Express Delivery: Spiced and Stirred

Chapter 8: The Gourmet Engagement

The camera flashes were like physical blows, white-hot and relentless, turning the grimy alleyway into a surreal, flickering nightmare. Zayyan felt Keisha’s fingers dig into the meat of his arm, her breathing coming in sharp, jagged hitches.

"Step back! I said back off!" Zayyan’s voice cracked like a whip, his body shielding Keisha from a particularly aggressive photographer who was trying to shove a lens under her cap.

"Is he the one, Keisha?" the reporter shrieked, her voice cutting through the din. "Did you trade your board of directors for a street racer?"

"Don't say a word," Zayyan whispered into Keisha’s ear. He didn't wait for her to respond. He swung his leg over the Ducati, hauled her onto the back, and kicked the engine into a deafening roar. "Hold on. We’re splitting the pack."

He didn't give the paparazzi time to clear out. He popped the clutch, the front wheel skimming the pavement as the bike surged forward. Reporters scrambled, cameras clattered, and within ten seconds, the alley was a fading blur in the rearview mirror.

*

Twenty minutes later, the air-conditioned silence of the Villareal Global boardroom felt heavy, almost suffocating. The morning sun was streaming through the glass, but the atmosphere was pure winter.

"It’s a catastrophe," a woman in a razor-sharp gray suit said, pacing the length of the mahogany table. This was Sarah, the head of Keisha’s PR crisis team. She looked like she hadn't slept since the invention of the internet. "The 'Pineapple Massacre' was funny for an hour. This? This is a PR execution. 'The Ice Queen and the Street Thug.' The tabloids are already calling it 'The Delivery Date from Hell.'"

Zayyan, currently leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window and tossing a stress ball he’d found on a desk, let out a dry chuckle. "Personally, I think I look great in that shot near the satay grill. My jawline really pops when I’m being harassed."

"Zayyan, shut up," Keisha snapped. She was sitting at the head of the table, her head in her hands. The baseball cap was gone, but her hair was still a mess. "Sarah, give me a solution that doesn't involve me disappearing to a private island for a year."

"There is only one way to spin this," Sarah said, stopping dead and looking Keisha in the eye. "If he’s just a delivery boy you’re sleeping with, you’re a liability. But if he’s the secret, eccentric, multi-millionaire fiancé you’ve been keeping under wraps to protect his privacy? Then you’re a romantic lead in a high-stakes drama."

Zayyan dropped the stress ball. It bounced twice and rolled under the table. "Whoa, whoa. Repeat that last part? The one with the 'F' word?"

"A fake engagement," Keisha whispered, her eyes widening. "Sarah, that’s insane. Look at him. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says 'I’m with the Spicy Laksa.'"

"He’s a 'logistics visionary,'" Sarah countered, waving a hand dismissively. "He’s the 'bad boy of tech' who hates the spotlight. We write the script, we leak the backstory, and we hold a press conference in two hours to 'clarify' the situation. If you’re engaged, the board can’t touch you for 'moral turpitude' without looking like heartless monsters."

Zayyan walked over to the table, a skeptical grin spreading across his face. "So, let me get this straight. I went from being your 'Head of Special Ops' to your 'Gourmet Groom' in the span of a lunch break? Do I get a raise for this? Because 'fiancé' sounds like a lot of emotional labor."

"You get to keep your job and not go to jail for assaulting Marcus Steele with a baguette," Keisha shot back, though her voice lacked its usual icy bite. She looked at Sarah. "Can we really pull this off?"

"Only if you look like you’re actually in love," Sarah said. "The cameras don't lie. If you two look like you’re standing in a dental office, the press will tear you apart."

"I can do 'in love,'" Zayyan said, leaning over the table until he was inches from Keisha’s face. "I’ve seen enough movies. I’ll look at you like you’re a fresh bowl of noodles on a rainy day. High intensity, very steam-focused."

"Zayyan, this isn't a joke," Keisha said, her heart doing that weird, frantic hop again as she looked into his dark eyes. "If we do this, there’s no going back. The whole city will be watching."

"Then let's give them a show, Boss," Zayyan whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "But I’m not doing a scripted press conference in a suit. That’s boring. If I’m the 'bad boy of logistics,' I’m delivering the news my way."

Keisha narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means you go down there and give your boring speech," Zayyan grinned, his reckless energy returning. "And wait for the delivery guy."

*

The lobby of Villareal Global was a sea of microphones, flashing lights, and shouting journalists. Sarah had managed to organize a "snap press conference," and the tension in the room was electric. Julian Thorne was standing near the back, his arms crossed, a smug, predatory smile on his face. He was waiting for the killing blow.

Keisha stepped onto the small podium, her face a mask of professional calm. "Thank you all for coming. I know there has been a lot of... speculation regarding my personal life and my associations."

