The fluorescent hum of the garment factory was the only orchestra Amara had ever known. At twenty-two, she was the youngest "Head Worker" on Floor 4—a title that sounded prestigious but mostly meant she was responsible for the precision of five hundred seams an hour and the temperament of forty tired women.
Amara was striking, though she tried to hide it. She tucked her chestnut hair into a strict bun and wore oversized denim work shirts. But beauty has a way of leaking out. It was in the way her amber eyes softened when she corrected a junior's stitch, and the grace with which she navigated the labyrinth of roaring sewing machines.
Then there was Zayan.
Zayan didn't belong in the dust and heat of the factory floor. He was the son of the textile magnate who owned the chain, sent down by his father to "learn the soul of the machine" before taking a seat in the glass offices uptown. While the other workers saw a silver spoon, Amara saw a man who looked profoundly lost.