Hi folks, I've posted this story in other tv show universes before, but after I was asked to adapt it for the Clexa universe I was also asked to adapt it to the Special Ops Lioness universe – and here we are, again. I mean, who doesn't love an Aaliyah/Cruz slowburn, right;-)? So I'm very curious to hear what you think of this story and I look forward to your comments to know if I should continue;-).
*33 months ago*
Once again, it's deep into the night.
Hours after sunset, the sky has succumbed to darkness, with the moon shrouded behind thick clouds. Following the sun's retreat, the corridors of Amrohi Industries Headquarter's stand deserted. The staff, having bid their farewells in subdued groups, have left the space devoid of its daytime life.
Aaliyah Amrohi finds herself alone once more. The corporate headquarters is eerily quiet, a sprawling maze of deserted offices, empty conference rooms, and silent drilling operation models—the embodiment of isolation. The once bustling corridors now echo only with the faint hum of distant machinery, as the last of the engineers and executives had left hours ago. In the profound silence, the vast, sterile space feels even larger, the weight of the emptiness pressing down. The dimmed lights cast long shadows over the scale models of oil rigs and offshore platforms, waiting for their next phase of review and implementation.
Here, in the stillness of this expansive complex, whispers of past projects and the anticipation of future launches become her only companions. The quiet hum of the massive infrastructure that sustains Amrohi Industries feels almost alive, as if the building itself acknowledges the presence of its newly appointed CEO of just a few months.
She turns in her seat, trying to look out through the glass panes of her top floor office, but only sees her own pale reflection mirrored back due to the internal lights. Rising, her movements echo softly, breaking the stillness as she crosses the cold, stark marble to step out onto the balcony. Here, she leaves behind the day's conflicts, the metaphorical battles, and allows the cool night air to soothe her.
Leaning on the railing, she looks up. Clouds hide the moon, and despite her efforts, the sky remains a dark canvas, impenetrable and mysterious. On nights like these, she misses the moon's comforting glow, akin to a lighthouse obscured by fog.
As a child, she spent countless nights gazing through the large window of her family home, learning the names and features of the moon's surface—Mare Tranquillitatis, Oceanus Procellarum, Tycho, and Copernicus. To her, the moon was more than a celestial body; it was a canvas of dreams and stories, a silent sentinel of the night.
Aaliyah holds one truth dearly: the power of symbols. They chart the course of your existence, your destiny. To her, the moon—with its craters and maria—and the stars symbolized constancy amidst chaos.
Many nights, she whispered her dreams towards the moon, envisioning them taking root in the Sea of Serenity or ascending the Apennine Mountains. Tonight, as she gazes skyward, those dreams silently form on her lips. Yet, she recognizes her age, her maturity, and the diminished belief in their magic. With a resigned sigh, she turns on her Louboutin heels, closes the balcony door behind her, and dons her Hermes coat before leaving the office.
Making her way to the parking garage, she mentally ticks off her upcoming tasks and decisively climbs into her car. The bright digits on the dashboard clock read 10:58 PM. The 585 horsepower of her sleek, black Mercedes AMG G Class purrs to life, accelerating her out of the garage slightly faster than allowed, like a dark vessel navigating through the night's sea.
xxx At the same time, nearby xxx
With a dull thud, she drops the green bag to the floor and steps into the dark, cramped apartment wearing her heavy, black boots.
She closes the door behind her, and darkness wraps around her like a suffocating shroud. Her breathing quickens as if an invisible hand is pressing down on her chest. Hastily, she reaches for the light switch to her left. Too soon, she thinks, pushing back the rising panic with deep breaths. Right now, the darkness is too much; the memories too vivid. She blinks repeatedly until her eyes adjust to the harsh light from the bare bulbs, dangling like forgotten cocoons from the ceiling.
"Home, Sweet Home," she murmurs, the slight bitterness of her words echoing through the narrow rooms, over the furniture shrouded in white sheets, past the black curtains that stand like dark sentinels before the tall windows.
