My office was quiet. Finally.
The clock on the wall ticked past six. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Sarajevo was golden with the last light of the day. Most of the staff had cleared out. The building had that stillness I liked—the kind that only came after hours, when the phones stopped ringing and the noise gave way to breath.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching until I felt the familiar pop in my shoulder. Long day. Four back-to-back meetings, two fires put out before lunch, and a junior manager who nearly cost us a partnership by not double-checking shipment manifests. I should've gone home an hour ago, but there was one last report to finish before I could call it a night. Nothing complicated. Just numbers. Just logic.
Maybe twenty minutes of work left—if I didn't let my mind wander.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp, deliberate taps.
I didn't have to check. Only one person knocked like that.
"Come in, Babo," I said, schooling my voice into calm.
Husein Begović entered. Impeccably dressed as always. Charcoal gray suit. No tie. Jaw set.
He didn't sit.
Just stood across from me with his hands behind his back.
"Long day?"
"Productive," I answered.
My father studied me. That way he did when he was deciding whether to challenge me or not—like he was always two steps ahead and just waiting for me to catch up. He looked around my office like he was appraising it. Like it might one day belong to someone else.
"How's Ayub doing under Lamija?"
I didn't flinch. "Holding his own."
"That's not what I asked."
I folded my hands over the desk. "She pushes him. Hard. But he hasn't broken. He's learning fast."
"I hope so. I didn't move him from your team so he could coast."
"He's not coasting."
Husein tilted his head slightly. "She's not going easy on him."
"She's not supposed to."
"Good," he said. "Let's see if he stands."
I nodded once. This was how he tested loyalty—by removing comfort. He had done the same to me once. And Lamija. And everyone he ever expected something from.
Husein turned his eyes back to me.
"She told you yet?"
My brow lifted. "Told me what?"
"She wants him to lead the next mid-quarter review in front of the board. Solo."
That surprised me. Lamija didn't delegate lightly. "He's ready."
"She thinks so too. I want you to observe. Don't interfere."
"I'll be there."
He studied me for a moment longer, like he didn't quite trust my answer. Or maybe like he did—and that's what bothered him.
"You trust her judgment?"
"I trust her standards."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You sound like me."
"You raised me."
"Unfortunately for both of us."
That made me smile, just a little. Babo rarely joked. When he did, it meant something. I didn't know what this meant yet.
"You're too protective of him," he added—not unkindly.
"He's earned my protection."
"Maybe. But that's not what makes a man."
"He's already a man."
"We'll see."
He turned slightly, looking out the window. The city stretched wide below us—centuries old and still surviving.
"You know what they'll say if he fails," he said.
"They've said worse about all of us."
He nodded once. The ghost of a grin, maybe. "Yes. And we buried them."
"You don't call him your sniper for nothing. He won't fail."
Babo didn't respond to that. Not with a smile. Not with agreement. Just the next order.
"You'll be taking on the Serkan expansion projections starting tomorrow. I want you to review the full portfolio and have a draft strategy on my desk by Monday."
My jaw tightened. That was a two-week project.
He gave me one last glance. "You've handled worse."
And with that, he turned and walked out.
Just like that. Another boulder handed over. No discussion. No room to say no.
I exhaled.
Counted to five.
Then reached for my tablet.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again—quieter this time.
"He gone?"
Lamija.
I didn't look up. "He left you alone?"
"I was two floors down," she said, stepping into the office. "My shark senses tingled."
I noticed the prayer mat tucked under her arm.
I glanced at the time—and groaned.
"Don't tell me you just prayed Asr."
She raised an eyebrow. "You didn't?"
I leaned back in my chair, dragging a hand down my face. "I got caught up in the quarterly review edits and forgot." A beat. "This is my punishment."
She didn't say anything. Just gave me that look—half amused, half judging. I hated that look.
"I was planning to pray."
"Always are."
I sighed. She was right. She usually was. I tried. I failed. I kept trying. But it never sat right—the guilt clung longer than the missed prayer.
She sat across from me, already pulling up files. "What did he drop?"
"Serkan projections. Full draft strategy. By Monday."
She groaned. "Of course he did."
I reached into the drawer, pulled the printed file—charts, flagged notes, chaos in neat fonts—and slid it across the desk.
She didn't even look. "You didn't try to clean this up."
"I wanted you to feel useful."
"How generous," she muttered, flipping through the first few pages. Her expression twisted. "Meliha's team did this?"
"If by 'did this' you mean created a disaster out of clean numbers, yes."
"Criminal. I'd fire them if they weren't already impossible to replace."
"I said the same thing about you last month."
She smirked. "And yet here I am. Cleaning up after you."
