Chapter 1
Zahra's POV:
My phone starts beeping at 11 AM, like every Tuesday. I take a deep breath and click the Send button on my laptop to send the email.
I sigh, leaning back on the sofa.
This is the 42nd time I’m sending this email. The same one with some alterations. It’s been almost a year since I started sending these every week to Meridian Grand Galleria—the biggest mall in the country.
When I sent it for the first time, I was holding my breath. I thought I would send the email, and phew, selected.
But then I got the reality check. Things don’t come that easily. Yeah, some lucky people would get them.
But I wasn’t lucky enough.
So, the people who aren’t lucky have to be consistent. I don’t know if I’ll ever get a reply to my emails, but I’ll continue sending them.
Because where there’s a will, there’s a way.
My finger still trembles every time I hit send. Maybe it’s the hope I used to have. But, deep down, I’ve started to feel nothing at all.
“Ma’am!”
I snap out of my thoughts and look up from my laptop, quickly wearing the mask of a business owner. One of my staff members stands by the sofa.
“We placed the new mannequins,” she says. “Could you please check if they’re alright?”
I am in the Studio-Store of my brand Zizi, which I established a year ago. It includes traditional Indian wear like kurtas, shalwar suits, frocks, lehengas, and sarees.
The reason I’m sending these emails is that I want to open my store in Meridian Grand Galleria.
“Has the Manager arrived?” I ask, closing my laptop. I put it on the table before me.
“Yes. She’s busy with the new designs.”
I nod, relieved that she has arrived. She’s late today.
One hour late.
Which is weird, because she’s very punctual.
I stand up from the sofa. My abaya flows as I walk over to the retail display. I approve the placement of the mannequins. Then, I go towards the design area.
There she is.
The manager.
She is wearing a yellow saree with a golden border, pairing it with a yellow blouse. It is draped in the Bengali style. Her black curly hair is flowing down her shoulders and back, while the top section is pulled back from her face and secured at the back of her head with a hair clip. Though a few strands have escaped, curling delicately around her temples.
She was cutting the fabric on the table.
“Aashi Ghoshal,” I say, my voice firm. “I didn’t expect you to be this irresponsible. Look at the clock. It’s 11 AM. You were supposed to be here by 10 o’clock. You’re the store manager, plus head saree designer. Do you realise how much responsibility is on your shoulders? I think you do not. I will not let this behaviour slide. If you can’t be punctual, you are not suitable to work in Zizi.”
She looks up, her hand halting on the fabric. She tilts her head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Miss Pathan, you don’t get to tell me when to arrive and when to depart. And I am not afraid of your little threats. I can get work wherever I want.”
I raise my eyebrows and stare at her.
She stares back.
There was a moment of silence.
And then, we burst into laughter.
I step forward until I am standing before her. “Not afraid, huh?” I smirk as the playful idea pops into my mind.
I lift my hand and slowly run my fingers on her bare waist. She jumps and yells. “Zahra!!!”
She hits my arm, not enough to hurt.
I snort. “I do this every day, still you jump like the first time.”
She scolds in her sweet voice, “Just because you’re my best friend, it doesn’t mean you can do this every day.”
“So, I can do it occasionally, hmm?” I tease.
“You’re unbelievable, Zahra.” She huffs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You didn’t even ask why I’m late.”
“Oh, you want me to be a typical boss? Okay. I am firing you for whatever reason you were late.”
And here comes another hit at my arm. This one surely hurts. “Ouch!”
She glares at me with her kohl-filled eyes.
I ask, rubbing my arm, with an extremely polite voice. “Please, tell me what had happened that got you so late, my dear friend?”
She exhaled and sat on a chair. Looking up at me, she starts speaking, “I was late because there was no water at my house. The motor has been damaged.”
She pinches the area between her eyebrows. “I had to go to my neighbour’s house to take a shower. And it was so uncomfortable there. The bathroom felt weird, even when it wasn’t. But I wasn’t used to those taps and all. I got hit multiple times by those taps. Then, suddenly, the blouse I had hung on the wall fell on the wet floor.”