She opens the refrigerator and wrinkles her nose at the sharp smell of cleaning fluid—a stark reminder of her hasty departure weeks ago when she had to scrub the fridge clean after a milk spill. She reaches for the lone item inside, standing like a solitary soldier on a deserted battlefield. With a pop, she opens the small beer bottle while absently running her fingers over the rough, matte brown surface of the aged kitchen counter. After missions like these, regaining her usual stoic calm is like chasing a fleeting shadow. The tranquility that usually envelops her feels elusive now, slipping through her fingers like sand. It's a battle she wages within the solitude of her own walls. Perhaps it's the weight of years, the accumulation of over 35 deployments in eight years. The texture under her fingertips calms her, grounding her like an anchor in a storm. It reminds her of...Stop. You're home! She shakes her head vigorously, trying to dispel the lingering memories of the past days that have clung to her like persistent ghosts since her return.
A glance at the oversized, black Luminox on her wrist, its bezel scratched and strap worn, reminds her of her other life. 11:05 PM. Muttering quietly, she quickly leaves her apartment, the door closing behind her with a finality that feels like a gate slamming shut on her fleeting peace.
xxx 23 minutes later xxx
Aaliyah Amrohi has never been a fan of mini marts. It's not just the mediocre quality of the offerings that bothers her, but also the often poor treatment of the employees: long hours, low wages, and scant prospects for advancement. At her own company, she ensures that her staff is treated well, standing firmly against the idea of supporting such exploitation with her business. Yet, it's Thursday night, well past 11 PM. The restaurants have shuttered, her refrigerator is pitifully bare, and the gnawing hunger after a strenuous day prompts her to momentarily lower her standards.
She parks her car adjacent to the entrance and gives the fuel gauge a final check. It's unlikely her driver would leave the tank nearly empty, but it's not beyond the realm of possibility. Much to her relief, the needle is comfortably positioned to the right.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she notes with satisfaction that her makeup and hair are as impeccable as they were when she departed her home that morning. Opening the driver's door, she elegantly exits the black leather seat, her hand reaching for her Louis Vuitton bag. As she steps into the store, the chime of the doorbell heralds her arrival into an environment flooded with stark, artificial light. The fruits and vegetables on display bear an unappetizing, almost radioactive glow. A soft sigh, intended only for herself, slips through her red-tinted lips. Suddenly, she startles at a whispered "I hate it too" close to her ear. Turning to reply, she finds only the retreating view of a tanned back in a white tank top. Shaking her head, she proceeds down the first aisle.
Cruz meanders through the narrow aisles of the cramped, stifling shop, her stomach rumbling. Pasta and some kind of ready-made sauce will have to suffice for tonight. She finds herself smiling whenever she spots the coat of the woman whose sigh at the entrance had mirrored her own dissatisfaction. Another soul adrift in this late-night purgatory of subpar food, cheap alcohol, and stale canned goods.
She stands before the shelves, her eyes scanning restlessly through the varieties of rice, past the bags of flour, and towards the instant noodles. At last, she finds what she's seeking and reaches out, only to grasp at thin air. Turning in disbelief, she locks eyes with a woman whose guilty, wide eyes flicker between the box in her hand and Cruz's intense gaze.
"I...uh..." the woman stammers, her eyes briefly closing. When she opens them again, it's as if she's transformed, now exuding a newfound resolve.
"Please, take it," she insists smoothly, her words flowing with ease from lips tinted a striking blood-red. There's kindness in her voice, but also a firmness that makes Cruz, who had been ready to protest, simply shut her mouth. She accepts the last box of fettuccine that the mysterious black-haired woman offers. As their fingers briefly touch, Cruz hesitates. The woman holds her gaze just a moment too long before saying, "Thank you for your service to our country, Commander," and walks away, her high heels clicking against the floor. Cruz glances down at the military patch on her camouflage pants, the telltale sign of her service. "Thanks!" she calls after the woman, her voice echoing slightly in the empty store, uncertain if she's been heard.