I pushed back from the desk and opened the credenza behind me. Pulled out my prayer mat—forest green, edged in gold.
Didn't say anything. Just moved to the far corner by the windows.
Sarajevo was dimming now. That golden light fading to deep blue.
I stood quietly for a moment, heart heavy.
Then raised my hands.
Allahu Akbar.
Behind me, Lamija muttered, "These charts are offensive."
I nearly smiled mid-prayer.
By the time I finished, the room had settled into that rare peace you only get after the last salām. I folded the mat slowly, running my fingers over the trim, then tucked it away.
Lamija didn't look up.
She scribbled in the margin. "One of these days, you're going to miss a prayer and your entire immune system will collapse."
"Is that the medical opinion of our CFO?"
"I'm just saying," she said, tapping her head, "God built His reminders into the schedule. Ignore enough of them, the system malfunctions."
I rolled my eyes. "Did you come here to make me feel worse?"
"No," she said. "That was just a bonus."
I laughed under my breath. "You want tea?"
"Only if you're making it."
"Ah. So no."
"You're the older brother," she said. "Act like it."
I stood. "You know one day I'm going to send you a heartfelt text about how proud I am of you, and it'll just implode your phone."
"I'll block your number on sight."
"You say that now."
She looked up—eyes sharp, but tired. "I say that always."
And yet, when I placed the mug by her elbow a few minutes later, she didn't protest. Just reached for it like it had always been hers.
She typed something, then said, without looking up, "Ayub was jealous today."
I paused. "Oh?"
"I went to lunch with Talha. Ayub didn't like it."
I laughed. "Poor bastard."
"It was weird," she said. "He tried not to show it, but... I don't know. He's usually harder to read."
I smirked. "Instead of falling for a nice soft girl, he picks you. A woman as sharp as a blade."
She raised a brow. "You saying I'm not wife material?"
"I'm saying I don't think he knows what he's getting himself into."
She smiled. A real one. The kind no one else got to see.
We worked like that for a while. Building strategy. Editing each other without saying a word.
That was us.
Two terrifying sharks.
But always back-to-back in deep water.
Five minutes passed before she spoke again—casual, like she was commenting on the weather.
"Ayub adjusted the Kovač timeline yesterday."
I looked up.
She didn't.
"Babo caught it. Sent me a little reminder about leadership being an amanah."
"You talk to Ayub about it?"
She nodded. "In the conference room. Mid staff meeting. Not my proudest moment."
"Did you ask why he did it?"
"He didn't run it past me. That's enough."
I paused. "Maybe. But Ayub doesn't move without a reason. You know that."
She exhaled through her nose. "Let me be mad about it first."
There was something tight in her jaw when she said it.
I clocked it.
Didn't press.
Instead, I opened a new doc. "You want to split the contract review before we lose the night?"
She glanced at the time. Then closed her tablet.
"Let's go to Talha's fight instead."
I looked at her. "You hate fight nights."
"I don't hate them. I just prefer not to be surrounded by testosterone, blood, and the occasional concussion."
"So what changed?"
She grabbed her blazer, stood, and smiled cool. "I feel a sudden need to watch muscular men beat the hell out of each other."
I squinted. "You're not affected at all, huh?"
"By what?"
I didn't answer.
She didn't explain.
We stepped into the hallway. Lamija moved like she always did—deliberate, heels sharp against marble, blazer set. You'd never guess she just abandoned contract reviews to watch grown men punch each other.
She hit the elevator button.
And there he was.
Ayub.
Tie loosened. Eyes tired. Shoulders tight like he'd been trying to disappear into his own frame.
He stepped aside.
"Look who's still here," I said. "You pulling overtime or hiding from something?"
"Something like that," he said. His gaze barely flicked to me—then landed on Lamija.
She met his eyes. Blank. Cool. Controlled.
"You heading out?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Not yet."
"Going to Talha's fight?"
"Not tonight. Headache."
There was a pause.
Then, too casually: "Shame," she said. "We're going."
He blinked. Said nothing.
I stepped in. "We figured we could use a break from Serkan."
"Enjoy," he said quietly, then turned and walked back to his desk.
The elevator doors closed behind us.
We stood in silence for a few seconds.
I glanced at her. "Did you push too hard?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, low—almost to herself: "I might have."
Her voice was quiet. Almost reluctant.
I didn't say anything.
I didn't need to.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Imran forgets to pray. Lamija doesn't. Husein assigns a two-week project due in three days. Ayub catches feelings. No one talks about it.
Corporate life continues.
Next chapter: sanctioned violence.
-Ash&Olive
ns216.73.216.251da2
