Chapter 5: Midnight Skies & Rival Eyes
The leather seat of the Bentley was cool against Amartya’s neck. He watched through the tinted window as Katerina’s figure—a sharp, elegant silhouette in emerald green—disappeared into the flow of pedestrians on the boulevard. The quiet hum of the car’s engine felt like the only sane thing in the world.
His phone, face-up on the seat beside him, lit up with a name: Safa. He answered before the first ring finished.
“She just left,” he said, his voice lower than he intended.
A beat of silence on the other end. Then Safa’s voice, carefully neutral. “And?”
“And we talked for an hour. About her new textile venture in Milan. About my water reclamation project. She asked intelligent questions. She was… perfectly pleasant.”
“Pleasant.” The word was flat.
“Yeah.” Amartya ran a hand through his hair, staring at the pristine ceiling of the car. “That’s the problem. She was normal. Charming, even. Not a cartoon villain. Not someone who seems like they’re plotting world domination over a cappuccino.”
Safa let out a slow breath. “That’s how she operates, Amartya. The charm is the weapon. It’s how she disarms you.”
“I’m not disarmed.” He heard the defensiveness in his own tone and winced. “I’m just saying, it’s confusing. You tell me she’s a shark. I sit across from her and she’s discussing the ethical sourcing of silk.”
“And you believe her?”
“I believe she knows how to discuss ethical sourcing.” He paused. The driver had merged into traffic, gliding smoothly away from the cafe. “I also believe you. I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it,” Safa said, her voice softening, losing its guarded edge. “Just… keep it in mind. Thank you for telling me. For messaging me before you went.”
“You knew I would.”
“I hoped.” Another pause. He could hear the faint echo of her heels on a hard floor; she was pacing. “Did she… mention me?”
“No. Not directly. She just said you had your ‘narrative’ about her. That she wanted a chance to present her own. She presented. It was slick.”
Safa’s laugh was short, devoid of humour. “Of course it was. She’s had years to polish that presentation.” The sound of her pacing stopped. “Where are you now?”
“In the car. Heading back to the office.”
“Come here.”
The request was simple, blunt. It wasn’t a question.
“Okay,” he said, without hesitation. “Give me twenty minutes.”
He ended the call and gave the driver the new address. Then he leaned back, closing his eyes. The scent of the coffee shop still clung to his jacket—bitter arabica and the sweet, cloying note of Katerina’s perfume. It felt like a contamination. He rolled down the window a few inches, letting the city air rush in, trying to erase it.
Safa’s penthouse door was already open when he arrived, a sliver of warm light cutting into the dim hallway. He pushed it open and found her standing by the vast glass wall overlooking the night-time skyline. She’d changed out of whatever business armour she’d worn that day and was in loose, charcoal linen trousers and a simple white tank top. Her hair was down, a dark cascade over her shoulders. She looked younger. She looked tired.
She turned as he entered, her eyes searching his face immediately, like she was checking for damage.
“You look like you’ve been through a debate tournament with a ghost,” she said.
“Feels about right.” He toed off his shoes and walked over to her, stopping a few feet away. “It was just… talking. But it felt like a fight. A really polite, well-dressed fight.”
She nodded, understanding in her gaze. “That’s her arena. She wins conversations. She corners markets. It’s the same skill.” Safa turned back to the window, hugging her arms around herself. “She wants something from you. It’s not just your ‘kindness’.”
“My money.”
“Your money. Your influence. The validation of your attention.” Safa’s voice was quiet, almost analytical. “Taking something I value is just a bonus. A motivating bonus.”
Amartya moved to stand beside her, their reflections ghostly in the dark glass. The city was a sprawl of cold, electric jewels below them. “She can’t take me,” he said, the statement firm. “I’m not a thing to be taken.”
“Aren’t you?” Safa looked at him, her profile sharp against the light. “We all are, in some way. Emotions are territories. She’s a colonizer.”
The metaphor hung in the air between them, stark and uncomfortable.
“You’re scared,” he realized, the words dawning on him as he said them. This wasn’t just rivalry or dislike. It was a deep, ingrained dread.
Safa didn’t deny it. She just kept staring out at the city. “The first time I met her, I was twenty-two. It was at a charity gala in Dubai. My father was still alive. She was twenty-one, just starting out. She complimented my dress, asked insightful questions about our shipping logistics. A month later, two of our key European clients mysteriously switched to a new supplier. Her supplier. The contracts were almost identical to ours, but cheaper. She’d replicated our model and undercut us. She sent me flowers the next week with a note that said, ‘To new beginnings.’” Safa finally looked at him. “She doesn’t just compete. She consumes. And she enjoys letting you know it.”
Amartya absorbed this, the pieces clicking into a darker picture. The pleasant woman in the coffee shop now had shadows stretched out behind her, long and predatory.
“Okay,” he said, simply.
“Okay?” she echoed, a faint challenge in her tone.
“Okay, I’m convinced. Not that I doubted you,” he added quickly. “But now I see it. The pattern.”
He reached out, not to pull her to him, but to let his hand rest lightly on her arm. The linen was soft under his fingers. She was warm. Real. A stark contrast to the cold, calculated reflection of Katerina he’d just left.
Safa covered his hand with hers, her grip tight. “She’ll ask for another meeting. Something more. A site visit. A collaboration.”
“And I’ll say no.”
“She’ll have a compelling reason. A mutual benefit.”
“I’ll still say no.” He turned to face her fully. “You’re not a territory she gets to claim. And neither am I.”
A slow, genuine smile finally touched Safa’s lips, dissolving the tension in her shoulders. The fear in her eyes receded, replaced by a weary gratitude. “You should get that printed on a t-shirt.”
“Maybe I will.” He smiled back. “Now, are you going to feed me? I had one terrible pastry and an hour of psychological warfare. I’m starving.”
She laughed, the sound loosening the last of the cold knot in his own chest. “I had Zahra make biryani. It’s in the kitchen. No dairy.”
“Perfect.”
As they walked towards the aromatic warmth of the kitchen, her fingers stayed laced with his. It was a simple, declarative hold. In the reflection of the dark windows they passed, their linked hands were a single, unbroken line against the glittering void of the city—a small, solid pact in a world of polished illusions.