"Speculation?" a reporter yelled. "We saw the photos, Keisha! Who is he?"

"His name is Zayyan Mahardika," Keisha said, her voice steady despite the way her hands were shaking behind the lectern. "And the reason he was with me yesterday wasn't for a delivery. It was because..."

She hesitated. The lie was right there, but her throat felt like it was filled with sand.

VROOOOOM.

The sound of a high-performance engine shattered the professional decorum of the lobby. The heavy glass revolving doors were pushed open—not by people, but by the nose of a red Ducati.

The press corps shrieked and scrambled out of the way as Zayyan rode the bike right onto the marble floor of the lobby. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and a grin that could melt a glacier.

He killed the engine right in front of the podium, the silence that followed even louder than the bike.

"Sorry I’m late, Keisha," Zayyan said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. "The traffic was a nightmare, and I didn't want the surprise to get cold."

Keisha stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Zayyan? What are you doing?"

"I'm delivering," he said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a grease-stained, cardboard burger box from a local fast-food joint.

The journalists were in a frenzy, cameras clicking a mile a minute. "A burger box? Is this a joke?"

Zayyan ignored them. He hopped off the bike and walked up the steps of the podium. He stood right in front of Keisha, the smell of engine oil and rain clinging to him.

"I know you wanted something fancy," Zayyan said, his voice loud enough for the front row to hear. "But I figured since our first date was laksa and our second was satay, this was more our speed."

He flipped open the burger box. Nestled inside, resting on a bed of french fries, was a diamond ring that looked like it cost more than the lobby’s chandelier.

The room went dead silent.

"Keisha Villareal," Zayyan said, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "You’re the most bossy, stubborn, and terrifying woman I’ve ever met. And I wouldn't want to lane-split through life with anyone else. So... you gonna wear the rock, or am I eating the fries?"

Keisha felt a tear prick the corner of her eye—partly from the absurdity, but mostly because for a split second, she forgot it was a ruse. She looked at the ring, then at the man who had scaled a building just to bring her soup.

"You're an idiot, Zayyan Mahardika," she whispered.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes," she breathed.

Zayyan didn't just slide the ring onto her finger. He grabbed her waist, pulled her flush against him, and kissed her.

It wasn't a "press conference" kiss. It wasn't a polite, PR-managed peck. It was a deep, desperate, and entirely too real collision. Keisha’s hands found the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as the world around them dissolved into a white blur of camera flashes.

For a long moment, the only thing that existed was the heat of his lips and the way he held her—like she was the only thing in the city worth protecting.

When they finally pulled apart, the lobby erupted into chaos. Reporters were screaming, Sarah was looking like she’d just won the lottery, and Julian Thorne looked like he’d just swallowed a live wasp.

Zayyan leaned in, his lips brushing Keisha’s ear. "How was that for a performance review, Boss?"

Keisha looked at him, her face flushed and her eyes shining with something that definitely wasn't "logistics." "I think... I think you’re going to be very expensive to keep on the payroll."

"Worth every penny," he grinned.

*

In the shadowed corner of the mezzanine, far above the shouting crowd, Marcus Thorne watched the scene through a pair of binoculars. His face was twisted in a mask of cold, calculating fury.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered it without taking his eyes off Zayyan.

"What is it?" Marcus hissed.

"The DNA profile from the blood on the windbreaker you sent us," a voice crackled through the phone. "We ran it against the restricted database. The one from the 2018 'Shadow' incident."

Marcus’s grip tightened on the railing. "And?"

"It’s a match, sir. The delivery boy isn't just a street rat. He’s the one who vanished after the Jakarta Ledger purge."

A slow, lethal smile spread across Marcus’s lips. He watched Zayyan lead Keisha toward the Ducati, the crowd parting for them like the Red Sea.

"So," Marcus whispered into the phone. "The Mahardika heir has finally resurfaced. And he’s playing house with the Queen of Villareal."

"What are your orders, sir?"

"Let them enjoy their engagement," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. "I want them happy. I want them comfortable. And then, I want you to call the Debt Collector. Tell him the Ghost is back in the cage... and it’s time to settle the bill."

Down in the lobby, Zayyan felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine. He looked up toward the mezzanine, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadows.

"Zayyan? What is it?" Keisha asked, her hand still resting in his.

Zayyan looked back at her, his trademark smirk returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Nothing, Keisha," he said, swinging his leg over the bike. "Just a feeling that the next delivery is going to be a lot heavier than a burger."

"Where are we going?"

"To get some actual fries," Zayyan laughed, kicking the engine into life. "Being a fiancé is hungry work."

As the Ducati roared out of the building, the "Ghost of Jakarta" knew one thing for certain: the fake engagement was the easiest part of the lie. The hard part was going to be surviving the truth.