Empty-handed, Aaliyah exits the shop and slides into her car. A scream of frustration builds in her lungs, clawing its way up her throat, eager to break free. It takes all her willpower to suppress it. She presses her fingertips into her thighs until she groans from the pain. She is an Amrohi, after all. And Amrohis don't lose their composure over a mere box of pasta. She has endured far worse. She lets her head fall forward, resting it on the sports steering wheel of her car. The cool leather soothes her as she gently massages her aching temples.
Suddenly, the driver's door of her Mercedes is yanked open, and a vice-like grip clamps onto her upper arm. She's roughly pulled from her seat, stumbling and nearly falling to her knees before she feels the cold metal of a blade pressed against her throat. "Hand over the cash, you rich bitch." The stench of cheap vodka, mingled with stale sweat and cigarettes, assaults her senses, making her gag. She takes several deep breaths through her mouth to stifle the urge to vomit. For the first time, she looks up. She scans the unshaven faces of the three men surrounding her car. Her mind shifts into autopilot, assessing her attackers: all between 5'7" and 5'11", slightly overweight. Their clothes are torn and dirty, signaling homelessness. One sports newer clothes and clean shoes—perhaps a new job but still keeping old company. Two weapons are evident: a gun and the knife still pressed to her throat. She turns her head away in disgust as one of the men runs his rough finger down her face, his skin like sandpaper against her own well-cared-for complexion. Her thoughts race. Would she escape with just an empty wallet, or was there more at risk?
"Hey, get lost!" A voice booms across the desolate, dark parking lot, accompanied by the sound of rapid footsteps. "Leave the lady alone!"
The brown-haired soldier, to whom Aaliyah had earlier conceded the last box of pasta, now stands a few meters from the three attackers. They exchange incredulous glances and burst into derisive laughter, clutching their stomachs. "Oh look, guys, two for the price of one, what a pleasant surprise?" one jeers as he draws his gun and motions the brunette over. "You're making a mistake. Get lost now, and we'll never speak of this again." Their laughter echoes again, harsh and mocking, as the man with the gun aims it at her. "Stand next to the rich bitch, or I'll shoot you, now."
"Last chance," the brunette says calmly, her voice steady despite the brief hesitation before she complies.
Aaliyah observes intently. The woman's poise in her perfectly fitted military pants and tight tank top would have been captivating under different circumstances. Even with the gun trained on her, her expression remains unflinching, her demeanor as composed as a marble statue. Yet, there's an undeniable threat in her chocolate brown eyes, a dangerous undertone in her voice. As she closes the distance and steps deliberately beside Aaliyah, her movements are calculated, reminiscent of a predator stalking its prey. Aaliyah notices the defined muscles in her toned, tattooed arms tense in preparation.
Then, in a blur of motion that Aaliyah struggles to piece together afterward, the scene erupts into chaos.
The brunette swiftly disarms the gunman, striking him hard in the throat. He gasps and collapses to the ground. Almost simultaneously, she incapacitates another attacker with a quick, precise kick to the knee, then reaches for the fallen gun. But as the man with the knife lunges towards her, she reacts a fraction of a second too late. Aaliyah's heart races as she foresees the impending strike. Her scream lodges in her throat as she watches the blade sink deep into the soldiers side. Frozen for a moment, she can only watch in horror.
"Fuck, you asshole," the woman hisses through clenched teeth, swinging the gun to strike the knife-wielder across the head. She then fires three quick shots, each one striking the attackers in their right legs. With each shot, her body jerks back slightly; on the third, she stumbles into Aaliyah, who instinctively opens her arms to catch her. The impact forces the breath from Aaliyah's lungs, and both women collapse to the ground, Aaliyah cradling the injured soldier in her arms. The cold of the pavement seeps through their clothes, mingling with the sharp tang of blood and gunpowder in the air.
"I'm sorry. I'm bleeding all over you." The woman's faint voice pulls Aaliyah from her daze. Aaliyah makes an attempt to rise, to better assess the injury, but the woman's pained groan halts her.
"Please… can you… can we just sit here for a moment?" Her voice cracks, carrying the weight of a desperate plea. Her head falls back onto Aaliyah's right shoulder, her entire body trembling. "It's been… such a damn hard week. I just need to… breathe for a sec." Each word is a struggle, fading into shallow gasps as her breath hitches in her chest.
