Wishing for a Chance To Be With You [Finally Found You Series: Book 1

Chapter 1

It was 8 PM Sunday evening in Samantha Zhang’s Asian city. The air hung heavy and humid, a mix of street food smells and car exhaust. In her small apartment, the only light came from her phone screen as she stared at a single question mark – the message she’d just sent Zeyd Hastor. She looked at his profile picture again. Something about his eyes, a hint of sadness she knew well, gave her a familiar, unsettling feeling – a sharp pain behind her eyes, a symptom of her borderline personality disorder. She hesitated, then sent the message, a silent plea for connection.

Meanwhile, it was 2 PM Sunday afternoon in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Sunlight glinted off Zeyd Hastor’s expensive car. He came down the stairs of his family home, the weight of his tailored suit and the even heavier weight of expectation pressing down on him. He was a young billionaire, outwardly confident, but a deep sadness lingered in his eyes. The massive H Summit empire – airlines, banking, shipping, a whole network of businesses – rested on his young shoulders. His grandfather, Haris, the CEO, watched his every move. Zeyd handled the banking and distribution, but the pressure was constant; he felt it in his stomach, the tension in his shoulders as he walked to his car. His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. The question mark glowed on the screen. He replied, "Hey, got your message. About that old post?" The words were typed easily, hiding the tension underneath.

Their exchange was short but intriguing. Samantha’s replies were cautious, revealing little. Zeyd, however, was captivated by her mystery. He asked where she was. Her answer – "Somewhere in Asia" – was vague, but it piqued his interest. He mentioned Bosnia and Herzegovina. The words triggered a flood of fragmented images for Samantha: dizzying flashes of half-remembered scenes, and the familiar throbbing headache.

Later that evening in Bosnia, the sounds of clinking silverware and hushed conversation filled the air during Zeyd’s family dinner. He sat stiffly, his grandfather’s sharp gaze a constant presence. The discussion of H Summit’s expansion plans weighed heavily on him. Quietly, he messaged Samantha. He asked her age. Her answers were carefully worded, hiding her true situation. He, too, revealed little, his replies formal and guarded. Their conversation ended with a shared sense of intrigue, an unspoken question hanging between them.

At 3 AM Monday morning, the shuttle’s engine rumbled along the quiet streets of Samantha’s city. Samantha sat crammed in with other factory workers; the hard plastic seats offered little comfort. The smell of exhaust filled the air, mixing with the damp morning chill. Samantha watched the city wake up. Fleeting images of Bosnia and Herzegovina flashed through her mind – cobblestone streets, a face she couldn’t quite place, and a feeling of unsettling familiarity. The mystery of that face and place lingered, a persistent question mark in her mind.

At 6 AM, her shift began. Inside a massive electronics factory, the air hummed with the rhythmic whir of machinery. Samantha assembled computer hard drives, her movements precise and practiced. The fluorescent lights shone down on her black shirt, faded jeans, and the mandatory white plastic slippers. The conveyor belt moved a partly assembled hard drive; she added two plastic chips, a light-redirecting device, fastened four screws with an electric screwdriver, and sent it on its way. One minute. Repeat. Precision manufacturing. The repetitive task numbed her senses, but she was used to it. There was no time for her phone; everything was timed and analyzed. It was her job, and the routine was a welcome contrast to the unsettling feelings Zeyd’s message had stirred.

11 AM: Lunch break. The canteen was a blur of noise and hurried meals. Today it was rice, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and eggplant.

11:30 AM: Back on the line. The rhythmic whir of machinery resumed.

6 PM: The shift ended. The factory doors released a stream of tired workers into the bustling city.

8 PM: Samantha was home, sharing a cramped apartment with her cousin and two friends.

Weekends were for family. In the countryside, near the sea, she lived with her 50-year-old grandmother, Elsa, her Aunt Clara, Uncle Peter, and their seven children. Life was hard. They were poor, their income depending on the fish Peter caught and Clara and Elsa sold. Samantha remembered her teenage years, selling fish with them. But she was grateful for the government’s alternative learning system (ALS), which had helped her get a better job in the city, a job that allowed her to support her family.

This commitment to her family, along with her borderline personality disorder that made lasting relationships difficult, kept her single. Past relationships had ended in conflict, fueled by her unpredictable nature. To avoid more hurt, she ended things before they could truly end. The loneliness, however, was a constant companion.

Evening settled again. Home in her apartment, the city lights blurring outside her window, Samantha thought about Zeyd. The age difference – she was older – suddenly felt significant. A disquieting sense of familiarity washed over her, a half-formed memory, a fleeting image of cobblestone streets and a face that could be his, yet felt impossibly distant. The headache returned, a dull throb behind her eyes. She pushed the unsettling thoughts aside, needing sleep, needing to escape the nagging feeling that something crucial was missing from her past, something connected to this stranger across the world. She whispered, "It's just a headache," but the whisper didn't convince her.

The city’s noise faded as she fell into a restless sleep, the image of Zeyd’s face still dancing at the edge of her consciousness.

Meanwhile, it was 2 PM Monday afternoon in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Sunlight streamed into Zeyd’s office at H Summit Holdings, Inc. He worked, but his gaze kept drifting to his phone, a silent hope flickering with each glance. Disappointment washed over him with each notification that wasn’t from her. The weight of his responsibilities – the sprawling empire of H Summit, his grandfather’s expectations – pressed down on him. Then, his phone vibrated. A half-formed smile appeared, quickly replaced by a frown. It wasn’t her. It was his grandfather, a curt message summoning him to his office. “Yes, Grandpa,” he replied, the words typed with forced formality. He gathered his report, sighing. “I thought it was Samantha,” he whispered, the unspoken longing heavy in the air.