The house was dark when Imran stepped in, save for the dim kitchen light that always stayed on when someone was expected late. He loosened his tie as he moved through the quiet, his jacket already slung over his arm, the weight of the evening pressing into his shoulders like an old friend.
He had barely walked through the door after the site visit with Ayub when his father called him in to review a stack of new contract proposals. What should have taken an hour turned into four.
Now, it was well past midnight. His stomach growled.
He opened the fridge and groaned.
Half a serving of roasted potatoes. A spoonful of lamb. Maybe two zucchini slices if he was being generous.
"Really, Lamija?" he muttered. "You left me diplomatic scraps."
He pulled out what little was left and made it work—microwaving the plate while grabbing a bottle of water. It wasn't a meal. It was survival.
As he ate standing at the counter, his thoughts drifted.
Selma.
She hadn't said much in Lamija's office that morning—just a polite nod and a quiet smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. That had been enough to make her cross his mind for the rest of the day.
And now there was the matter of telling his mother.
How did he explain that the woman he wanted was married one and already had a son? That he didn't care—not even a little—but that he wasn't sure how it would be received?
He didn't want permission.
But he also didn't want silence.
His mother loved Selma—but would that change if she knew Imran did too?
He finished his food and rinsed the plate, placing it gently in the dishwasher before grabbing a hoodie off the back of the chair. As he headed out of the kitchen, a sharp whinny sliced through the quiet.
Caesar.
The sound tugged at him—equal parts thunder and invitation.
He stepped back into the kitchen and outside onto the patio.
The air was cool and still, heavy with the scent of dew and pine. The night sky stretched endlessly above him, dark and glittering. The gravel crunched under his dress shoes as he walked the stone path to the stables.
In the ring, under the low golden wash of floodlights, Lamija and Caesar moved like they were born from the same force.
She rode him with utter control—no fear, no hesitation. Her posture perfect. Her arms steady. Her face focused.
Caesar was a storm wrapped in leather and muscle. His black coat glistened like oil beneath the lights, every motion rippling through him like a wave. His hooves struck the ground with purpose, and every leap over the training poles was clean and commanding.
They were a sight.
Imran leaned against the fence, arms crossed, the corners of his mouth tipping upward.
"Would've been nice if you left me more than three potatoes," he called.
Lamija's laugh rang out across the ring. "You came home late. That's the tax."
"You eat like royalty and leave your big brother starving. That feels personal."
She slowed Caesar into a wide circle. "I regret nothing."
"How was the meeting?" he asked.
Her smile faded into something exasperated. "Called our airport quaint and tried to explain logistics to me like I hadn't been running international routes since I was twenty."
"He's the one Babo wants?"
"Apparently. You know how he is. Sees an investment portfolio and forgets common sense."
Imran chuckled. "That's our father."
"I told him we'd follow up. Politely."
Imran leaned further into the fence. "Adil called me."
Lamija groaned audibly. "What now?"
"He said Nedim saw the link you sent me on instagram—the Solène purse. The one you so subtly captioned 'buy me.'"
Lamija grinned despite herself. "Subtlety is a lost art."
"I already bought it. For Eid. Don't get cocky."
"I'm just saying—you understood the assignment."
Imran smirked. "Nedim wanted to buy it for you. Said it was a way to get his foot into the door. As a peace offering."
Lamija's expression turned icy. "Did you tell him where to shove it?"
"I may have used slightly more colorful language.. If Babo ever heard him talk like that—"
"He'd light their offices on fire."
"And I'd hand him the match."
They shared a moment of wordless understanding.
Caesar snorted, stomping one foot in disapproval of the break.
Imran scratched his neck. "So... Ayub?"
Lamija exhaled. "Everyone's worried I'll break him. Mama. You. Everyone."
"He's been through a lot. That doesn't mean he's fragile—but he's not someone you test just to feel something."
"I'm not heartless."
"I know. But you're curious. And with someone like Ayub, that's not a neutral emotion."
Lamija fell quiet, guiding Caesar into another slow pass.
"I don't want to feel guilty for not feeling the same," she admitted.
"You shouldn't. You owe no one your affection."
"Even if he's... Ayub?"
"Even then."
They stood in silence again as Caesar moved. The horse had slowed, sensing the shift in energy, his muscles stretching through the curve.
"Still chasing Selma?" Lamija asked after a long beat.
Imran smiled, soft and firm. "I want her, Lamija."
"I don't think she's ready."
"I can wait."
Caesar snorted—loud and unamused. He stamped again, this time closer to the fence, and tossed his head like he'd been excluded from the conversation too long.
Lamija laughed. "He thinks you've had enough of my attention."
Imran reached over the fence to scratch Caesar behind the ear. The stallion flared his nostrils, huffed, and—shockingly—leaned into it.
"See?" Imran said smugly. "We're building trust."
Lamija rolled her eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."
"I want to ride him."
"Absolutely not."
"I think we've reached an understanding."
"You'll be broken in half."
Imran was already climbing the fence. "Then scatter my ashes with flair."
Caesar watched him approach like a king tolerating a jester.
Imran grabbed the reins gently. "Easy, buddy. Let's be friends."
He mounted quickly. Caesar didn't move. He stood frozen lulling Imran into a false sense of security. Then he exploded. He tore through the ring like a bullet with hooves. Imran held on—for one glorious, adrenaline-fueled second.
Then came the buck.
Then another.
And on the third, Imran flew.
He landed in the dirt with a thud and a very ungraceful grunt.
Lamija was already sprinting. "Imran!"
He rolled onto his back, groaning. "I'm alive."
She dropped to her knees beside him. "You're a certified idiot."
Caesar trotted to the fence, glared once, and turned his back with a dramatic flick of his tail.
"Wow," Imran muttered. "He's petty."
"He gave you ten seconds. That's a personal record."
"Tell him I'm open to peace talks."
Lamija laughed, brushing dust off his hoodie.
They sat together on the edge of the ring, shoulders close.
Imran looked at her then. Really looked.
"You know," he said, "Ayub's not perfect. But he's good. And he loves you—not in some distant, poetic way. In a real way. He'd show up. Every day. Quietly. Consistently."
"I know," she said softly. "That's what makes it hard."
Imran nodded. "You don't owe him anything. Not a feeling. Not a future."
"But?" she asked.
"But if there's even a part of you that wonders what it might look like… to build something real with someone who sees you already?" He paused. "I think you should give him a chance."
Lamija's brows drew together, not in resistance—but in something more complicated.
Imran's voice dropped.
"It hurts less," he admitted, "when I picture you with someone like him. Someone I trust. Someone who'd protect you like I would—without ever making you small to do it."
That landed.
Lamija didn't respond. Not right away. But her posture shifted, her arms uncrossing as she reached down to rest her hand against the fence.
Caesar let out a long breath behind them, the tension in the ring softening.
"I'm not promising anything," she said quietly.
"I'm not asking you to," Imran replied. "Just… don't shut the door before you check what's behind it."
Lamija smiled faintly.
"Has anyone ever told you you'd make an excellent therapist?"
Imran grinned. "Only every time you come to me for unsolicited advice."
She bumped her shoulder into his.
He didn't push again.
He didn't need to.
Something had already started to shift.