The sun filtered through the glass walls of Libaas's sleek conference room as Nuha Hafeez strode in, her heels clacking against the polished floor—a sound that announced her presence with authority. She was dressed in a tailored brown blazer suit paired with a cream silk blouse, her dark brown hair slicked back into a flawless low bun. A golden wristwatch with a brown leather strap glimmered on her wrist as she glanced at it briefly. Always on time.

The marketing team waited, their laptops open and papers neatly arranged. The finance head, Mr. Sohail Chaudry, a balding man in his fifties, sat near the head of the table, his expression a mix of impatience and skepticism.

“Let’s begin,” Nuha said, taking her seat and opening her laptop.

The team delved into their updates, presenting a list of potential celebrities who could serve as the brand ambassador for Libaas. None were A-listers, but each had a clean public image, decent social media engagement, and a connection with the target audience. Nuha listened intently, jotting down pros and cons for each option as the discussion unfolded.

“We’ve shortlisted two actresses who fit the bill,” a young marketing associate explained, gesturing to their slides. “But there’s also an alternative option to consider—an Instagram model. It would cut costs and still give us significant exposure since it benefits both the model and the company.”

Nuha leaned forward, her brows slightly raised. “Interesting,” she murmured, scanning the data on the slide.

“I think we can balance both approaches,” she said after a moment. “Let’s keep the actresses for the main campaign—they’ll elevate the brand image. But for marketing individual articles on the website and other platforms, models would be ideal.”

The team nodded in agreement, though it was clear not everyone shared the same enthusiasm. Nuha welcomed the diverse opinions—it kept the ideas flowing.

Mr. Chaudry, however, remained unusually quiet throughout the meeting, his thin lips pressed together in disapproval. Nuha could sense the tension but ignored it.

As the meeting wrapped up, Nuha stayed behind to type her notes, her focus sharp and unwavering. Team members began to trickle out, leaving only a handful behind, including Mr. Chaudry and a few of his loyalists.

When the room was nearly empty, Chaudry spoke up. “Ms. Nuha, may I?”

Nuha looked up from her laptop, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp. “Go ahead.”

He cleared his throat, his tone deceptively polite. “As someone with more experience, I feel I must offer you some advice. You’re spending far too much on advertising. This company doesn’t need all these grand campaigns.”

Nuha leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “What do you suggest instead?” she asked evenly.

Chaudry fumbled for a moment, his confidence faltering. “Well... as a young woman, you’ve got other priorities. Family, for instance. A business of this scale can be overwhelming. And, well... your reputation precedes you.” He chuckled, his words coated in mock concern.

Nuha’s jaw tightened, but she maintained her composure. Closing her laptop with deliberate calm, she rose to her feet and walked toward him, her heels echoing in the now-quiet room.

“I asked for a suggestion about the company, not a jab at my personal life,” she said, her voice clear and firm, her dark eyes locking onto his.

Chaudry let out a sheepish laugh, holding up his hands defensively. “No offense intended, of course. All I’m saying is, you’re juggling too much. You need someone to help—a secretary, perhaps.”

Nuha tilted her head slightly, her expression cool and unyielding. “You’re right. I do need a secretary,” she said. “I’ll email HR today. And just so you know, I’ll personally select the candidates.”

She turned and walked back to her desk, dismissing him with a simple, “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Chaudry. That will be all.”

As Chaudry and his group shuffled out, Nuha sat down, opened her laptop, and drafted the email. There was no time for distractions or unsolicited advice—she had a company to run.

---

Nasr jolted awake to the harsh blare of an alarm. It wasn’t his. It was his roommate's—the third one this morning. He groaned, tugging the blanket over his head to drown out the noise, but it was no use. The room was a cacophony of zipping bags, clattering dishes, and loud conversations about the day's plans.

He sat up, his hair disheveled, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He wanted to throw a chair at the chaos-makers, but there was no room to do so in the cramped space. “Why can’t they be quiet?” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the backs of his roommates.

As the last of them finally left, the small apartment fell into an uneasy silence. Nasr thought he could finally steal an extra hour of sleep. He tossed and turned, his body aching for rest, but sleep had abandoned him. Frustrated, he threw the blanket aside and got up.

The cold tile floor sent a shiver through him as he walked to the bathroom, carrying his towel. A quick shower washed away some of his fatigue but did little to lift his mood. In the kitchen, his breakfast—chai and a fried egg—sat cold on the counter. He reheated the tea, took out two slices of bread from a loaf that had seen better days, and ate in solitude.

Nasr had no time to sulk. He got dressed, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and headed to the bus stop. On the way, he pulled out his phone and dialed his mother on WhatsApp.

The call connected, and the screen lit up with her face. She wore a thick woolen cap under her bald head, her smile radiant despite her frail appearance.

“Kaisay ho, beta?” she asked, her voice slightly wheezy from the smog that blanketed Lahore, exacerbating her already inflamed lungs.

“Alhamdulillah, Ammi,” Nasr replied with a warm smile. He wasn’t okay—late nights and restless mornings weighed on him—but he had enough, and that was better than nothing. At least he was able to send money back for her treatment.

Ayesha, his cousin, appeared in the background, feeding his mother. “Bohat khayal rakhti hai mera,” his mother said with pride, her smile widening. She praised Ayesha for taking her to every appointment, managing the household chores, and making her feel cherished.

Nasr listened, his heart swelling with gratitude for Ayesha's dedication. For a brief moment, as he rode the bus, life didn’t feel as heavy.

At the stop near the public library, Nasr stepped off, still on the call. “Acha, Ammi. Main parhnay ja raha hoon.” He told her he had to end the call to focus on his studies before his evening shift.

“Allah tumhein kaamyabi de, beta,” she said, her voice full of warmth and prayer.

Nasr pocketed his phone and walked into the library, heading to the computer section. He had enrolled in an online course for administrative and communication skills—basic tools to improve his chances of securing and excelling in a secretary position. His brows furrowed as he absorbed information about email etiquette, managing schedules, and organizing meetings.

---

At Libaas, Nuha walked into her office, placing her laptop on the sleek wooden desk. She took a quick glance at her calendar before heading down to the 10th floor, where her team of fashion designers worked. The hum of sewing machines and muted conversations filled the air as she stepped in.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she greeted, her tone professional yet warm.

Most of the designers here were her former university colleagues, people she had trusted and brought on board as her business grew. In the early days, payment depended solely on sales, but as Libaas expanded to include jewelry, abayas, and a broader range of eastern attire, she transitioned to monthly salaries with commission incentives for exceptional sales.

Nuha headed to her private workspace. Inside, a dress mannequin stood waiting, adorned in the skeleton of what would be her university friend's wedding dress. Closing the door behind her, she slipped off her blazer, hung it neatly, and rolled up her sleeves.

She worked meticulously, her hands steady and precise. Gold threads intertwined with delicate beadwork, forming intricate floral patterns. She added tiny, shimmering faux diamonds, ensuring each one was placed with symmetry and care. The fabric—a luxurious champagne silk—flowed like water over the mannequin.

Hours passed as she stitched, pinned, and adjusted, losing herself in the art of creation. The room grew darker as the sun dipped below the horizon, unnoticed by Nuha until she finally leaned back to assess her progress. The dress sparkled under the overhead light, a testament to her dedication and skill.

The office was almost empty now, the designers long gone. Nuha let out a sigh, her back aching but her mind satisfied. Draping a protective cover over the dress, she gathered her things and prepared to leave, knowing tomorrow would bring another long day.