The Parking Lot Princess
"Zainab works at her father's cash and carry, dreaming of escape. When new accountant Tariq joins, he sees beyond the stock shelves to the woman she's meant to become."
The Parking Lot Princess
"You're wasting yourself here."
Zainab looked up from the inventory she was counting. The new accountant—Tariq Something—was leaning against the warehouse shelves with an expression she couldn't read.
"Excuse me?"
"You have a business degree from Warwick. You speak four languages. And you're counting boxes of Shan masala." He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because my father needs help and I'm the only one who stayed." She went back to counting. "Not all of us get to choose our paths."
"Everyone chooses. Some just tell themselves they didn't."
"That's very philosophical for an accountant."
"I contain multitudes." He smiled and left.
She couldn't stop thinking about him.
Tariq was everywhere—examining ledgers, reorganizing the back office, making her father laugh for the first time since her mother died. And always, always watching her with those knowing eyes.
"Why do you care what I do?" she finally asked.
"Because potential wasted makes me sad." He looked up from his laptop. "And because I've been where you are. Stuck. Obligated. Convinced there's no other way."
"What changed?"
"Someone saw me. Pushed me. Made me angry enough to prove them wrong." He stood, moving closer. "Let me be that for you."
"Why?"
"Because you deserve more. And because—" He hesitated. "Because I can't stop thinking about you, Zainab. Since my first day."
She kissed him first.
Behind the pallets of rice in the warehouse, hidden from cameras, she pulled him close and kissed him like her life depended on it.
"This is unprofessional," he muttered.
"I don't care." She kissed him again. "Make me feel something other than stuck."
He groaned and lifted her onto a pallet, his accountant's hands surprisingly sure. "If we do this—"
"Less talking."
They made love surrounded by inventory—romantic it wasn't, but real it was.
Tariq worshipped her like she was precious, not just the shopkeeper's daughter. "You're incredible," he breathed. "Don't ever let anyone make you feel small."
"I feel a lot of things right now. Small isn't one of them."
He laughed and kissed her deeper.
When he entered her, Zainab felt something unlock—possibility, hope, the wild notion that her story wasn't finished.
"Meri jaan," he gasped. "Let me help you escape. Not from here—from the idea that here is all you can be."
"How?"
"We'll start a consultancy. Your languages, my numbers. Help other Pakistani businesses modernize." His hips moved faster. "Build something of our own."
She came with his vision in her ears and his body in hers, and it felt like the beginning of everything.
"My father will never approve," she said afterward.
"He already does. I asked him last week."
"Kya?!"
"I'm traditional when it matters." Tariq grinned. "He's tired, Zainab. He wants you to have a life. He was just waiting for you to want it too."
"You planned this."
"I hoped. There's a difference." He kissed her forehead. "Say yes. To the business. To me. To all of it."
She said yes.
*The consultancy launched six months later: Khan & Associates—Modern Solutions for Traditional Businesses.
Her father retired to the first floor flat, content.
And Zainab finally became everything she was meant to be.