1. The Weight of An Empire
The human brain is a biological camera. It is physically incapable of inventing a human face out of thin air. Every stranger you see in a dream is someone you have passed on the street, locked eyes with in a crowd, or glanced at in a crowded terminal.
I knew the science. I had spent millions paying the best neurologists across the globe to confirm it.
Yet, for six agonizing months, I had been hunted by a ghost.
"The port authorities in Al-Hamra have been taken care of, Master Ibrahim," a cold, calculated voice broke through my silence.
I didn't look up from my glass. I didn't need to. I knew exactly who it was. Tariq, the legal mastermind of my inner circle and one of the four childhood friends who kept my family's empire running without a hitch.
"And the cargo?" I asked, my voice flat, scraped raw from lack of sleep.
"Three hundred thousand barrels of unrefined crude oil, completely unmanifested, bypassed the naval radars an hour ago," Tariq replied, the sound of his expensive leather shoes clicking softly against the marble floor of my private penthouse bar. "Along with the heavy artillery shipment from Eastern Europe. It's already loaded into our underground warehouses. The government believes the ships were just carrying commercial electronics. No one dares to inspect a vessel bearing the Shahan crest."
That was the reality of my world. Below this gold-rimmed penthouse, the glittering, hyper-modern skyline of our Arab gulf kingdom stretched out like an empire of glass and oil. My family owned a massive portion of it. To the public, the Shahan Corporation was a luxury conglomerate—five-star hotels, shipping lines, and real estate.
To the underworld, we were the apex predators. We were the only mafia organization to survive the government's iron-clad security rules. We didn't just break the laws; we rewrote them. If we wanted to smuggle weapons across strict international waters, the ocean itself seemed to clear a path for us.
I was Ibrahim Shahan. The sole heir to it all. Spoiled, ruthless, possessing everything the world could offer, and used to getting what I wanted with a single snap of my fingers.
Except for her.
"Leave the files on the desk, Tariq. And get out," I commanded, staring blankly at the amber liquid in my glass.
Tariq hesitated, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looked at my disheveled state. "Ibrahim... you haven't slept in three days. The board of directors is asking questions. Your father is noticing."
"I said, get out."
The door clicked shut, leaving me in absolute silence once again. I poured another glass, my hands trembling slightly. It wasn't from the alcohol. It was from the absolute terror of what would happen if I closed my eyes.
For 180 nights, a girl I had never met had consumed my subconscious.
The dreams were never vague. They were terrifyingly vivid. Intimate. Steamy. In my sleep, I could feel the silk of her hair sliding between my fingers. I could taste the heat of her skin. I could hear the breathless, broken way she gasped my name when I pinned her beneath me. Every touch felt so devastatingly real that I would wake up at 3:00 AM, suffocating in the empty space of my king-sized bed.
I was going completely mad.
I had deployed our private intelligence network across every continent. I had hackers scan facial recognition databases from Dubai to London, Mumbai to New York. I had thrown millions at the screens, ordering my men to find her because "the human brain cannot invent a face."
But every search came up empty. Six months of absolute nothingness. My own men were beginning to look at me with pity, whispering that the young master was losing his mind over a phantom.
I stared at the reflection in the dark glass of the window. My eyes were bloodshot. I looked like a ghost myself.
"Damn you," I whispered to the empty room, slamming the crystal glass against the marble counter. It shattered into a hundred glittering knives. "Where are you?!"
The obsession was eating me alive. If I couldn't have her, if I couldn't find the flesh and blood to match the lips that haunted my sleep, I didn't want this empire. I didn't want any of it. The phantom scent of vanilla and rain—her scent from the dreams—seemed to drift through the air conditioning, mocking me.
My mind snapped. Driven by pure, unadulterated frustration and sleepless mania, I reached down. I picked up a long, jagged shard of the broken crystal glass.
I pressed the sharp edge against my left wrist.
