The boardroom of Shah Holdings was tense—its polished surface reflecting the strained faces of directors and advisors seated around the long table. The walls seemed to listen.

At the head sat Tahir—or so everyone thought.

But it was Arsalan, wearing Tahir’s identity like a well-tailored suit. His demeanor was colder, his posture straighter, his charm tucked away behind a CEO’s quiet, commanding mask.

He had practiced Tahir’s calm tone. Every word he spoke felt like walking a tightrope.

“We appreciate your attendance today,” said Mr. Hanif, adjusting his glasses. “The Qasim Project’s delay raises concerns. You’ve been absent from key site reviews. Some of us are beginning to doubt the strategic direction.”

Arsalan offered no reaction. Only his eyes moved—measuring the room.

“I’ve been managing resources personally,” he said coolly. “Delays are unfortunate, but not unexpected. They’re being handled.”

“But with your recent… distant leadership,” another member said carefully, “we wonder if outside consultancy might be helpful.”

Arsalan raised a brow.

“Outsiders won’t solve problems created by insiders.”

The room went quiet. Mr. Hanif clenched his jaw but kept a smile.

“Our priority is the company’s survival,” he said.

“And mine,” Arsalan replied smoothly, “is its legacy.”

The room tensed again. But no one challenged him further.

The meeting ended.

Arsalan stood and gave a final glance at each man in the room.

The message was clear: “Tahir” was still in charge.

---

Meanwhile, the real Tahir sat alone in his office.

Documents were spread across his desk—project reports, vendor complaints, and internal memos. But his eyes weren’t on them.

He was thinking about Naima, the doctor who had slowly become his only peaceful corner in this chaotic world.

Her message from earlier still echoed in his mind:

Naima: “You don’t talk, but I can still tell. You’re sinking into your work like it’s quicksand.”

She wasn’t wrong.

His phone buzzed.

Arsalan: “Handled. They bought every word. But Hanif’s patience is thinning.”

Tahir replied:

Tahir: “Thanks. I owe you another one.”

---

That evening, Arsalan returned home and flopped onto the couch, loosening the tie he hated.

“This CEO act is exhausting,” he muttered, grabbing a juice box like a child after school.

Tahir chuckled as he entered. “Now you know what it’s like being me.”

“You’re either built of steel,” Arsalan said, “or running on pure guilt and pressure.”

Tahir sat beside him.

“You did great. No one noticed.”

“They never do. But Hanif’s building something. He’s hiding claws under that fake smile.”

“Can you keep covering when needed?”

“Of course. You’re my brother,” Arsalan said, “and you’re not alone.”

They clinked their juice boxes like champagne.

---

That night, Naima and Tahir met at a quiet rooftop café near the hospital.

“I thought you forgot,” she said.

“I didn’t.”

“You’re late.”

“I had to survive a day in numbers.”

She handed him a small wrapped sandwich. “Eat this. Doctor’s orders.”

Tahir looked at her and for the first time in days, smiled—not the polite business kind, but something warmer.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it.

“For the sandwich?”

“For noticing.”

They sat in silence under fairy lights as the wind rustled the plants nearby.

Naima leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, Tahir. But if you ever want to talk, I’ll be here. No pressure.”

He didn’t reply. But her words stayed with him long after she left.

---

Elsewhere, Emily checked her messages in a hotel room overseas.

The modeling contract had begun—photo shoots, fittings, and long rehearsals. Yet, her thoughts drifted to the man she’d met by chance back home.

Arsalan.

Sweet, clumsy, goofy.

But then… there was that blurry photo someone sent anonymously. It showed him at a large board table, wearing a suit, looking serious and cold.

Who are you, really? she thought.

She closed her laptop, eyes narrowing.

She’d return soon. And when she did—she wanted answers.