I hardly am able to recognise myself these days.
The gentle start of my first day here feels like a dream from another life.
Almost overnight, the merger turned into chaos—regulators demanding new filings, a hostile bidder circling, crisis after crisis after crisis. Lucifer disappeared into back-to-back meetings, and all that work landed on Marie's desk and mine. Reports to rewrite at midnight, financial models to tear apart and rebuild, investor presentations that had to be flawless. We came in early, fixed every mistake before anyone noticed there had been one. Stayed late. No complaints. No tears. Just quiet work, the way I've always done things—head down, hands steady, asking Allah for patience with every tired breath.
I never expected anyone to notice. But slowly, something shifted. A senior member paused by my desk one morning and gave a small nod. Another time, someone said "good catch" under their breath when I handed over revised numbers. Even Lucifer—when he finally came out of his office—would stop for a second, look over whatever I'd prepared, and tilt his head just slightly. It wasn't praise, not really. Just acknowledgement.
And yet, it was mixed with something else—something in his eyes that made my stomach twist in a way I didn't understand and didn't want to name.
It had already been two weeks. My days had settled into a hard, unchanging rhythm. The alarm pulls me from sleep at 4:30 a.m. now, every morning. I pray Fajr in the quiet dark, forehead to the rug, whispering for strength. Then qahwa—strong, fragrant with cardamom—to clear the fog in my head. By 5:30 the Escalade waits downstairs, silent and black against the snow-dusted street. Black coffee all day long, cup after cup, and the hidden thermos of masala tea in my drawer.
Marie had become the only person I could breathe around. We ate hurried meals together in the office pantry—salads when we pretended to care about health, pastas, pizzas and warm biryani takeout when the nostalgia came back to us, too sharp. We whispered complaints about deadlines, about how impossible everything felt. "He's trying to kill us with PowerPoint," she'd mutter, and I'd press my lips together to hide the laugh.
Two days before the Montreal trip, Lucifer called me into his office. He stood at the window, city lights scattered far below.
"You're coming with me," he had said, voice flat, eyes on the night outside. "We leave in two days. Pack light."
My heart had leapt so violently I felt it in my throat. "Yes, sir - Lucifer."
That same afternoon me and Marie were preparing for the documents to be filed and presented during the merger in Montreal. After completing enough work, she had pulled me into an empty conference room and closed the door softly.
She turns around and looked at me with a soft and worried look.
"Habibti," she had said gently with a bit mocking ascent, "those investors are old French-Canadian money. Your long tunics and loose hijabs—they'll read sweet, not sharp. We need to revamp your wardrobe. Trust me."
I had touched the edge of my hijab instinctively. "But it's modest. It's right."
"Modest is good sister, i dont deny that. But sharp can be powerful." She had taken my hand. "Trust me."
I did know that the way i presented myself will come into question some time. I'd have cried for a long time, but it was easier to take in as it was Marie telling me this with genuine concern. I agreed to let her help me fix my issue.
We had slipped out early and spent hours in boutiques I would never have entered alone. Tailored blazers that followed my shape without clinging. Pencil skirts that ended just at the knee. Silk blouses that caught the light. Heels that lifted me higher, made my steps surer. Simple gold jewellery—thin chain, small hoops that peeked beneath my hijab. We had chosen silk hijabs in quiet neutrals, secured neatly with magnetic pins.
Marie smartly dragged me into a store called Victoria Secrets. I was amazed to see soo many innerwears in one room. She asked the staff, to help me with the measurements. I felt quite embarrassed because of the places the seamstress had to touch me.
In the fitting room, Marie had slipped something into to the room: a crimson lace bra and matching panties, delicate and shocking against my skin.
I called her in surprise, "Marie~"
"Shhh~ No one has to know," she had whispered cutting me off, smiling softly. "But you will. And that will change everything."
Heat had flooded my face, but I had not refused. I had told myself it was only fabric. A small compromise. Nothing more.
Throughout the week, Lucifer had been everywhere and nowhere. His arm had brushed mine in narrow hallways. His hand had rested briefly at the small of my back as he guided me through doors, warmth seeping through layers. His eyes had lingered—on the curve of my neck, the sway beneath fabric—before pulling away at the last moment.
