I can't sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. The way he looked at me when I talked about the prayer room. Like my words mattered. Like I mattered.
I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. 2:47 AM. The business card sits on my dresser, catching moonlight from the window. Damien Cross. CEO, Cross Development Group.
What am I doing?
Men like him don't notice women like me. I design community centers and affordable housing. He builds towers that touch the sky. We exist in different worlds, different universes entirely.
But he knew my thesis. He knew my coffee shop.
My stomach twists. Maybe Hana's right. Maybe I watch too many romantic movies and think life works like fairy tales. Maybe successful men don't really care about community development. Maybe they just say what they think you want to hear.
I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and distant traffic. This place isn't much—a tiny one-bedroom I can barely afford on my junior architect salary—but it's mine. The walls are covered with my sketches, my dreams made visible in pencil and paper.
A mosque renovation I designed for my senior project. A community garden with covered gathering spaces. Children's centers with natural light and safe play areas. All the buildings I want to create someday, when I'm not just a junior architect fetching coffee and making copies.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
Thank you for an inspiring evening. Looking forward to our conversation tomorrow. - DC
My heart hammers against my ribs. He texted me. At almost 3 AM, he's thinking about our conversation too.
I stare at the message for a full minute before typing back: Me too. Sleep well.
The response comes immediately: Sweet dreams, Zahra.
I set the phone down with shaking hands. This is insane. I'm a twenty-six-year-old architect who still lives paycheck to paycheck. He's a billionaire who probably has assistants to manage his text messages.
But he texted me himself. Didn't he?
"You look terrible." Hana slides into the booth across from me at our usual breakfast spot, her designer handbag hitting the table with a soft thud.
"Good morning to you too." I take another sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine will make me feel human again.
She studies my face with the intensity she usually reserves for color palettes and fabric samples. "Didn't sleep?"
"Not much."
"The presentation went well then?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. How do I explain what happened? That I might have met someone who actually understands my vision for architecture? That for the first time in my career, someone with real money and real power looked at my work and saw something worth investing in?
"Zahra." Hana's voice carries that warning tone I've heard since we were kids. "What happened?"
"I met someone."
She leans back against the vinyl booth. "At a charity function full of seventy-year-old real estate moguls?"
"He's not seventy." Heat creeps up my neck again. "His name is Damien Cross. He's—"
"Cross Development Group." Hana's expression hardens. "The guy who builds those soulless luxury towers."
"They're not soulless. They're actually quite beautiful, architecturally speaking." I fidget with my napkin. "And he's interested in community development now. He wants to build affordable housing."
"Zahra." She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. "Please tell me you're not this naive."
The word stings. "I'm not naive. I'm hopeful. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Her grip tightens. "Men like Damien Cross don't suddenly develop social consciousness. They develop tax strategies."
"You don't know him."
"Neither do you." Her voice is gentle now, which somehow makes it worse. "You talked to him for what, twenty minutes? And now you think he's going to fund your community center dreams?"
I pull my hand free. "He asked me to coffee. That's all."
"When?"
"Today."
Hana closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Okay. Where?"
"Serenity Café."
She frowns. "How did he know about that place?"
That's the question that kept me awake, isn't it? The question I don't want to answer because it makes Hana's warnings feel less like sisterly concern and more like truth.
"Lucky guess?"
"Zahra." She leans forward. "Promise me something. Promise me you'll be careful."
"I'm always careful."
"No, you're not. You're trusting. You see the best in people even when they show you their worst." She signals the waitress for more coffee. "I love that about you. But sometimes I worry it's going to get you hurt."
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. Because maybe she's right. Maybe I do give people too much credit. Maybe I want so badly to believe that someone like Damien Cross could care about more than profit margins that I'm ignoring obvious red flags.
But what if she's wrong? What if this is my chance to actually make a difference? To build something meaningful instead of just dreaming about it on paper?
"I'll be careful," I promise.
She doesn't look convinced.
Serenity Café is exactly as busy as always at one o'clock. Students with laptops claim corner tables, business people grab quick lunches, and the familiar smell of coffee and fresh bread makes my shoulders relax for the first time all day.
I order my usual—medium coffee with cream, no sugar—and find a table near the window. He's not here yet, which gives me time to calm my nerves and review the questions I wrote down this morning.
What kind of community development are you interested in? How do you see affordable housing fitting into your business model? What's your timeline?
Professional questions. Safe questions. Questions that have nothing to do with the way his eyes seemed to see straight through me last night, or the text he sent at 3 AM, or the way my heart speeds up every time I think about seeing him again.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up to see him scanning the café. He's wearing jeans today, and a simple white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He looks younger somehow, more approachable, but no less devastating.
Our eyes meet, and his face lights up with that smile that makes my stomach flutter.
"Zahra." He slides into the seat across from me, and suddenly the table feels too small. "I was worried you might change your mind."
"Why would I change my mind?"
He shrugs, and for just a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. "Sometimes the light of day makes things seem different than they did the night before."
I know exactly what he means, but I shake my head. "Not this time."
Relief flickers across his features. "Good. I'd hate to think I imagined how passionate you are about your work."
"You didn't imagine it." I take a sip of coffee to steady myself. "So tell me about this community development idea."
For the next hour, he paints a picture that sounds too good to be true. Mixed-income housing that doesn't look like projects. Community spaces integrated into residential buildings. Partnerships with local organizations to provide services and programming.
"The problem with most affordable housing," he says, leaning forward with his hands wrapped around his coffee cup, "is that it segregates people by income. You end up with rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods, and nothing in between."
"Exactly." I can't keep the excitement out of my voice. "True community happens when different kinds of people interact naturally."
"Right. And that requires intentional design." His eyes are bright with enthusiasm. "It requires architects who understand that buildings aren't just structures. They're the foundation for human connection."
My chest tightens with something that might be hope or might be fear. "You really believe that?"
"I do." He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. "And I believe you're exactly the kind of architect who can make it happen."
His touch sends electricity up my arm. I should pull away—we barely know each other, this is supposed to be a professional meeting—but I don't want to.
"What are you saying?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"I'm saying I want to work with you, Zahra. I want to build something beautiful together."
The way he says my name makes my skin warm. The way he's looking at me makes it hard to breathe.
This is dangerous. This feeling in my chest, this hope that's growing bigger than I can control. Men like Damien Cross don't fall for junior architects. They don't text at 3 AM about sweet dreams. They don't talk about building beautiful things with their eyes full of something that looks like longing.
But his hand is warm on mine, and his smile is soft and real, and maybe—just maybe—Hana is wrong.
Maybe some fairy tales do come true.