CONNECTED HEARTS

27: The Intriguing Enigma

Kaltoom's POV

I'd been sleeping like a corpse ever since we returned from Niger, probably thanks to the exhaustion of traveling. Faruk had been waiting at the airport and swooped me away, despite the Salmans offering to drop me off. I didn't mind, though I'd missed my brother terribly. It felt strange not having Khalid's constant presence, but Faruk had been glued to me since I finished boarding school. I was used to having him around, so it felt nice to slip back into our old rhythm.

My family was overjoyed to have me home. Ammi made sure the Salmans were fed before they left, her usual brand of hospitality on full display. Now, as I sat lost in thought, my phone vibrated and snapped me back. Amani had been blowing it up nonstop. I couldn't help but chuckle,she'd been on my mind a lot since I got back, and clearly, she wasn't letting me forget her either.

When I finally picked up, Amani announced she was just two minutes away from the house. I dragged myself to the shower, but by the time I came out, she was already sprawled across my bed, chatting away on the phone. It turned out to be her brother, Salman,the globe-trotter who worked in Mexico and was barely ever around.

She demanded a full debrief of our trip to China and Maradi. I filled her in with all the juicy details, scrolling through pictures of Raudha and Nidhal. Amani pouted dramatically.
"I'm so jealous they stole my BFF's!" she whined.
I grinned. "Relax, it was just for a day, dumbass."
She mouthed a sheepish 'right', and I laughed.

We headed to Ammi's room, disturbing her peace on the balcony, then drifted downstairs, following the heavenly aroma wafting from the kitchen. The dining table was already set, my stomach growling on cue. I grabbed a can of Hollandia, Amani went for fruit juice, and we took our seats.

Ammi had outdone herself Waina with vegetable and liver sauce, roasted chicken, plus an assortment of local drinks: Chapman, kunun aya, zobo. The sight alone was enough to make me swoon. And then came dessert: red velvet cake, cupcakes, and coconut rice. My jaw dropped.

"Ammi, you are the best!" Amani gushed.
I grinned at Mom. "And we love you, just so you know."

We dove in. My plate was stacked embarrassingly high with Waina and sauce when Ammi appeared with Abee. She gave us a sly smile.
"I set this table for my husband, not for two unproductive fellows," she teased.

We both greeted Abee before dissolving into more food rants. He just laughed and told us to sit down properly. No one needed to tell us twice we were already halfway through devouring the spread.

Faruk joined us midway, but by then Amani and I were already polishing off dessert. Aishatu was tasked with clearing the untouched drinks. I grabbed a glass of Chapman, fragrant and fizzy, and wandered out to the garden with my phone. A couple of missed calls blinked back at me Laila and Adyan. I returned Laila's first; she turned it into a video call, as expected. Then I rang Adyan.

Amani pretended to give me space, but I knew she was eavesdropping somewhere nearby. Adyan and I ended up talking for almost an hour an hour that flew by. Our conversation was so easy it almost startled me. By the time I hung up, I was grinning like an idiot.

A week slipped by, pulling me back into routine. Part of me wished I were in Egypt, soaking up Arab culture, but honestly? I'd still choose my family Mom, Dad, Khalid, and Faruk and of course, my girls, Amani and Laila.

And... if I was being honest? Somewhere in the back of my mind, there was that tiny voice whispering, "Adyyyyaaan." When did I become this obsessed with Mr. Ego? Ugh. Hopeless. Totally hopeless. Or maybe not? He wasn't that bad.

Life had found a rhythm again school, sleepovers, indulgences courtesy of our brothers. Khalid's absence still stung; I missed stealing his tees. Dad and Faruk spoiled me silly, while Mom's scolding kept me from floating too high. But Adyan? That enigma had ghosted. Two weeks. Not a single call. I visited the Salmans' mansion a few times, but he was nowhere. I couldn't dare ask about him Laila would roast me alive, and asking his mom? Impossible.

The mystery deepened.

I tried calling him twice. Both times, he sounded too busy, too tired. I gave up. Fine. Two could play that game.

That Thursday evening, the rain had left the air cool and clean. I grabbed my car keys, telling Mom I was off to Amani's. She reminded me not to stay too long. I slid into the driver's seat, Maher Zain's "Rahmatu lil Alameen" filling the car as I drove. My phone buzzed nonstop, but I ignored it. Honestly, I wasn't even sure I'd make it to Amani's. Maybe I'd just circle the city, clear my head, and head home.

Then the phone beeped again. I glanced at the screen.

Adyan Salman.

My stomach dropped. Heat flooded my cheeks. My heart sprinted.

But no,cool face. Calm voice. I cleared my throat before answering.
"Hey... as-salamu alaykum?"

He sighed heavily before replying. "Wa 'alaykum salam. Where are you? You gave me a fright."

I smirked, even though he couldn't see it. "Oh, so you care?"

He chuckled, and that sound alone paired with his strange, undefined accent threw me off balance. It wasn't American. Not British. Not even Nigerian.
Just... Adyan.

"Come on, I'm at your house. Are you on your way back or...?"

I cut him off quickly. "On my way home." Then hung up, pulling a sharp U-turn.

Amani would murder me for ditching, but she'd forgive me once she heard who it was for.

When I reached the gate, his car was already parked outside. Not just any car a brand-new Mercedes C300 4Matic. My pulse skipped. I freshened up fast, slicked on lip gloss, slid into a coffee-brown jilbab over my black abaya, spritzed Dior, and checked the mirror. Decent.

In the guest parlor, I found Mom chatting with him. They both turned when I entered.
"As-salamu alaykum," I greeted softly.

They answered warmly. Mom excused herself, leaving the two of us alone.

Adyan rose as I sat. The first thing I noticed? His Armani sunglasses tucked casually in his pocket, a deep-blue kaftan that looked custom-stitched, a Gucci watch glinting on his wrist. He didn't just look good, he looked like trouble.

My heart did a double beat. "Astaghfirullah," I muttered under my breath.

He moved closer, sitting on the sofa opposite mine, but leaning just enough that his presence pressed against me.

"Still upset with me?" he asked suddenly, his voice smooth and teasing.

I shot him a glare. "Who said I was upset? And for what exactly?"

His smirk deepened, dimples cutting into his cheeks. My breath stuttered.

I mentally slapped myself. Stop swooning.

But honestly? Resistance felt impossible.

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