Caesar was already pacing when she arrived, hooves striking against the packed earth in perfect, arrogant rhythm. His black coat gleamed in the early morning light, muscles rippling beneath the surface like coiled energy waiting to snap. He was a creature carved from pride—unruly, unapologetic, and far too intelligent for everyone's comfort.
Except hers.
Lamija leaned against the stable gate, arms crossed, letting him catch her scent before she moved. He flicked his tail and tossed his head.
"You're upset," she said.
Caesar snorted, then stomped once, hard.
Behind her, Mirsad grunted. "He's been calling. Woke half the hill up."
"I know," Lamija muttered. "I heard him. I think half of Sarajevo heard him. I had a meeting."
Mirsad clicked his tongue. "He doesn't care. You think this horse respects calendars? He expects you when he expects you. And I expect focus. So saddle up or go back inside and finish playing CEO."
Grizzled, broad-shouldered, and eternally unimpressed, Mirsad had been with the Begović family longer than the marble in the entryway. He didn't do small talk. He didn't ask how you slept. And he definitely didn't care about your meetings. He cared about precision. Control. Results.
Which was why she respected him.
"I'm barely late."
"He doesn't care and neither do I."
Lamija stepped into the stall without another word. Caesar yanked at her scarf in protest.
She smacked his nose lightly. "Don't start."
He blinked at her, unbothered.
"Careful," she muttered, slipping the bridle on. "I'm not in the mood to wrestle with Your Majesty today."
He huffed, as if to say, then focus.
It took her longer than usual to saddle him. Not because he was difficult—though he was—but because her mind kept pulling her elsewhere.
Her whole week had been planned to the minute.
Until Kenan's message came in just after midnight:
URGENT: I've been removed from the project. Was this your call?
She hadn't touched the team roster. But when she checked, there it was—Kenan gone. Ayub Dervović in his place.
The change hadn't come from her. It had come from higher. And she didn't need to guess who made the call.
Begović Industries didn't move without her father's approval. Husine didn't talk much, but he acted with brutal clarity. She could guess what happened. Kenan had crossed a line two weeks ago—personal questions, offhand comments, hovering too close. She shut it down fast. Apparently, her father shut it down permanently.
She should've been annoyed at not being consulted.
She wasn't.
Still, she hadn't expected Ayub to take his place.
He was always there—behind her brother Imran, part of the household without ever being in her orbit. If she was Imran's right hand at Begović Industries, Ayub was the steady voice in his ear. Precise. Calm. Dependable. He attended family functions, stayed late at the office during crises, sat beside her father in tense meetings and somehow never spoke unless it mattered.
Everyone trusted Ayub.
Even her father, who trusted few.
But Lamija had never known him beyond the context of other people. He never addressed her directly unless required. He never lingered. Never tried to insert himself where he wasn't explicitly invited. In a world of men constantly trying to impress or challenge her, Ayub did neither.
Because she suspected—had always suspected—he was a little afraid of her.
Not in the dramatic way. Not in the fragile male ego way. No, Ayub didn't crumble. He simply… disappeared. Like he'd made a silent decision years ago that she was a variable he couldn't calculate. And so he avoided the equation entirely.
She noticed.
But it hadn't meant anything.
Until now.
Until her father himself had taken Ayub and placed him—deliberately—on her team. Not Imran's. Not the finance board. Hers.
That made her curious.
And curiosity, when it came to men, was not something she allowed herself often.
Caesar shoved her hard with his shoulder.
"Okay," she snapped. "I'm back. Settle down."
Mirsad was already at the ring by the time she mounted. His arms were crossed, his mouth set in a hard line.
"You're off," he barked.
"Just warming up."
"You're off. He's off. I don't want excuses. I want performance."
She took a breath and nudged Caesar forward. He moved—begrudgingly. Slower than usual. Deliberately sloppy on the first corner. She tightened her reins. Second corner, he knocked a post with his hind leg. Her prized stallion was acting like a spoiled child.
"Again," Mirsad snapped. "And this time do it like you've actually trained for this."
Lamija gritted her teeth. "He's just acting out."
"No, you're acting out. And he's mirroring it. You think he doesn't notice where your head's at? He knows before I do."
She said nothing, turning Caesar for another attempt.
He cleared the first jump, clipped the second.
"Again."
Lamija locked her jaw and tightened the reins. They picked up speed. The rhythm came back slowly, grudgingly—hoofbeats pounding the ground, breath tightening in her chest as they leapt again and again.
She was distracted. She knew it. And Caesar, for all his fire and pride, didn't forgive lapses easily. He demanded her full attention. He always had.
"Focus," Mirsad barked. "Don't just ride—command him."
Lamija pulled them into a tighter arc and launched into a new line. This time, Caesar cleared every jump with crisp precision.
Better.
Not perfect. But better.
They did another round, and another. Slowly, her muscles remembered their rhythm. Her breath synced with Caesar's gait. Her mind quieted, not because she stopped thinking about Ayub—she didn't—but because she refused to let it interfere.
Not here.
Not in the ring.
When she finally pulled Caesar into a slow walk, his coat was damp and gleaming, his breathing even.
From the fence, Mirsad watched with arms folded. "You've created a monster."
"I've created a legacy," she called back. "And he is my champion."
She wasn't wrong.
At twenty-three, Lamija was the youngest executive in Begović Industries history. And not by nepotism. Her father, Husine Begović, might've built one of the largest logistics empires in the Balkans, but he didn't hand out power for free. He raised her for the crown she would bear through grit, precision, and performance.
Still, being the daughter of the founder came with expectations. Imran, her older brother, carried the future of the company on his shoulders, calm and calculating.
Lamija? Lamija had teeth.
And Caesar, of course.
He was gifted to her on her sixteenth birthday by a big time investor from the Emirates—a firestorm of a yearling no one could ride. He'd thrown every trainer who tried. Refused halters. Bit stablehands. People said he needed to be broken. She said he needed to be understood.
She climbed into the ring on the third day and refused to leave.
He warmed to her. Not because she forced him—but because, for once, someone didn't try to break him.
Now, years later, they were champions. Twice crowned at the European Equestrian Finals. Their names whispered in stables from Vienna to Istanbul. She didn't need the validation. But she did like to win and so did her stallion.
She gave Caesar a proud pat. "You're still the only man who can keep up with me."
He huffed in smug agreement. She dismounted, walking him to cool down, her fingers brushing the velvet of his nose.
"Six weeks until Spain," Mirsad reminded her, coming over with a water bucket.
"We'll be ready."
"You always say that."
"And we always are."
He gave a noncommittal grunt but handed her the lead rope without argument. She took it, turning Caesar toward the stables. But her mind was already elsewhere.
Lamija glanced toward the city beyond the ridge. From up here, Sarajevo sprawled across the hills like a living tapestry, golden under the rising sun.
She wasn't sure what the next few weeks would bring.
But she had a feeling they were going to test her in ways no ring ever had.