Chapter Four: Lamija
Lamija stepped off the elevator mid-text, heels clicking a little too fast down the executive hallway.
“Has the prodigal son returned?” she called, eyes still on her screen.
Zeynep, behind the front desk and ready as always, replied without looking up. “Look who remembered she has a brother.”
Lamija finally glanced up, smirking, and waved the pastry bag in her hand like a white flag. “Peace offering.”
Zeynep snorted. “If it’s from Baklava Bar, you might be forgiven.”
Lamija winked and didn’t slow. She knocked once and walked into Imran’s office.
Imran had been back in Sarajevo for less than twelve hours, and she’d barely replied to his messages while he was gone. He hadn’t complained—yet. But if she knew her brother (and she did), the guilt trip would be subtle, relentless, and dressed in sarcasm.
He looked up from his screen with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Still jet-lagged, still over-caffeinated—but when he saw what she held, he leaned back with mock reverence.
“You come bearing gifts?”
She set the bag on his desk with unnecessary ceremony. “From your favorite place. I didn’t forget.”
“Sure felt like it,” he muttered, opening the bag and pulling out a chocolate-filled krofna still warm enough to fog the paper. “I texted you six times.”
“Three,” she corrected.. “And one was just a gif of a man crying into his coffee cup.” She dropped into the chair opposite him, smug.
“A symbolic cry for help.”
“I was busy.”
“You were avoiding.”
Lamija shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe a little of both.”
Imran took a bite, melted chocolate catching at the corner of his mouth, and let out a low groan of approval. He waved the half-eaten krofna at her like it was evidence of her redemption. “You’re forgiven. Barely.”
She smiled and leaned back, gaze drifting around the room. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms. His blazer was slung over the back of his chair. The air smelled like bergamot, warm pastry, and old jokes.
The office felt exactly the way it should. Like he never left.
“I missed you,” she said softly.
He looked up, startled by the sincerity. “Wow. No sarcasm. Did I die on that last flight and this is heaven?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
He grinned, settling back in his chair. “I missed you too. Even if you pretended I didn’t exist for a week.”
Lamija smirked. “You’re emotionally high-maintenance. I was giving you space.”
“You were giving yourself space. Big difference.”
She didn’t argue.
Imran finished the last bite of krofna. Lamija wasn't entirely sure he was chewing at all between bites. Powdered sugar clung to his shirt and stubble. He didn’t care.
She leaned back, arms folded, studying him with amusement. “Alright. Start Talking. How was Zurich?”
He groaned dramatically. “Long. Boring. Expensive. If I hear the word ‘synergy’ one more time, I’m throwing myself into the Miljacka.”
“Sounds like a raging success.”
“Oh, it gets better. Zoran’s assistant double-booked him. I got a ten-minute call and handshake in a lobby that smelled like mildew.”
She raised an unimpressed brow. “That’s the same guy who pitched a fleet merger last year?”
“The very one.”
Lamija snorted. “Let me guess—he sent you a bottle of rakija as an apology?”
“Worse. A fruit basket. With a handwritten card that said ‘fruitful partnership.’”
She gagged. “Corporate poetry. My favorite.”
Imran smirked. “On the bright side, The Turkish Investor’s son asked about you.”
Her brows lifted, amused. “Which one?”
“The one with the yacht and the ego to match.”
She leaned forward. “He asked about me?”
“Said—and I quote—‘How’s the one with the horse and the stare that could kill a man?’”
Lamija burst out laughing. “At least he’s observant.”
Imran relaxed deeper into his chair. “What’d I miss here? How’s the circus?”
She rolled her eyes, affection curling around the motion. “Where do I begin? Caesar is being spiteful. Glorious. He’s been ignoring me for two days straight. Mirsad says we’re slipping.”
“Didn’t you just win gold three months ago?”
“That was three months ago. In Caesar’s mind, I’ve abandoned him.”
“Reasonable. The fact that Caesar is the first one you choose to tell me about out of our family says something about your priorities.”
“Clearly they are in order. Also, he bit Adem.”
Imran burst out laughing. “Again?”
“He is convinced he can ride him. Tried to bribe him with sugar cubes.”
Imran leaned back, laughing. “He bribed the most arrogant stallion in Europe like he was a toddler at a petting zoo?”
Lamija smirked. “Caesar took the cubes, then bit him anyway. He respects the hustle, not the handler.”
“Adem will never learn.”
“He’s convinced Caesar’s just misunderstood.”
“He is. He’s misunderstood by Adem.”
