Lemon & Light (Selma's POV)

Sanel didn't have a fever.

No runny nose. No cough. No tantrum.

Just quiet.

And somehow that was worse.

I leaned against the edge of my desk, phone wedged between my shoulder and cheek, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose as I stared down at my half-empty coffee. I'd reheated it twice. Still hadn't touched it.

"He cried when I dropped him off," I told the woman on the other end of the daycare line. "Didn't throw a fit. Didn't beg me to stay. Just... stood there. Like he was bracing for something."

I laughed softly, but it felt brittle. "I know it sounds dramatic. He's fine. He's safe. I just... I don't know."

"We'll keep an extra eye on him today," she said gently. "If anything seems off, we'll call right away."

"Thank you," I whispered. "Really."

I hung up and stared at my phone. My thumb hovered like I might call back, ask for an update, ask if he was smiling yet.

He was probably fine. But this morning had been harder than usual. I couldn't explain it—there were no symptoms. No obvious reason to stay home.

Just that heavy, aching feeling in my chest.

When I mentioned it to Lamija over coffee in her office earlier, she didn't dismiss it or tell me to shake it off like most people would.

Instead, she'd looked up from her laptop and said, "Then let's fix it."

She'd gone full Begović within seconds—already plotting solutions before I could even finish my thought.

"On-site daycare," she said, flipping to a blank page in her notebook. "That way you're close. You can pop in. Eat lunch with him. Leave the door open if it helps."

I blinked. "You're serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she shrugged. "We've got unused space on the first floor. HR has the budget. If the board asks, we pitch it as a wellness incentive. Retention, productivity, whatever corporate language gets them to sign off."

I didn't know what to say. I never do when it comes to them.

The Begovićs were nothing if not generous. They threw money and power around like it belonged to all of us—and maybe it did. Not just wealth, but protection. Loyalty. A kind of quiet, unspoken safety net.

Imran, Lamija, and their father. They were the influence.

And somehow, I—Selma, the girl who married too young and left too late—had been folded into that.

I still didn't understand why.

But I remembered the day it changed.

I was standing in Lamija's office, shaking. Eyes red. Voice cracking. I'd said the words I'd never thought I'd say out loud: "He said he'd kill me if I left."

Lamija had gone still.

Imran, standing in the doorway, had asked for his name.

Two days later, my ex-husband was in the hospital.

I didn't ask questions. I never would.

But I knew this: it was expensive. It wasn't legal.

And he never came near me or my son again.

The Begovićs never mentioned it. Never hinted at what they did or how far they went. They just made sure I was safe. That Sanel was protected. That I had a place in this building—and in their orbit.

So when Imran snapped at me this morning... it shouldn't have stung as much as it did.

But it did.

He hadn't been himself. The tension was already in the room before Lamija and I walked through the door. Still, I'd felt small. Like I didn't belong. Like I'd overstepped just by existing.

Lamija hadn't flinched. She'd stared him down like he was a child who threw juice across the table.

I'd slipped out before I could say something dumb. Told myself not to take it personally. Told myself he probably didn't mean it.

But it was hard.

Because it was him.

Imran Begović—heir to the most powerful family in Sarajevo. A man who wore suits like armor and handled boardrooms with the same precision Talha used in the ring.

And I was... a single mom with a cracked foundation and a good lemon shortbread recipe.

My phone buzzed.

Lamija: Skipping lunch. Conference call with Emir and Ayub. Coffee at your place after work?

I started typing a reply when the door creaked open.

I looked up.

Imran.

My heart did something stupid.

"Lamija's in the conference room with Emir and Ayub," I said, expecting that's who he was here for.

He grinned. "As much as I'd love to watch that circus show, I actually came to see you."

I blinked. "Oh."

He was ridiculous.

Black suit, no tie. Collar loosened. Shirt sleeves rolled once at the wrist—like the formality was just for show and he could shrug it off any time he wanted. His watch glinted when he moved. His hair, somehow, managed to look both perfectly styled and like he'd just run a hand through it in frustration.

And that smile. God help me, that smile.

Easy. Effortless. Like he didn't even know what it did to people. To me.

"Tell me about this idea," he said.

"It's Lamija's," I deflected automatically.

"I want to hear it from you."

My mouth went dry. My fingers fidgeted with a pen that didn't need adjusting.

"Sanel's fine," I said. "It's just... he seemed off this morning. And I thought maybe if there was a daycare on-site, I could check in. Be close. It's selfish, I guess. Probably not what the company wants. Forget it, it's not—"

"I think it's a great idea."

I stopped rambling.

He held my gaze, voice calm. "Don't do this for me. You've done enough."

His frown deepened. "Selma. You're important to Lamija. And to me. That doesn't mean we approve your ideas out of pity. This one's smart. It's practical. And you're not the only one who needs it—you're just the only one brave enough to say it."

I didn't know what to say to that. The idea of seeing Sanel at lunch—of not spending every day wondering if he was okay—overwhelmed me.

"I also owe you an apology," Imran said. "Lamija told me I acted like an ass. She wasn't wrong."

"You don't have to—"

"I do. That's not how we work."

We were quiet for a moment.

Then the printer outside my office whirred to life. Ayub passed the doorway, papers in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled and his expression stormy.

"Rough day?" Imran called.

Ayub flipped him off without stopping.

I raised a brow. "I can't tell if he wants to strangle your sister or kiss her."

Imran laughed. "Knowing my sister? Probably both."

And for the first time in days, I laughed with him.