Aaliyah's instinct kicks in, though her concern is masked by calm professionalism. "I think we should call a doctor to look at your wound," she responds softly, almost on autopilot.
"Just… gimme a minute," the whispered reply is filled with raw emotion, a heart-wrenching plea that tugs at Aaliyah's resolve. With a nod, she relents, her voice gentling to a near whisper. "Okay. I'm here."
Her hands gently stroking the woman's goosebump-pricked, bare arms. Carefully, she feels for the source of the bleeding, her palm finding the warm, sticky fluid seeping from the woman's side. The woman in her arms winces as Aaliyah applies more pressure to the wound to stem the bleeding.
In the distance, sirens begin to wail—a sound all too common in this city. Normally, these sounds fade into the backdrop of urban noise, absorbed by the city's dense maze of brick and stone. Tonight, however, they grow steadily louder, their echo bouncing across the vacant lot. Aaliyah has never felt such relief at the sound of approaching emergency services.
"I…am…Cruz," the injured woman murmurs weakly in her arms.
"Aaliyah. My name is Aaliyah," she replies, a surge of relief washing through her as the flashing lights of the paramedics draw near, cutting through the darkness of the night.
The subsequent minutes transform into a chaotic whirlwind of voices, directives, and screeching tires. Moments bleed into one another, forming a void in Aaliyah's memory, pieces lost that she can't seem to retrieve. She snaps back to reality standing in front of the expansive, softly illuminated mirror in her opulent bathroom. Staring at her hands, stained red, she pulls at the blood-soaked collar of what was once her pristine white Valentino blouse. Blood—so much blood. Memories flood back in an overwhelming surge, emotions crashing over her like a tsunami. Tears, as searing as the lava from Stromboli, the volcano she once visited in Italy, streak down her face. Still sobbing, she steps into the shower, vigorously scrubbing her skin as though she could cleanse away the haunting memories along with the blood. The white tiles of her spacious rain shower catch a faint pink hue from the runoff, and it takes all of Aaliyah's strength to remain upright.
Exiting the shower, she wraps herself in an extravagantly luxurious bathrobe, clutching it around her, seeking comfort in its plush embrace as if it could heal her battered spirit. Her breathing gradually steadies. She dries her hair, brushes her teeth, and washes the last traces of makeup from her face. This routine lends her a semblance of control.
Barefoot, she moves into her living room, crossing the sleek, dark hardwood floors of her penthouse. She pours herself a glass of expensive red wine and watches the red liquid swirl in the glass. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, she gazes out, expecting the usual sparkle of city lights. Instead, her reflection meets her gaze: a woman with weary, exhausted eyes. With a dismissive hiss, she empties the glass in one swift gulp and turns away.
After the police finished their questioning, they remained tight-lipped about the other womans - Cruz, she corrects herself mentally - whereabouts. "National security," they had stated firmly. Aaliyah replays the memory of Cruz's last, radiant smile, those endearing dimples, and the intense, mahagonian gaze as she was loaded into the ambulance.
"National security," Aaliyah murmurs with a soft scoff. Amrohis are not easily dissuaded. As the daughter of Asmar Amrohi, she's inherited enough cunning and criminal energy to not let clichés and regulations hinder her. Amrohis do not simply stand by, waiting for destiny to swing their way. Buoyed by this resolve, Aaliyah grabs her laptop and settles onto her dark sofa, confident that in a few hours, she'll uncover Cruz's location. With a few strategic calls and some diligent research, she soon has the answer she needs.
xxx Seven days later xxx
"Commander Manuelos, you have a visitor. I've sent her away at least ten times in the past week, but she's really persistent."
