The alarm chirped at 4:30 a.m., pulling me from a dream I refused to remember. For a moment I lay still in the dark, heart already racing. First day. Ya Allah, keep me steady.
Las Vegas mornings in May are mercifully cool before the desert wakes. A soft breeze slipped through the cracked window, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the building's planters. No cicadas like Dallas mornings—just the low hum of a city that never fully slept. I breathed it in, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
Cold water for wudu shocked the last traces of sleep away. Face, mouth, nose, arms to elbows, masah over my hair, feet. The ritual grounded me, as it always did. I unrolled the small prayer mat toward the qibla sticker on the wall, whispered Allahu Akbar, and began Fajr. In sujood I lingered longer than usual, forehead pressed to the soft weave.
"Ya Allah," I murmured silently, "give me patience today. Give me strength. And please… keep these thoughts away from me."
Because even in prayer, his face had slipped in—storm-grey eyes, the deep voice from the interview saying my name like it belonged to him. Heat rushed to my cheeks.
Astaghfirullah. I sat up quickly, finished my tasleem, and folded the mat with more force than necessary.
By 5:15 I was dressed. I had chosen carefully the night before: lightweight ivory trousers that fell straight and modest, a sleeveless silk blouse in soft sage beneath a tailored cream blazer, and a matching sage chiffon hijab draped loosely but pinned with pearl clips so it framed my face perfectly. Kohl lined my eyes, rose-tinted balm on my lips, the faintest mist of oud-and-jasmine attar at my wrists and behind my ears. In the mirror I looked professional, covered, composed—yet undeniably feminine. InshaAllah, respectable.
At 5:20 my phone lit up.
Black Escalade, lobby in ten. Marcus will drive you today. Morning tea and coffee waiting. Reach safe. –LH
My stomach performed a slow, traitorous flip. He had somehow known about the Arabic qahwa I drank at home. I still didn't know how he'd found out.
At exactly 5:30 I stepped into the lobby. The May air outside was still pleasant, cool enough that goosebumps rose on my arms. Marcus stood beside the gleaming black Escalade, door already open.
"Good morning, Ms. Khan."
"Good morning, Marcus," I replied politely, sliding across butter-soft leather that smelled faintly of cedar and something musky—his cologne, perhaps.
On the console waited a silver thermos of steaming cardamom qahwa and a small porcelain cup of milky masala chai. A white card in sharp, masculine handwriting:
Choose whichever wakes you better. Welcome to the team. –LH
I smiled despite myself, poured a little of each, and sipped as the Strip slid past—neon signs dimmed, fountains quiet, the city holding its breath before the day's chaos. Early Vegas felt almost sacred in its stillness.
We reached Hardpound Towers just as the sun crested the mountains. Marcus opened the door.
"Have a wonderful first day, Ms. Khan."
"Thank you, Marcus."
The executive elevator carried me silently to the forty-second floor. When the doors opened, Marie was already there—sleek glasses, burgundy dress hugging her curves, smile immediate and warm.
"Aafreen!" She crossed the floor in quick strides and pulled me into a light, perfume-scented hug. "You made it. Coffee first, panic later."
That unexpected embrace loosened something tight in my chest. I had braced for polite distance, maybe a nod at most. Not this.
We spent the rest of the morning glued together—screens mirrored, calendars open, her chair pulled right beside mine. Between protocols and passwords she asked real questions: Was I homesick yet? Did I miss my mother's cooking? What music did I listen to when no one was around?
I found myself telling her about early morning drives with my brothers when I was little, old Atif Aslam songs blasting, about hiding romance novels under my mattress in high school, about always being the "good one" who studied instead of sneaking out.
She laughed—really laughed—when I admitted I still texted my mother good-night every single evening.
"That's sweet," she said, pushing her glasses up. "My mother and I only speak when one of us is in crisis. You're lucky."
By ten o'clock we were finishing each other's sentences about recurring meetings.
By eleven we were trading snacks—she offered dark chocolate, I gave her pistachio barfi. She took one bite and closed her eyes dramatically.
"If you bring this every week, I will fight anyone who tries to steal you from this floor."
I laughed, cheeks warm. No one outside my family had ever reacted to my mother's sweets like that.
Marie introduced me to the rest of the support staff: Javier and Liam (data wizards, always in headphones), Priya (logistics queen who could book a private jet in her sleep), Ethan and the other Marcus (night-shift coordinators who kept tabs on Asia and Europe while we slept). We sat at the very top of the hierarchy—direct gatekeepers to the chairman.
Around noon she laid out the day: morning learning, afternoon shadowing, real fire only in the evening once Lucifer's merger calls ended.
