Amina stepped onto the bus, the hem of her long black skirt slightly damp from the puddles outside. The city passed by in quick flashes—traffic lights, street vendors, office buildings like the one she worked in now. She leaned her head against the cool window and closed her eyes.
It had only been three days since she started at Kareem & Associates. Three days of scrubbing, sweeping, and avoiding Mr. Idris Kareem. She still heard his voice in her mind: low, clipped, distant. He hadn't spoken to her again since that morning, and she intended to keep it that way.
But her curiosity lingered.
The other cleaners whispered about him when they thought no one was listening. That he was ruthless in court, never smiled, had fired two secretaries in a month. That his father had built the firm from the ground up, and Idris had turned it into a national powerhouse. Amina had seen the articles—his name in magazines, photos in tailored suits, sometimes with glamorous women on his arm.
People like Idris lived behind glass walls and drove cars with tinted windows. People like Amina lived in neighborhoods where electricity was a blessing and noise was constant. Her world smelled of spices, diesel, and wet laundry. His smelled of leather chairs and expensive cologne.
She arrived home just after 5:00 p.m., stepping into the cramped, two-room apartment she shared with her mother and little brother, Bilal.
"Mama, I'm home."
Her mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Did you eat anything?"
"I had a piece of bread during break."
Her mother clicked her tongue. "You need strength, Amina. That job is not easy."
"I'm fine," she said, smiling gently. "And we'll have enough for Bilal's school this term. I'm sure of it."
Her mother touched her cheek, her eyes tired but proud. "You work too hard for your age."
That night, as Amina lay on the thin mattress she called a bed, she couldn't stop her mind from drifting back to that moment in the office—the way Idris had looked at her. Not with contempt. Not quite. Just… interest. The way a man might examine something unexpected. A girl who didn't belong in his world.
Across the city, in a penthouse that overlooked the skyline, Idris stood alone in his study, tie loosened, fingers wrapped around a glass of dark scotch.
He couldn't stop thinking about her.
It wasn't like him to notice anyone on the cleaning staff. He was used to silence—people passing through his life without leaving a mark. But this girl… Amina. There was something different in her eyes. Something calm, despite the clear lines of struggle on her face.
She didn't shrink.
She didn't flatter.
And when she had spoken, her voice had carried the kind of honesty money couldn't buy.
He shook the thought from his head and turned to his desk. He had cases to review, meetings to prepare for. He didn't have time to dwell on a girl who swept floors in his building.
Still, when he closed his eyes that night, it was not the face of any business rival that came to him.
It was hers.