She spread her hands in disgust. “I felt like crying at that moment because I only brought that one saree. How was I supposed to go home without the blouse? But my neighbour is so sweet. She gave me one of her suits. I wore that and went back to my home. Then, I draped this new saree.” She gestured to the one she was wearing. “I got into my car and sped off. But the Delhi traffic, Aghh!!!”
“Aww, my sweetie.” I hug her.
“You could have taken a leave,” I say, pulling away.
She gives me that ‘so done’ look. “Zahra, seriously?”
“Yeah, yeah, you can’t take a leave.” I make dramatic gestures with my hands. “Because you’re the most responsible, consistent, disciplined and... Uh... What’s that word?” I snap my fingers, trying to remember. Then, I point my finger at her. “Yeah, dedicated person.”
She stands up and puts her hands on her waist in defiance.
But I wasn’t done teasing her. “Did you mention your neighbour? The one whose son had confessed his feelings for you?”
Of course, I would never stop talking about that.
Her mouth falls open. “Zahra, I have told you so many times not to mention that. He is just a boy. I had tutored him. He has that playful, troublesome personality. And I am sure, he said that because he wanted to tease me, not because he actually liked me. He was being a brat.”
I chuckle and pinch her cheeks. “Aww, everybody likes to tease my Rasmalai.”
She narrows her eyes.
I grin, flashing my teeth.
Then, I lean on the table on which she was cutting the fabric. “Now, tell me, did you call the plumber or not?”
Abbas' POV:
The shutters are halfway down when I enter the store.
The lighting inside is dim. Employees are standing holding their hands, clearly nervous. I look at the empty shelves and the mannequins, which have lost their clothes.
The store manager, a middle-aged man, comes rushing forward, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Sir, please...” He says, “Just give us a few more months.”
I look around, hands in pockets. “You’ve been given enough time.” I say coldly, “You haven’t paid rent for 3 months.”
“But we are hiring new designers. Next month, we will earn enough to pay the rent.”
I look at the manager. I can tell by looking at his face that he can’t do business. I had given him a chance. But he failed again and again.
“You are standing in the most premium mall in Delhi,” I say. “If you can’t perform here, you’re taking up space that someone else will make profitable.”
The manager opens his mouth again, but I raise a hand.
From the back, a younger employee, in her mid-twenties, steps forward. “Mr. Khan, please,” she said hesitantly. “My sister just joined here. We’ve all worked so hard lately. If this store shuts down, we lose everything.”
I turn to her slowly. For a second, I feel something like sympathy. But I shake the feeling off with a shake of my head.
“I’m not running a charity,” I said, my voice calm.
Silence.
I turn to look at the head of mall operations, who stands nearby, clipboard in hand. He looked uncomfortable.
I say coldly, “Make sure the clearance is completed by 5 PM. The keys should be in my office by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
“But sir,” the manager says again, now almost pleading. “You don’t even have a replacement for us. Who’s taking this space? Do you plan to keep it empty?”
I don’t answer and adjust the cuff of my coat.
Then I say, “That’s not your concern anymore.”
I turn to leave.
When I reach the shutter, I pause.
“I do have someone in mind,” I add without turning back. “A brand that knows what it’s doing.”
And then I walked out.
That store will not stay empty.
And soon, in that very place, a store called Zizi would open its doors. A young, ambitious designer named Zahra would use this space as it should be.
She has been very diligent in sending emails. Her business is profitable.
I believe consistent people can achieve anything in life. And she is very consistent.
As I walk, I sense my secretary, Easton Salvatore, walking behind me. I enter the elevator, and he enters with me. He presses the buttons. The offices are all on the top floor, off-limits to the general public. Only staff and employees are allowed there.
“Should I fix the meeting with Zizi?” He says, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
I consider it. “Send the email after 2 days. The store space will be clear and refurnished till then.”
He nods and types something on his tablet. Then, he looks at me with his blue eyes as if he wants to say something. But he stays silent.
I cross my arms over my chest. “What is it?”
He finally speaks: “They called again.”
I exhale in frustration and say coldly, “Tell them my decision hasn’t changed. And it never will. I am not going to shake hands with them.”
He nods. “I will tell them.”
Thank you for choosing to read my book.