If I can't find you in the waking world, I thought, a dark, manic smile touching my lips, then I'll just stay in the dream permanently.
I sliced down.
A sharp spike of heat flared through my arm. Crimson, thick and hot, began to spill rapidly over the marble, staining the white stone. I watched it flow, feeling a bizarre, detached sense of relief as my vision began to blur.
"Ibrahim!"
The heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse burst open. My father, Malik Shahan—a man whose name made international ministers tremble—rushed into the room. Behind him, the remaining three of my close friends stood frozen in shock, their faces pale with horror.
"Get the medical team! Now!" my father roared, his powerful voice cracking with panic as he sprinted toward me, ripping off his designer tie to wrap it tightly around my bleeding wrist. "What have you done to yourself, my boy? Look at you!"
I leaned back against the bar, laughing softly, the darkness closing in. "She isn't here, Father. I looked everywhere. She isn't real."
"She is a dream, Ibrahim! You are destroying yourself over a shadow!" He held my shoulders, his eyes fierce with a rare, terrifying fear. He couldn't lose his only heir.
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Two days later, I was sitting in the VIP wing of our private family hospital. The room was heavily guarded by our private military contractors. My wrist was heavily bandaged.
The door clicked open, and my father walked in, followed by a nurse who quietly placed a fresh change of clothes on the bed before scurrying out. My father's expression was strict, but his eyes carried the heavy burden of a man trying to save his son from his own mind.
"You are leaving this hospital today," my father stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And you are coming with me."
I didn't move. "I'm not in the mood for business, Father. Let Tariq handle it."
"This is not a deal for Tariq," Malik Shahan snapped, stepping closer to my bed. "There is a massive, multi-billion dollar oil and logistics merger happening in Asia. It is a cover, Ibrahim. The government there is tight, but their high-ranking officials are corrupt. We are establishing our permanent smuggling pipeline into the eastern territory. If we secure this, the Shahan empire will be completely untouchable for the next fifty years."
He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "I need my second-in-command there. More importantly, you need a change of air, Ibrahim. You need to get out of this city and lock this madness away before it kills you."
I stared at the bandage on my wrist. The playboy, the ruthless mafia prince who always got what he wanted, felt entirely hollow. But staying in this room, staring at the walls, was its own kind of torture.
"Fine," I muttered, swinging my legs out of bed. "I'll go."
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The international corporate gala in the city was blindingly bright. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, high-end cigars, and high-stakes negotiation. As the Shahan convoy arrived, the media flashbulbs went wild, but our security team pushed them back brutally.
I walked into the grand ballroom clad in a custom, tailored black tuxedo. My left wrist was hidden beneath my silk cuff, the physical mark of my madness locked away. I put on my usual mask—the cold, arrogant, spoiled billionaire heir who looked down on everyone.
"Smile, Ibrahim," my father whispered, shaking hands with a foreign minister. "We are here to conquer."
I nodded mindlessly, scanning the crowd with pure boredom. Rich executives, desperate socialites, corrupt politicians. It was the same old story.
Then, the entire ballroom seemed to lose its sound
The air turned completely freezing, then scorching hot. My heart gave a massive, violent thud against my ribs, so hard it was painful.
Across the room, standing near a floral arrangement, a girl was laughing.
She wore a simple, elegant dress. Her hair fell down her waist in loose waves. She turned her head slightly, her profile catching the chandelier light.
My knees went weak. The shard of glass. The six months of searching. The vanilla scent.
It was her.
The exact nose. The exact curve of her lips. The exact eyes that had looked down at me in the dark of my room every single night. She wasn't a biological camera glitch. She wasn't a phantom.
She was alive. She was standing less than fifty feet away from me.
A dark, possessive, and completely unhinged wave of adrenaline flooded my veins. A slow, dangerous smile crept onto my face as I stared at her, my fingers twitching against my sides.
I found you, my mind screamed, the madness transforming into pure, terrifying clarity. You are real. And you are never, ever escaping me.
To be continued...