He appeared briefly after lunch—tall in lightweight navy, sleeves rolled against the rising heat. His eyes found me instantly.
"Hey Aafreen! Marie!" He said my name like he had been waiting to. "Settling in well?"
"Yes, sir. Marie has been wonderful."
He nodded, a small smile touching his mouth, and paused, watching me as if waiting for me to correct something.
I didn't understand at first, then with a jolt I remembered.
"Lucifer—"
He reacted with a subtle spark in his eyes.
"Good. I'd love to spend more time today, but the markets are demanding attention." He handed me a slim folder and a thick one to Marie. "Read these before five. We'll debrief then."
Then he was gone.
Marie squeezed my wrist under the desk. "Don't worry. He does that every few months. Tomorrow he'll linger."
The small reassurance felt enormous.
As the afternoon wore on, we talked more. Between slides she told me pieces of her story.
"Six years with Lucifer," she said, clicking through investor names. "Before that, two years with other executives here. Started when I was twenty-four, fresh from Paris."
"So… thirty-two now?"
She grinned. "Yes. Don't spread it around. The cute barista in the cafeteria keeps me interested."
I smiled. "Your secret is safe."
She leaned back. "This floor has almost always been men. Good ones, but still… men. You can't exactly complain about bad dates or exhausting heels with them."
"I understand," I admitted. "Being the only woman."
"But not anymore." Her voice was firm. "And honestly? I've missed this. Someone who understands without me having to explain everything."
Later, while we waited for a file to sync, she continued quietly.
"My first years were rough. Casino conglomerate downtown—mid-level executives who thought 'assistant' meant 'decoration.' Book their jets, remember their mistresses' birthdays, smile pretty. All men. The few women were either junior and gone in months, or senior enough to see me as competition."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It was." She shrugged. "You know, I got divorced at twenty-eight. Married too young to another ambitious suit. Burned out fast. After that I just worked. Lucifer noticed me at a conference, offered this role. Best career move I ever made."
"And personally?" I asked softly.
She gave a small, sad smile. "I got very good at being alone. Casual dates, nothing serious. No real girlfriends at this level—everyone's either climbing over you or afraid you'll climb over them."
She looked at me then, eyes softening behind her glasses.
"That's why I hugged you this morning. And why I've been talking your ear off all day. You walked in—hijab perfect, eyes wide, sharing homemade sweets like it's the most natural thing—and something in me unclenched. You're not playing the corporate game the way everyone else does. And I've missed that."
My throat tightened. "I was scared no one would want to be friends with the hijabi girl from Texas."
"Then we're both lucky," she said quietly. "Because I already do."
Late afternoon, Lucifer returned with us to his office. This time he lingered, leaning against his desk.
"You two have cleared half a week's backlog already. That's impressive."
Marie grinned. "She's a natural. How did you find her?"
He looked at me, eyes warm with amusement. I dropped my gaze in embarrassment. After a momentary pause, he said,
"Take the rest of the day off. Explore, eat something proper. I won't message either of you tonight—I'll be bugging the night-shift guys."
Marie gave a quiet whoop. I hesitated.
"Thank you, Lucifer."
"You've both earned it, Aafreen. And sanity matters."
He turned, phone already ringing, and strode toward the private elevator.
Marie and I took another Escalade downtown—this time with Marie driving. We wandered the Bellagio conservatory, flowers towering in impossible colors, took silly photos under the glass ceiling, shared a massive gelato bowl—chocolate for me, strawberry for her.
Later, at a quiet café off-Strip, fairy lights twinkling above us, mint tea for me, rosé for her, she linked her arm through mine again.
"Promise me something."
"What?"
"When the real pressure starts tomorrow—the late nights, impossible deadlines—don't shut me out. I've done this alone for years. I don't want to anymore."
I squeezed her arm. "I promise."
She rested her head briefly against my shoulder as we walked—just for a second, like a sister might.
"Good," she murmured. "Because I think we're going to need each other."
Back in my apartment that night, after wudu and Isha, I lay in bed watching city lights flicker beyond the window.
Lucifer Hardpound was still the centre of gravity—powerful, distant, dangerously intriguing.
But today my world had gained another anchor: Marie.
For the first time since leaving Dallas, homesickness eased. I had found a woman who saw me—hijab, shyness, secret sweet tooth, and all—and liked me anyway.
Ya Allah, I whispered into the dark. Shukr Alhamdulillah for small, perfect mercies.
Tomorrow the real storm would begin.
Tonight, I fell asleep smiling, Marie's laughter still warm in my ears and in my memory.