Morning light slipped through the glass walls of the penthouse floor of a towering New York building, settling gently into the dining hall. As usual, Salar came downstairs, fully prepared for the office. Confidence marked his stride, and the same familiar seriousness rested on his face. A neatly arranged Turkish breakfast awaited him on the table.
It was the traditional Turkish Kahvaltı—light, yet complete.
Mehmet had introduced this breakfast for the first time, and since then, it had become Salar's favorite. The table held a variety of olives, white Turkish cheese, honey and butter, boiled eggs, menemen made with tomatoes and bell peppers, warm sesame-crusted simit (Turkish bread), and black Turkish tea served in slender glasses. Light in weight yet rich in nutrition—that was its specialty.
This breakfast wasn't usually prepared on regular days. Salar preferred Kahvaltı on weekends. But today, Mehmet had made it especially… because Salar had returned after several days. Keeping Salar's preference in mind, he had arranged everything—without saying a word, without making it obvious.
Miss Maria smiled and said,
"Hello, Salar sir. Welcome back."
Then she looked at Zaheer,
"Good morning, Dr. Zaheer. Welcome back."
Salar replied briefly,
"Thank you, Maria."
Zaheer responded gently as well,
"Good morning. Thank you."
At that moment, Mehmet placed his hand on his chest and said in a Turkish manner,
"Selamün aleyküm, hoş geldiniz."
("Peace be upon you, welcome.")
Salar gave a slight nod, but his gaze paused for a moment on the table—he understood this arrangement was not a coincidence.
Zaheer smiled and replied,
"Wa alaikum assalam, Mehmet."
Mehmet's English was good, yet he would sometimes intentionally speak Urdu—perhaps to build warmth.
Salar pulled out a chair and sat down. Zaheer watched him for a few moments. Lifting his teacup, Salar said casually,
"I know I'm handsome… but not that much. Stop staring."
Zaheer froze for a moment.
"Unbelievable…" he muttered under his breath.
As always, Salar remained indifferent. He ate his Kahvaltı calmly, as if nothing in the world mattered to him.
After a while, both left for their respective destinations—
Salar toward his office… and Zaheer toward the hospital where, at just twenty-seven years of age, he held the position of Senior Head Surgeon.
NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital
One of the most prestigious and advanced medical institutions in New York, it recognized only competence—and Zaheer had earned his place through hard work.
The tall glass building stood before him. As he entered, a few nurses nodded respectfully. Junior doctors instinctively straightened.
"Good morning, Dr. Zaheer."
He walked forward calmly—steps firm, gaze straight, and a confidence that only hard work can build evident on his face.
He had been absent for an entire week… and his return today brought a serious tone back to the environment.
On the other side, Salar's car stopped in Manhattan's business district. At the top of the glass-covered skyscraper, golden letters read:
Salar Strategic Global Group
It was a multinational strategic investment and infrastructure corporation—working in real estate, medical research funding, technology, and international mergers. New York was its head office, while major branches existed in London, Dubai, and Istanbul.
As Salar entered, the environment automatically aligned. Employees straightened up. He spoke little… yet his presence alone was enough.
On the top floor, his luxurious office overlooked the city.
His secretary, Christine Jackson, was already standing prepared—blue eyes, golden layered hair, a professional suit, and a confident demeanor.
"Good morning, Mr. Salar."
She placed a file before him and said,
"London infrastructure deal is pending your signature. Dubai investors requested a revised projection. And the medical research fund board meeting is at 10."
Removing his coat, Salar asked briefly,
"Any discrepancies?"
"No, sir."
He was extremely strict when it came to work.
Anyone who made mistakes didn't last long in front of him.
His decisions were not based on emotions—but on numbers and strategy.
He wasn't just a businessman—
he was a system builder.
---
As soon as the board meeting ended, Salar returned straight to his office. It was one in the afternoon. Outside, the weather was cold, and Manhattan's buildings were wrapped in a light fog beyond the glass.
There was a separate rest room inside his office—quiet, simple, and peaceful. But today, peace was nowhere to be found.
He stood in front of the window, hands in his pockets, eyes on the city… yet seeing nothing.
Suddenly, he closed his eyes.
That same face.
Those same eyes.
Aizal.
He immediately opened his eyes, as if startled.
"Why am I thinking about her…?" he muttered under his breath.
Where would she be?
Would she be safe?
She didn't even know where she was going…
"Stop it, Salar." He shook himself.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Suddenly, he remembered—Aizal had said she would call… tell him the location… talk about the divorce.
His jaw tightened.
"She'll call if she wants to. If there's a need…" he said to himself, but couldn't finish the sentence.
He was fighting himself.
Or perhaps trying to convince himself.
But he wasn't in a state to reach any conclusion yet.
Because the decisions of fate are not so simple.
Reaching Allah isn't done by rushing… it happens step by step.
"And it may be that you dislike something which is good for you, and that you like something which is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you do not know."
(Surah Al-Baqarah 2:216)
And he hadn't even understood the first step yet.
At that moment, the door burst open.
"Oh man! You're finally back!"
John entered, with Edward behind him. Both were as casual as ever.
"Where the hell have you been?" Edward laughed.
"Do you even know how much we missed you?"
Salar turned to look at them.
"Oh… so you two noticed?"
John burst into laughter.
"Noticed? The club's been dead without you!"
Two girls in bold outfits were with them—earlier leaning on John and Edward, but now slowly shifting their attention toward Salar.
"Hi, darling…" one of them said flirtatiously.
For a moment, Salar's gaze fell on their outfits—and unwillingly, Aizal's covered presence came to his mind. That simple, modest grace… like the gentle warmth of sunlight.
For a moment, his face hardened.
Then he composed himself.
John winked,
"Disco tonight? One week without you was torture, man."
With a faint smile, Salar said,
"Fine. Tonight."
But his tone was lifeless.
He didn't like their presence in his office like this. Briefly, he said,
"Not here. We'll meet in the evening."
Picking up his coat, he walked out.
Edward watched him carefully as he left.
"There's something off about him," he said quietly.
John shrugged,
"He's just being Salar."
But Edward could feel it—
Salar wasn't the same today.
And Salar himself wasn't ready to accept it either.
What was about to happen next?
What turn was fate going to take?
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