Chapter 1: The Coffee and the Catastrophe
Zayan traced the worn-out seam of his backpack strap, the coarse fabric a familiar companion against his calloused fingers. The humid Lahore air clung to him, a heavy shroud even in the early morning. Another day, another relentless chase after elusive rupees. His tuition fee deadline loomed like a monstrous, unblinking eye, its gaze intensifying with each passing sunrise. Zayan was a student of economics at Government College University, a prestigious institution, but one that demanded more than just intellectual prowess. It demanded money—a commodity Zayan possessed in painfully limited quantities.
His routine was a well-oiled, frugal machine. Mornings began before dawn, with a short shift at a local bakery, kneading dough that would become the city's breakfast. The scent of yeast and flour was ingrained in his clothes, a constant reminder of his grind. After a quick, cheap breakfast of leftover paratha and chai, it was off to university, where he'd absorb lectures, scribble notes, and try to ignore the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. By afternoon, he'd switch roles, becoming a delivery boy for a small café, navigating Lahore's chaotic streets on his battered motorcycle, ferrying lattes and cappuccinos to the city's more fortunate inhabitants. Evenings were for studying, often under the flickering streetlights outside his small, rented room, saving electricity. Luxuries were a foreign concept, reserved for the glossy magazines he sometimes saw in the waiting rooms of the corporate offices he delivered to – images of a life so far removed from his own, it might as well have been on another planet.
Today, the delivery was for the Aftab Group, a colossal name in Pakistan's business landscape, synonymous with unimaginable wealth and power. Their new corporate tower, a gleaming monolith of glass and steel, pierced the Lahore skyline, casting a long shadow over the older, more modest buildings where Zayan conducted most of his business. He felt a familiar prickle of unease whenever he stepped into such places. The air inside was different – conditioned, hushed, thick with the unspoken weight of billions. His worn jeans and faded t-shirt, meticulously clean though they were, felt like an announcement of his social standing.
He clutched the cardboard tray, its four cups of artisanal coffee precariously balanced. The elevator ride up to the 20th floor felt interminably long, the polished chrome reflecting his anxious face. He adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, holding his economics textbook close. He had a midterm coming up, and every spare moment was dedicated to it.
The doors chimed open on a floor bustling with activity, yet maintaining an air of hushed efficiency. People in sharp suits moved with purpose, their voices low, their expressions serious. Zayan spotted the reception desk and made his way towards it, his eyes scanning for the person who had placed the order.
Suddenly, a blur of motion. A woman, elegant in a tailored white pantsuit, emerged from a corner office, speaking animatedly into her phone. Her steps were quick, purposeful, a whirlwind of high-stakes business. Her dark hair, perfectly styled, bounced with each rapid stride. She exuded an aura of authority, a formidable presence that made others instinctively step aside.
Zayan, focused on navigating a cluster of potted plants, didn't see her until it was too late. She rounded the corner just as he was passing. Their eyes met for a fleeting, terrifying moment – her's a startling shade of hazel, sharp and intelligent, widened in surprise.
"Oh!" he gasped, a strangled sound, as the world tilted.
The cardboard tray slipped from his grasp. Time seemed to slow, distorting the scene into a chaotic tableau. The four cups of coffee arced through the air, dark liquid blossoming outwards, like macabre flowers in slow motion. Zayan watched, horrified, as a geyser of hot, dark coffee erupted, painting an unfortunate, abstract pattern across the pristine white fabric of her expensive suit.
A collective gasp rippled through the reception area. The hushed efficiency vanished, replaced by an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the drip, drip, drip of coffee onto the polished marble floor.
The woman stood frozen, her phone still pressed to her ear, but her eyes, now narrowed to slits, were fixed on Zayan. The front of her pantsuit, once immaculate, was now a canvas of dark brown stains, steam gently rising from the fabric. A rich, bitter aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the faint, expensive scent of her perfume.
Zayan's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a flush creep up his neck, burning his cheeks. This wasn't just a spilled coffee; this was a catastrophe. He knew the Aftab Group's reputation. People got fired for less.
"I… I am so, so sorry!" he stammered, scrambling to pick up the fallen cups, his hands shaking. "I didn't see you, I swear. Let me… let me try to clean it." He fumbled for a tissue, his mind racing for a solution, any solution, to this disaster.