Always professional. Always controlled. The wanting had grown inside me, quiet and relentless, until I carried it home every night.
I wore the crimson underwear set that Marie gifted me the very next day at office. It was uncomfortable knowing what I was wearing inside. But I didn't let it hinder my work.
There were many merger discussions and documents to trace, for which we worked skipping lunch. And barely having enough food at our snack time.
Marie was tasked to deal with the Law firm for a situation, so she took Marcus and the Escalade with her.
For that day I needed to go with Lucifer as we were heading in the same direction. In fact Lucifer had volunteered to drive me home.
It was awkward and exciting at the same time.
Soon the evening came and we were heading back home in his ride. I was on the opposite seat, refining the last slides, when he spoke.
"You. need any help?"
His voice had sounded worn, rough.
"Just finishing, Lucifer."
He had loosened his tie and came closer. The car was silent.
"I promised you attention," he had said quietly. "I haven't given it."
"I understand," I had answered softly, looking at my hands in my lap.
"The business needs you. And… perhaps at my age, these feelings come and go quickly. The fire burns out fast."
I had meant it as reassurance—that my desire was not worth disrupting his work, that it would fade on its own. But the words came out wrong, like I was dismissing my own longing as some fleeting youthful whim.
His head had turned sharply toward me. His mouth had twisted—something bitter and wounded in the curve.
"What does it mean by the years between us," he had said, voice rougher now, "And you say my fire's out. Reasonable."
"That's not what I—" He gave me a stare that rendered me powerless.
He was staring me for a long time and then he spoke.
"Fuck it."
The Vellfire was gliding through the crowded streets, but inside everything had changed. He had pulled me closer on the leather seat he was in, the space between us disappearing.
"Take off your coat."
My heart had hammered. "Sir—"
"The contract, Aafreen."
There had been no escape. Shame, fear, and a darker heat had surged through me. My fingers had trembled as I slipped off my coat, At his sharp nod I undid the buttons of my blouse, let it fall open. I had unzipped my skirt too, lifting slightly to ease it down. I was kneeling before him in only the crimson lace, the cool air from the AC vents brushing my bare skin. I was trembling.
I felt scared, the things that I thought that would happen to me, those are finally happening. This was what the special contract was for.
I didn't want this happening to me before. I felt a bit relieved when nothing happened between us. But something inside me wanted this to happen. Maybe its the strong kiss he forced upon me. The truth is, I was wishing for something to happen in-between us.
It's finally happening now.
Then he looked.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like a caress I felt on every inch of skin.
He had begun low—my thighs, soft and pressed together from nerves. His gaze had lingered until the memory of fabric vanished. Then upward, to where they joined, and treacherous warmth had bloomed there.
My hips—wide, curved the way Allah had made them. His jaw had tightened; the muscle had jumped, and I had known he pictured his hands gripping there.
My waist—narrow but plump with fat. He had studied the soft curves, tracing them to the deep navel, the small deep indent where he lingered the longest . I had felt his stare like a fingertip tracing it, and my stomach had fluttered against my will. His gaze pierced me like an arrow, making me feel like a game in a hunt. I noticed something inside his trousers shift higher, straining the cloth as he was consuming me, but I didn't understand why it made me feel more excited. He kept looking at me, embracing me while not touching me.
Higher—My breasts, heavy, rising late, dark nipples clear against delicate crimson. He had taken his time: underside, swell, stiff peaks. His eyes had found the tiny mole above my left breast, a mark no one else had ever noticed. He had noticed. He had kept it.
Upward—collarbones trembling, throat pulsing visibly. He had watched the frantic beat as though he wanted to taste it.
My lips—bitten raw, wet from nerves. His stare had turned possessive.
Finally, slowly, he had met my eyes.
In that look I had seen worship. Greed. Obsession.
He had been memorising me.
And ya Allah, forgive me—that slow path had felt more intimate than any touch I had ever known.
His finger had lifted my chin. "Closer, Aafreen."
I had shifted toward him on the wide seat. He had guided my hand downward, pressed my palm to the hardness straining his trousers gently moving it up and down. He released my hand and looked in my eyes for a moment, I continued to strok through fabric first, then he had freed himself—big, thick, hot, throbbing. Looking at him for the first time, I gasped for a moment.
