The phone buzzed for the third time in five minutes.
Rayan Kaelis leaned back in his chair and sighed. The name flashing on screen was the same as it had been the last two times: Mom.
He answered anyway, because ignoring her only meant she would call again and again until the sheer weight of her persistence collapsed his will to live.
"Rayan, you are twenty-one. Do you plan to rot away in that city all by yourself?"
Her voice came in hot, like a verbal frying pan. "You need to get married. Who is going to take care of you when you are old?"
"I'm fine," Rayan said, absently nudging the mouse to wake his idle screen.
"Fine? You live in a run‑down apartment. Do you even remember how to iron a shirt? And don't tell me that microwave dinner you posted on Instagram last week was homemade."
"It was… made thoroughly."
A second voice joined the line, lower but equally persistent — his father. "Son, when I was your age, I already had you and your sister."
"Yeah, and you also had no running water and a goat in the backyard," Rayan replied. "Different times."
"That's not the point," his mom snapped. "Listen, I have arranged for you to meet someone. Her name is Selina. She is educated, works in fashion marketing, very pretty. She is expecting you at that café near your job in an hour."
Rayan rubbed his temples. "Mom, I—"
"No excuses. And wear something that does not look like you slept in it."
The call ended. Of course it did.
---
The café smelled faintly of roasted beans and sugar syrup, warm light spilling over polished wooden tables.
The low hum of conversation mixed with the hiss of the espresso machine, and soft jazz curled through the air like lazy smoke.
Rayan slid into a corner booth and checked the time. Two minutes early.
Selina arrived one minute late, the door chime marking her entrance.
She carried herself with the effortless confidence of someone who was used to being noticed.
Her hair, a glossy chestnut, fell in careful waves over her shoulders, framing a face that leaned toward sharp rather than soft — pointed chin, high cheekbones, eyes that could smile without warmth.
She wore a fitted cream blouse tucked into a slate-gray pencil skirt, her heels clicking briskly on the tile.
"Hi, I'm Selina."
She slid into the seat opposite him with a smooth, practiced grace. Her perfume drifted across the table, floral and sharp, the kind that whispered about how much it cost.
"Rayan," he said, leaning forward just enough to offer his hand.
Her handshake was brief, fingers cool and light, as if she was afraid to let them linger.
They exchanged polite smiles. His was genuine enough. Hers looked like it belonged at a networking event.
A waitress appeared and Selina ordered a caramel latte without looking at the menu. Rayan just sipped his coffee.
"So," she said, folding her hands on the table, "you work at a pharmacy?"
"Yeah."
"As a pharmacist?" Her eyebrows rose with what almost looked like interest, only to drop when he shook his head.
"Cashier. And sometimes stocking shelves."
Her lips stayed curved, but her eyes flicked toward the window for a second before coming back to him. "That's steady. But is it something you plan to do for the long term?"
He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Haven't thought that far ahead."
She stirred her latte slowly, watching the cream swirl like it was more interesting than the conversation. "Most people our age are building careers, chasing promotions. I guess you prefer a quieter life?"
Wow, he thought, she could medal in passive-aggressive comments.
"I don't like overcomplicating things," he said, voice calm.
Her gaze dipped to his shoes, lingered on a scuff near the toe, then travelled up to his jacket before returning to his face.
The smile she gave him was still polite, but there was weight behind it. "I'm more of a big goals, big lifestyle person. I've always believed a partner should match that energy."
And big ego, his mind added instantly.
"You must meet a lot of people then," Rayan said. He set his cup down carefully. "Finding someone that matches you must be quite exhausting."
For the first time, her smile faltered. It was only a fraction, but he noticed. "I suppose you could say that."
There was a short pause. The clink of her spoon stopped. She met his eyes again, gaze sharper now, like she was searching for something.
He looked right back, giving her nothing to work with.
Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a name she didn't bother to hide. She glanced at it, and this time her smile was genuine — but not for him.
"I'm so sorry," she said, already gathering her bag. "Something urgent came up. I'll have to cut this short."
"Of course," he said.
She stood, adjusting her skirt with practiced elegance. "It was nice meeting you," she added, the words smooth but empty.
Rayan watched her leave, noting how her steps became lighter when she spotted the glossy black sedan idling outside. The passenger door opened, and she slid in without looking back.
He drained the rest of his coffee. Well, Mom, that went exactly how I thought it would.
---
The night air was cooler than expected. Rayan shoved his hands into his pockets and started toward his apartment. The street was quiet, lined with parked cars under yellow pools of lamplight.
As he passed a silver sedan, his eyes flicked briefly to its dashboard. The security light blinked short, short, long, short, short. He kept walking, the corner of his mouth twitching. Still hasn't been fixed. Some people never learn.
Not his problem tonight.
An engine's low hum approached from behind. A black Mercedes-Maybach S680 rolled to a stop a few yards ahead, its paint gleaming like still water under the streetlight.
The passenger door opened.
She stepped out.
The kind of woman who made the air change without saying a word.
Her black pencil skirt traced the length of her legs, the hem precise as a blade. The white silk blouse shimmered faintly, every fold tailored to perfection.
Her hair, a deep espresso brown with a hint of warmth, fell in disciplined waves that framed a face of porcelain skin and sharp, measured beauty.
The click of her red heels was steady and unhurried. A Hermès Birkin hung from her arm, carried as casually as if it were an old tote bag.
Her gaze swept the street before locking onto him.
She closed the distance, each step deliberate. Up close, her beauty was almost too precise, the kind that felt untouchable.
"You're single?"
"…Yes?"
"Good," she said without blinking. "Marry me."
Rayan stared. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked and a car horn blared, but it all felt distant.
"…What?"
"I said marry me." Her tone was calm, as if she were asking him to pass the salt.
"I don't even know your name."
"You don't need to. Not yet." A faint smile curved her lips. "But I need a husband. And you'll do."