Cruz's expression morphs into one of disbelief, her eyebrow arching quizzically. Since when did her visitors get announced with such formality? Her friends—Bobby, Tucker, Two Cups and even Tex—usually just barged in with the casual familiarity of those who felt perfectly at home. And who could be so persistent that the very thought of it made Cruz feel a twinge of sympathy for the desperate soldier standing before her? She glances at the clock—it's just before noon. Her gaze drifts to the small window on the 25th floor; the sun is high, bathing the city in a golden light. The sky is a vivid blue, dotted with a few flawlessly shaped clouds—so perfect it almost looks like a painting.
The soldier's cough snaps her back to the present. "Commander?" Cruz nods, indicating she's ready to meet the visitor, whoever it might be. She's already spoken to her mother, who is vacationing in Europe, and wouldn't be returning now that the immediate threat to Cruz's life has subsided. Absentmindedly, Cruz touches the area just below her ribs on her left side. The knife had gone deep, damaging her spleen and puncturing a lung.
The human brain, a curious organ, can be masochistically harsh and protectively fierce in turn. In the moment of the stabbing, it had opted for the latter. Faced with unbearable pain, it chose to erase those memories from Cruz's conscious mind. Reflecting on this, she is startled as a young, elegantly dressed woman with black hair steps into the room. She stands uncertainly in the oversized doorway, offering a tentative, "Hi, Cruz?"
Cruz looks up, her thoughts briefly interrupted. It takes a moment for her brain to sift through the retained fragments of memory. She tilts her head slightly, puzzling out the familiar face. It clicks, and her face lights up with recognition.
"Aaliyah!"
Aaliyah's face lights up, like the sun breaking through a sky shrouded with dark clouds. Bright, radiant, warming. Cruz pushes aside the warm feeling without giving it much thought.
Aaliyah is abruptly shoved aside with the words, "Careful, hot food coming through." Cruz rolls her eyes as the unfriendly nurse sets the tray on the small table in the center of the room without a word.
"Oh…I don't want to disturb you…" Aaliyah's uncertainty is palpable, and Cruz quickly raises a hand. She makes a gagging sound. "The food here is so awful, you couldn't possibly disturb me." Aaliyah laughs.
"Do you have to stay here?" Aaliyah asks cautiously. Cruz tilts her head again, as if trying to understand what's going on in Aaliyah's mind. She slowly shakes her head.
"There's a little Asian place just around the corner…do you want to…?" She's abruptly cut off. "Oh God, YES!" Cruz gets up slowly and carefully. She's already torn her stitches once, and Bobbys scolding was monstrous. Even though she isn't technically a prisoner here, she'd still have to explain her disappearance later. But the food over the past few days has been so bad that Cruz almost lost her appetite—which has never happened before. "Let me just…" and the rest of the sentence fades as she disappears into an adjoining room.
A few minutes later, they walk into the restaurant. It's small, with only seven tables, and although it's shortly before noon, all the tables are still empty. Cruz marvels at the colorful lamps hanging from the ceiling and inhales the aroma of freshly cooked food. She groans with pleasure, which brings a gentle smile to Aaliyah's face. They sit at a table by the window and peruse the menu.
"Yaay, noodles, they got noodles," Cruz exclaims, pumping her fist triumphantly. Aaliyah looks up from her menu, raising an eyebrow. Cruz watches Aaliyah as she studies the menu. Her skin is smooth and pale. Her light eyebrows furrow slightly, and she bites her deeply red painted lips. Her eyes…are they grey? Or maybe green? Cruz can't decide, and her eyes once again fixate on Aaliyahs full, blood red lips.
"Cruz?" Aaliyah looks at her questioningly, and it takes Cruz a moment to realize she's supposed to order. She orders noodles. Aaliyah orders the mixed asian salad with grilled chicken. Of course, Cruz smiles inwardly. She could have sworn the perfectly dressed woman would order a salad. The young Asian waiter leaves their table, and a silence settles over them.
"I...," Aaliyah starts, but then she closes her mouth and lowers her head. She chews on her lips—a nervous habit that she could never really shake off, despite boarding school and the many spiteful comments from her father. Aaliyah learned early to control her facial expressions, to train her features so that no emotion is visible. But in moments like these, when uncertainty creeps up her spine agonizingly slow like a demon from her past, when the carefully maintained mask of self-confidence falls despite all her efforts, Aaliyah reverts to old habits. Her hand rests on the table, her fingers absentmindedly tracing nonsensical shapes on the tabletop as she searches for the right words.