They both grinned, the kind of smile that only existed between siblings who’d survived the same brand of beautiful chaos.
“Amina?” Imran asked.
Lamija’s expression shifted—still soft, but laced with pride now. “Solid as ever. She’s halfway through her midterms and still managing to tutor Tarik through most of his classes.”
Imran blinked. “Still?”
“He’d be failing without her. She rewrote his last essay because he forgot it was due. Made him sit with her afterward and explain every sentence back. He didn’t even complain.”
Imran let out a low whistle. “She’s too good for him.”
“She makes the rest of us look like we were raised by wolves.”
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“We were. She’s a lamb in a house full of wolves.”
Lamija smiled—gentle, but with steel underneath.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDjy64sECsJ
“The most protected lamb in Sarajevo.”
Imran huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. Heaven help the idiot who tries her.”
The smile lingered as he leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “And Mama?”
Lamija’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh, she’s furious with you.”
Imran groaned. “What now?”
“She said—and I quote—‘He’s twenty-seven, not seventy. How many times do I have to tell him, you cannot marry your job!’
He blinked. “She actually said that?”
Lamija nodded. “Right before she accused you of being emotionally married to your desk.”
“I mean…fair.”
“She said you’re turning into Baba. All work, no play, no girl, no grandchildren. She’s devastated.”
Imran dragged a hand over his face. “She’s being dramatic...”
“No, she is properly mad. Said the house feels like a mausoleum. And then she made du’a—something about God softening stone hearts and opening stubborn eyes.”
“She needs a new hobby.”
“She has one. It’s finding you a wife.”
Imran winced. “I think Allah is punishing me for my conversation with Ayub earlier.”
““Oh it gets worse. She wants grandchildren, Imran. She said your ovaries are aging.”
He blinked. “My what?”
“I didn’t correct her. She was on a roll.”
Imran stared at her, horrified. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, immensely. I said we should start shortlisting girls who know how to make burek and survive our family.”
“She’s going to start leaving profiles on my pillow again, isn’t she?”
“She already did. There’s a girl from Zenica with a degree in economics and a documented love of cats.”
“Lamija—”
“Don’t worry,” she said, grabbing his coffee and taking a sip. “I already gave her your resume.”
“I hate you.”
“Not more than she hates how single you are.”
Imran opened his mouth to respond—but then closed it again, clearly out of ammunition.
And Lamija just smiled, triumphant.
“I’m never going to know peace again.”
“Nope. Not until you give her a wedding or a grandchild.”
“Honestly, she might even settle for a girlfriend. Hell she’d settle for a rumor at this point.”
Imran groaned and buried his face in his hands. “You were supposed to protect me.”
Lamija just smiled—unapologetic.
Imran didn’t miss a beat. “So… what’d you think of the switch?”
That surprised her. Not visibly—but Imran knew her too well. He caught the flicker in her expression before she buried it.
“He asked to be reassigned?” she asked, careful.
“Begged, actually. Looked like he hadn’t slept.”
She hesitated. “Did you approve it?”
He gave her a look. “You think I’d let him crawl out of this now? After all these years of dramatic pining?”
Lamija stared at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re pretending you didn’t notice the way he used to vanish when you walked into a room.”
She rolled her eyes. “I thought he was just allergic to women.”
“No. Just one particular woman.”
Lamija shook her head, half-exasperated. “Imran…”
He raised a hand. “Look. I’m just saying… be gentle.”
“I’m always gentle,” she said flatly.
Imran snorted. “You once made a customs agent cry.”
“He called me sweetheart. In front of the board.”
“I’m not judging. I’m just saying Ayub isn’t Kenan. He’s not playing games. He’s not angling for your attention. He’s been running from it for years.”
Her expression shifted—only slightly. A softening in the jaw. A flicker of something unreadable behind her eyes.
“He fell for you a long time ago,” Imran said, more gently now. “And he’s spent every minute since then trying not to show it.”
Lamija looked away.
Silence stretched between them for a few beats, held together by the hum of the building waking around them.
Then:
“Fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll be gentle.”
Imran smiled. “That’s all I ask.”
She stood, brushing invisible crumbs off her dress. “Now eat your guilt pastry and get back to work.”
As she reached the door, Imran called after her, voice too casual. “You know, if you marry him, I expect a finder’s fee.”
“Imran.”
“Something small. A vacation villa. With enough rooms for all these grandchildren Mama expects me to have.”
“Goodbye, Imran.”
She shut the door behind her before he could say another word. But the smile stayed—lingering like the promise of something she wasn’t ready to name.
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