Despite his numerous social engagements, hunting trips, and beloved polo matches, Shair remained dedicated to the project. He meticulously oversaw each phase of construction, and in two years, the orphanage was completed.
One early morning, Shair arrived to inspect the finished building. The elegant two-story structure, painted a warm off-white, exuded a sense of welcome. Circular pillars supported the porch roof, sheltering the veranda that wrapped around the building. A sleek, black railing, adorned with stylised musical notes, separated the veranda from the steps leading up to the entrance. The ground floor housed the study halls, dining area, reception, and a spacious play area, while the upper floor provided comfortable living quarters for both staff and children.
Shair inhaled the crisp scent of fresh paint and polished wood. A quiet sense of satisfaction settled over him as he tested each lock and flipped every switch. This was precisely what his father would have done. He remembered their travels together, his father pointing out interesting architectural details and quirks. Beauty without utility is a waste of resources, Nawab Umar had always said, a philosophy that had clearly guided the design of this thoughtfully planned orphanage. Shair knew his father would have been proud. He was thoughtfully assessing the rooms, a touch of nostalgia in his heart, when he heard her soft, melodic voice for the first time.
"They forgot to put locks on the children's bath..." The voice trailed off. Asiya stopped, realising she wasn't alone. She turned and saw him. He looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a film: tall, strikingly handsome, impeccably dressed in a suit even at this early hour. His dark, silky hair fell casually over his forehead, and his eyes, though holding a hint of amusement, were intense and an unusual shade of green. A blush crept up her cheeks, and she quickly averted her gaze.
Definitely not from around here, Shair thought, intrigued. Her fresh, rosy complexion and striking hazel eyes would make her stand out in any crowd. Charmed by this unexpected yet captivating interruption, he smiled warmly and asked, "You were saying?"
Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her dupatta. "I... I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I didn't realise anyone else was here. I was speaking to Irfan sahib." She glanced nervously toward the door, silently willing Irfan to appear and rescue her from this disconcertingly handsome stranger.
Shair watched as her slender fingers gracefully adjusted her dupatta. He sensed her discomfort and felt an unexpected desire to put her at ease. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, stepping forward slightly. "Where are my manners? My name is Shair. I commissioned the construction of this building. And you are…?"
His warm smile, intended to be reassuring, only seemed to heighten her nervousness. "My name is Asiya," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She remained rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the floor, darting only occasional glances toward the door as if searching for an escape. Her fingers nervously twisted the edge of her dupatta. "I work with the children at your guest house…" A flicker of sadness crossed her hazel eyes, a sadness that tugged at something within Shair. "And I'm… I'm so grateful to you, Nawab Sahib, for your generosity in helping us all." Her voice grew softer with each word, and a delicate blush began to spread across her fair complexion, making her even more alluring.
It didn't surprise Shair that she recognised him, yet hearing her address him as "Nawab Sahib" brought a flicker of disappointment. He didn't like hiding behind his title. "You should thank my father," he said, his tone slightly cooler. "This was his vision. And he did it because he had the means to; anyone else in his position would have done the same." The conversation was veering in a direction he didn't want it to go. There was something strangely compelling about Asiya, a warmth that drew him in. He wanted to see her smile, not this look of… what was it? Apprehension? Before he could steer the conversation in a different direction, Irfan entered the room, dressed in a simple white cotton shalwar kameez.
"Nawab sahib!" Irfan exclaimed, a middle-aged man of average height, beaming with pleasure. "What a delight to see you so early! I believe you've met Miss Asiya." He gestured toward her as he warmly shook Shair's hand. "The building is Masha'Allah complete! Spacious, modern, and above all, practical. I just finished a quick tour, and I think we could begin moving the children in as early as tomorrow, after a thorough cleaning today."
As they walked out of the room together, Irfan enthusiastically continued, "I especially love the sandpit you built for the little ones."
"It was just something I saw in play areas abroad," Shair replied, his gaze still lingering on Asiya, "and I don't recall ever seeing Miss Asiya at the guest house?" He was far more interested in this enchanting new acquaintance than anything else.
Irfan looked at her with fatherly affection. "That's because my dear Asiya keeps herself so busy," he explained. "She pours her heart into working with the children, teaching them, caring for them. This purpose-built building is heaven for her. In fact, she's the one who brought the sandpit to my notice." He chuckled, oblivious to the warm smile spreading across Shair's face and the glint of something more than a casual interest in his eyes.
A sudden, irresistible impulse to help with the move washed over Shair. He immediately cancelled his appointments and postponed all his plans for the week. Without even fully realising it, he had stepped into a new realm, a realm where Asiya occupied his every thought. Her interests had, without him even noticing, become his own. She had captured his attention completely, and he couldn't seem to shake her image from his mind. He heard her voice in every quiet moment, saw her face in every passer-by —the guest his mother was entertaining, the doorman at the Gymkhana Club, the woman at the next table in the hotel.