A warm hand covers hers, and she looks up. Cruz smiles encouragingly. The rough, scarred feel of Cruz's palm against the back of her hand and the gentle, reassuring pressure of Cruz's fingers help Aaliyah finally find her voice.
"I wanted to thank you, for saving me."
"It's okay." Cruz smiles.
There are a thousand things Aaliyah wants to say. That, no, it's not okay, that Cruz got hurt because of her. That she didn't have to care about a stranger. She looks down at her hands. Cruz's hand is still on hers. Slowly, Aaliyah turns her hand over and looks up. Cruz has tilted her head to the side, as if eagerly waiting to hear what Aaliyah will say next. The pleasant sensation of Cruz's fingertips lightly brushing against her palm and the inside of her hand makes her look down again. She curls her fingers, entwining them with Cruz's, and as if it's the most natural thing in the world, Cruz mirrors the movement. Her thumb gently strokes Aaliyah's soft skin. Soothing. Encouraging.
Aaliyah lifts her head again. There's so much to say. But instead, words slip out whose meaning she only understands after they've been spoken.
"I've never been worth protecting before," she whispers softly.
The moment is abruptly interrupted as the waiter approaches their table. They quickly withdraw their hands while the waiter places their plates on the table and rushes off with an "Enjoy your meal." Aaliyah looks around and sees that the restaurant has filled up in the last fifteen minutes, with all tables now occupied. There's a brief, awkward silence. Until Cruz lets out another groan, theatrically leaning back in her chair with her head tilted back. Aaliyah laughs, "Do you two need a minute alone?" she asks with a teasing grin. Cruz's ears feel hot, and she's sure they're bright red. "Easy for you to say, you didn't have to endure hospital food for days," she replies with a playful pout.
The conversation remains light and easy. They talk about everything and nothing. Favorite foods, favorite restaurants in the city, favorite dishes to cook, and the best places to buy groceries. They avoid heavy topics, and Aaliyah brushes off questions about her job with a simple "I work in the energy sector." The fact that Cruz apparently doesn't know who she is gives Aaliyah a long-forgotten sense of freedom. The moment Cruz discovers her true identity would come soon enough.
Aaliyah glances at the round face of her slim, golden Patek Philippe. She needs to get back to the office; she's already going to be about 30 minutes late. She waves the waiter over and pays the bill after a brief argument with Cruz, which Aaliyah, of course, wins.
Together, they step out into the afternoon sun, and Cruz tilts her head back, enjoying the warmth on her skin. Aaliyah looks at her from the side. She's a bit pale. Paler than a week ago. The hospital air doesn't seem to be doing her any good — getting stabbed probably doesn't help either, Aaliyah finishes the thought. "We should do this again," Cruz says with a lightness in her voice that makes Aaliyah envious. Just moments ago, Aaliyah had wanted to say the same thing but had kept reformulating it in her mind. She didn't want to sound too needy. Or pushy. But the fear of potential rejection kept her silent, the demon of her own insecurity firmly perched on her shoulder.
She turns and, in a moment of bravery, hands Cruz her iPhone. "Would you spare me the hours of searching for you next time?" After a charming smile, she has Cruz's number and is typing her own into Cruz's phone.
"Should I walk you back?" she asks hesitantly. But Cruz shakes her head. "You need to go; I can feel how nervous you are."