She slowly lowered her phone, her gaze still fixed on him, devoid of any visible emotion. Her face, framed by dark, sleek hair, was strikingly beautiful, but currently set in a mask of icy displeasure. This was Emaan Aftab, the daughter of the CEO, a name whispered with reverence and a touch of fear in Lahore's elite circles. Zayan had only seen her pictures in business magazines, always impeccably dressed, always looking unapproachable. In person, she was even more formidable.
"You didn't see me?" Her voice was low, perfectly modulated, yet sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. "Or you weren't paying attention?"
"No, no, I was… I was rushing, and then the plants…" He gestured helplessly towards the decorative foliage that had contributed to his demise. His explanation sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
A sharp-featured assistant, a woman with a severe bun and an expression of profound disapproval, rushed forward, holding a pristine white cloth. "Ms. Aftab, are you alright? Let me get this for you. And security will be here in a moment for…" she trailed off, glancing pointedly at Zayan. The implication was clear: he was about to be escorted out, probably with a permanent blot on his employment record.
Emaan Aftab, however, ignored her assistant. Her gaze remained locked on Zayan, scanning him from his scuffed shoes to his anxious eyes. There was something in her stare – not just anger, but a peculiar analytical quality, as if she were weighing something, calculating. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Zayan braced himself for the inevitable explosion, the righteous indignation of a privileged individual whose perfect day had been marred by a clumsy, poor delivery boy. He imagined the scathing words, the humiliation, the swift dismissal.
But then, she did something entirely unexpected. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her lips. It wasn't a smile of amusement, but something colder, more calculating. She looked at his cheap, stained uniform, his desperate face, the spilled coffee, and then back at him, her hazel eyes glinting with a strange idea.
"You're a student, aren't you?" she asked, her voice still quiet, but with an underlying current that demanded attention.
Zayan, momentarily stunned by the shift in conversation, managed a weak nod. "Yes, ma'am. Economics."
She took a step closer, and Zayan could smell the expensive coffee on her clothes, now mixed with her rich perfume. Her eyes, startlingly close, held his.
"I have an offer for you," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, yet carrying an undeniable weight of authority. Her assistant stiffened, confused. "A simple task. Thirty days of your time."
Zayan blinked, confused. Was this some bizarre form of compensation? Was she going to make him clean the entire office building for a month?
"What… what kind of task, ma'am?" he managed to ask, his voice hoarse.
She leaned in slightly, her voice barely audible above the low hum of the office. Her expression was now devoid of anger, replaced by an unsettling blend of seriousness and a hint of desperation, carefully concealed.
"Pretend to be my boyfriend for 30 days," she stated, her words dropping like ice cubes into a silent pool. "You'll get ₨100,000."
Zayan stared at her, his jaw slack. He felt a burst of nervous laughter bubble up, uncontrollable and immediate. He actually laughed, a short, disbelieving bark that echoed incongruously in the hushed corporate lobby.
"Your… your boyfriend?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Ma'am, is this a prank? Is this some sort of… reality show?" He looked around, half-expecting hidden cameras to emerge from the ceiling tiles. Rs100,000? That was more than his entire semester's tuition. It was a fortune to him. It was also an utterly insane proposition.
Her eyes hardened, the faint smirk vanishing. "Do I look like I'm joking?" she snapped, her tone suddenly devoid of any softness, reinforcing the cold, sharp-tongued woman he had initially encountered. "I assure you, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, I am entirely serious."
The weight of her words settled over him, heavier than the spilled coffee. This wasn't a joke. This wasn't a prank. The formidable Emaan Aftab, daughter of a billionaire, drenched in coffee and radiating an almost palpable desperation, was offering him a sum that could change his life, for the most absurd reason imaginable. He stood there, coffee dripping from his fingers, his mind reeling, caught between disbelief and a sudden, tantalizing glimpse of a future free from financial dread.
The offer hung in the air, a bizarre, improbable lifeline tossed into the turbulent waters of his struggling life. He had just spilled coffee on a high-profile heiress, and instead of being fired, he was being propositioned. His world, already a mess, had just gotten a whole lot stranger.