I found myself tracing him just like he was tracing me by gaze. I gripped him from his base that filled the circumference that my fingers made. I slowly moved up tracing his lengths, where on the midway his grith was thicker, my fingers disconnected by a big gap. This is where I felt him throb the most. Higher I reached his red head, It was moist with something slimy oozing out of the deep hole. By the time i finished tracing him, He became a bit bigger than my hands length.
In all my relationships in the past, I never saw someone want me like he did. I felt that i could never turn a man on, like i was not attractive. But watching Lucifer get excited over me, made me happier. I owed my sense of fulfilment to him, and I wanted to satisfy him properly.
My fingers had learned him slowly, finding the rhythm that fractured his breath.
His thumb had traced the lace over my nipple until I gasped. "Good girl," he had rasped. "Just like that."
I had held power and none at all. Shame had burned my cheeks, but between my thighs the lace had grown soaked.
I had found a rhythm then—steady, deliberate—my hand tightening just enough to feel the rigid heat of him, then loosening as I reached the head, twisting gently over the sensitive ridge. Each upward stroke drew a ragged breath from him; each downward glide pressed him deeper into my fist. I watched, unable to look away: the way the skin moved over the hardness beneath, the way his abdomen tensed and released, the faint sheen of sweat gathering at his throat.
His eyes—those storm-grey eyes—had fixed on mine at first, fierce and commanding. But as I continued, something shifted. His pupils dilated, swallowing the grey until only a thin ring remained, dark and endless. His breathing grew shallower, faster, no longer controlled. Soft pants escaped his parted lips, warm against my temple as he leaned closer. I could feel the restraint fraying in him, the way his thighs tensed beneath his trousers, the way his free hand gripped my face gentle but strong.
"You might want to hurry up, Aafreen." He said, "We can't take a day."
"Sorry—"
I was Faster now, gripping only the crown. Slick sounds filling the quiet Vellfire. His thighs trembled; his hand gripped my breast tighter. One final, deep groan vibrated against my skin—muffled into my hijab—as his release surged.
The thick and warm liquid spilled over my fingers, my hands and I dropped some on his trousers. Thick and endless, coating my hand, dripping between my knuckles. Spilling out with every twitch of his body, through every spasm until he stilled, breath ragged against my throat, the scent of him heavy in the air.
I needed to apologise to him for spoiling his trouser. He was not going home directly, but to meet another director, But now he might have to go through some trouble.
"I'm sorry for this. I'm—",
He interjects "No. Not your fault... Don't worry about this."
Then silence—thickened, awkward—inside the moving car. His pleasure was still warm in my hand.
"Clean up," he had said quietly. "Flight's early."
He was tucking himself away, his eyes avoiding mine as I gathered my clothes.
But when our eyes met, he looked at me with something different in his eyes. A set of eyes i didnt see before. And a instinctive deep desire inside me as well.
The Vellfire had pulled up outside my building minutes later, it seems we had spent a long time.
Before i leave the car, I get close to him for one last time.
And give him a small kiss on his cheek.
"I'll do better" I whispered, for the spilling I did on his trousers. "Good night."
"Good Night." he says it back with a hint of confusion and satisfaction.
I exit the car and into the chilly night. And watch the door close and the car leave.
At my apartment I had performed wudu slowly, cool water against fevered skin. In the bathroom mirror I had unpinned my hijab, unhooked the bra, stepped out of the panties. Naked, I had studied myself as though seeing a stranger.
Full breasts, dark nipples still sensitive. Narrow and plump waist, wide hips. The small mole he had claimed with his gaze. The trimmed darkness between my thighs, still glistening.
"Astaghfirullah," I had whispered, voice breaking, as if it were wrong looking at my own body.
But I had not covered myself immediately. My fingertips had followed the path his eyes had taken—Thighs, Hip, Waist, Navel, Breasts, Neck, Face. Heat had followed every touch. I felt embarrassed looking at my flushed face.
I rushed into my bed naked, sheets cool against bare skin. I covered all of my body with it, I wanted to change to my home clothes soon, But sleep had come fast to me, tangled with the echo of his rough command… and Marie's gentle smile as she adjusted crimson lace against me.
The storm had only begun.
And some hidden part of me had wished for it to never end.