They embrace to say goodbye, holding on a second too long. The hug is gentle, to avoid stressing Cruz's wound, but Aaliyah finds it hard to let go. The warm breath against her ear and Cruz's words, "For me, you're worth protecting," make Aaliyah freeze. All the words she had wanted to say as a farewell stick in her throat. "Thank you," she murmurs as they finally break the embrace. She waves to Cruz one last time before getting into a taxi. Her head of security and her driver are going to kill her.
xxx Three days later xxx
The days that follow are nothing short of chaotic, a whirlwind of high-stakes decisions and relentless pressure. Aaliyah Amrohi, recently appointed CEO of Amrohi Industries—a multi-billion-dollar gas and oil giant—navigates the storm with practiced precision. After her father's shocking arrest for his alleged connections to terrorist organizations, accusations of financing these groups, laundering money through the company, and even complicity in murder, Aaliyah has been thrust into a position of immense responsibility. The shadow of her father's scandal looms large over the company, but Aaliyah moves through the chaos with an unshakable determination to rebuild the company's reputation and guide it toward a stronger future.
Meetings blur into one another, yet Aaliyah remains always one step ahead. Discussions with her PR department about the ongoing crisis management are handled with a firm hand, as she fights to control the narrative of Amrohi Industries in the media. Her CFO provides her with updates on the global financial situation, but Aaliyah is already mentally calculating the long-term impacts of the scandal, forecasting trends in the gas and oil industry, and devising strategies to protect the company from further damage.
Teleconferences with international divisions in Australia, Japan, and Europe consume much of her day. Each decision Aaliyah makes sends ripples across the globe, and in every call, the weight of her leadership is felt. The company's future rests on her shoulders, and Aaliyah's voice—measured and commanding—steadies the ship in turbulent waters.
When a critical engineering flaw threatens one of Amrohi Industries' largest oil exploration projects, Aaliyah doesn't hesitate to intervene. With the company's reputation and billions in investments at stake, she dives deep into the technical details, examining the miscalculations made by her team of engineers. Despite her executive role, Aaliyah's hands-on approach ensures that corrections are made swiftly. Within hours, the issue is resolved, allowing the project to move forward without delay, further proving her capability as the newly appointed leader of the global oil powerhouse. It's in these moments—when Amrohi Industries's future hangs in the balance—that Aaliyah's significance is undeniable. She's not only repairing the damage her father caused but is also shaping the company's destiny, proving she is more than just the successor to a tarnished legacy. She is the driving force steering Amrohi Industries toward a brighter, scandal-free future.
Now, it's past 11 PM and she has just endured a grueling, nearly three-hour meeting with the board members of Amrohi Industries discussing quarterly earnings, a pay raise for the entire staff, and the urgently needed daycare facility. As the chairwoman of the board and CEO, she has the power to decide these matters on her own—but that simply isn't done. So, she withstands the insipid arguments of the greedy, old white men, only to corner them with facts and figures until they desperately concede.
"What a glorious waste of time," she mutters frustratedly as she steps into the elevator to the underground parking garage. She checks her phone. No new messages. She slips it back into her pocket and taps her fingers on the metallic handrail of the elevator. She looks at the display again. She unlocks it and opens the messaging app. She scrolls through the hundreds of messages she's exchanged with Cruz over the past three days. She reads each one until she reaches her message from this morning.
"Do you have time for lunch today?" That was nearly 16 hours ago. No response from Cruz. She had tried calling her just before noon. The call went straight to voicemail. Cruz hasn't called back.
She types a message, then deletes it. For what feels like the thousandth time today. Did she say or write something wrong? Did she, Aaliyah Amrohi, ruin everything with a bang and a crash? Was she too weird? Or too boring? Or did Cruz find out who Aaliyah really is and decided to cut off contact? Frustrated, she leaves the elevator and walks across the cobblestone courtyard in front Amrohi Industries Headquarters. The majestic building looms behind her against the dark night sky, its upper floor silhouettes reflecting the city lights. Aaliyah climbs into the car where Matthew, her chauffeur, is already waiting.
"Is everything okay?" Her finger hovers over the send button. She sighs and presses it. Then she tosses the phone into her bag with a huff and stares absently out the window.
The city's lights blur into a hazy mosaic as they drive through the streets, her thoughts drifting like flotsam on a turbulent sea of uncertainty. The rhythmic hum of the engine is almost soothing, a stark contrast to the tempest inside her mind. Each unanswered question is like a stone thrown into a pond, sending ripples of doubt and anxiety through her consciousness.
So, any thoughts on this one?
