squinting at the man. "Wait, isn't that—"
"Don't," Elena snapped, her chest tightening.
Her father turned around. Each step he took toward them felt heavy with intention.
"Elena," he said, voice calm but firm.
She straightened her back. Her hands clenched involuntarily.
"This…" he gestured toward the man behind him, "…is your new personal driver."
Elena's breath caught in her throat.