"You're hired!" exclaimed the voice on the other line.

My jaw fell ajar, shock waves ricocheting across my body like an ineffable buzz of joy. Weeks and months of struggling for employment had finally led me to a job that I would enjoy, one that didn't care about my background or my husband's business, one that didn't care if I was a Muslim or if my husband was buried under a scandal. As Candice's words echoed through my mind, I couldn't help the smile that crossed my lips.

"Thank you so much, Candice! I have no idea how to thank you," I said truthfully. To think, I was weary of her at first.

Candice released her soft laughter. "Oh, Tasneem. Don't mention it. My boss was thrilled with your designs and ideas for the orphanage. Talent like yours should not be wasted."

"I had no idea that my work would be perfect enough for a major interior design company," I replied, biting my lip as a sense of dread pooled into my stomach. As much as I hated to admit it, doubts swirled through my mind like an uncontrollable tornado, completely far from my grasp. "Are you sure that a political scandal won't ruin my employment? I don't want to be a burden to your company."

Sitting in our bedroom, the inky comforters served as my only knights against the world as I wrapped myself in the warm haven, suddenly feeling a cold chill. Although the scandal had no validity, many Americans were blind to facts, choosing to cover their eyes and turn their cheeks from the abundant truth. Their lips drank in the gossip, the potential crisis, the political backlash. They reveled at drama.

Ibrahim's sleeping body laid beside me, black hair long enough to frame his closed eyes. Soft strands gently brushed against his forehead, midnight tips touching a glowing white surface that beamed against the contrast. A satin pillowcase rested behind his head, sophisticated and strong, holding Ibrahim in its amiable caress.

Today was his off day. After Fajr, Ibrahim had fallen deep into his slumber, groggy and tired to even kiss me like he always did after he prayed. It had been a tiring Eid and brutal week for Ibrahim as he alternated from his role as a CEO to a family man. He started arriving from work when the moon had already infiltrated the sky, brown eyes drooping with exhaustion and shoulders slumped every single night.

Work had become a heavy burden to him, yet Ibrahim continued fighting through the chaos. Some business partners attempted to withdraw their support from Ibrahim amidst Jared's scheming, but Ibrahim held his ground. As cold as he could be, he still managed to pull his company together, fixing every shattered piece with a faint memory. Even when his body begged to surrender, Ibrahim refused.

Breaking me from my thoughts, his lips parted, a quiet sigh whispering out.

Unconsciously, my free hand tangled itself within his hair, brushing it from his face, and trailing down to his muscular arms. How could the world be so cruel to you? Why don't they see what I see?

"Tasneem," started Candice slowly from the phone, "don't worry about business matters that have nothing to do with you. The art that you produce outweighs all the negatives in every scenario that our team could think of. I beg you to keep this position. So many young aspiring artists wish to be in your shoes."

"I know."

"When would you like to start working?" she asked, changing the topic.

"As soon as possible," I replied, ignoring my previous doubts. She was right. I had to focus on my designs. "Could I start today? Well... uh... if you have a client for me."

"Of course I do! I'm a well-known agent for a reason," she declared proudly. "But are you sure you can handle a client if you're already redesigning the orphanage."

"Y-Yes," I stuttered.

Candice seemed a little unconvinced from her silence.

"Please, Candice," I implored, praying that Allah would hear my desperate plea. I needed this job. It was the first offer I had gotten in months. "I can handle the orphanage and a client. I promise. If I can't, then I will let you know by the end of the week."

"You sure are ambitious, aren't you?" chuckled Candice. "I'll send you an email with pictures of the client's home and the measurements. She will be in contact with you shortly. Would you like me to schedule an appointment with your client?"

"That would be great."

"No problem. I'll let you continue to design the orphanage while I get everything ready," she said in an uplifting tone. "Have a great day, Tasneem!"

"You too," I mumbled into the phone as I hung up.

That woman is always happy, I thought with a smile.

Placing my phone on my nightstand, I leaned my back against the headboard, allowing the obsidian sheet to pool at my hips. My heart felt heavy like a stone had dragged down my chest.

I should be ecstatic and granting an euphoria to consume me, but in the forbidden corners of my head, I sensed qualms about our future. If Jared succeeded in bringing Ibrahim's company through the muck, then he would no longer be in control.

That alone would destroy Ibrahim emotionally, mentally, and physically.

Then, there was the issue with a broken orphanage. Too many replacements, too little time. We had raised thousands of dollars at our bake sale, which was an unusual task, but nonetheless proved to be beneficial. The only problem was the original design I had conjured would be too far from the budget I had created. My new job would not pay for the designs, and I refused to ask Ibrahim to pay the rest when I knew he was under his own legal conflicts.

Instead, I edited my draft, finding cheaper alternatives. Hiring workers sledged through our bake sale money, which was a red flag. I couldn't hire many construction workers.

Clutching my head in between my hands, I groaned. I had brought this onto myself. I had no right to complain. I had to find a solution and quick.

"What's got your pretty head working so hard?" questioned a husky voice.

Lifting my eyes, I was met with Ibrahim's hooded dark ones. He stretched, muscles pulsing on his arms as the comforter slid down his torso, revealing a toned stomach packed with hard ridges of pure strength, a testament to the long hours of frustration that he spent in our basement gym. It amazed me how pale his skin was, clear as day, but white as snow.

Once he relaxed, he turned to me, smoldering coal-like eyes gazing at me with an unmasked fondness and expression of amusement. I lost myself in the darkness that lurked behind the windows of his thoughts, Ibrahim's enchanting eyes. They mimicked the night sky in all their glory, sparkling like the stars that effortlessly painted the galaxies.

I was completely mesmerized.

"Tasneem?" he asked, carefully examining my silence. "Is something wrong?"

I nodded. "I got the job."

His brown eyes instantly lit up. "That's great news," he smiled before noticing my weary expression, "but that's not what's bothering you, is it?"

"No."

Unable to meet his gaze, I found comfort in staring at the lifeless wall across us, where the stagnant white provided the only stability of our crazy lives, where politics and business didn't collide with one another. As much as I envied the life of others and the simplicity of their daily lives, I refused to dwell upon what was beyond my reach, instead choosing to focus on the one task I promised myself.

We had to redesign that orphanage.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I stood up from our bed, smoothing my lavender nightgown down my legs. Ibrahim's visage still crossed with concern, but I flashed him a small smile in order to reassure his troubles away. He had nothing to worry about.

"Get up," I said. "We have some fixing to do."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Absolutely!" I grinned through the tension in my jaw.

Ibrahim sighed, sitting upright. "Tasneem," he began in that sincere tone of his, voice still heavy from sleep. "Come here."

It was odd.

The way my body hummed in response to him felt odd like a spell hypnotizing my mind away from a world of shattered dreams and broken realities. It was an aura of temptation that pushed my feet towards him as if I was wondering alone all this time until Ibrahim had entered my life. Slowly, I sat on his side of the bed, our bodies only inches apart from one another.

Is he upset with me?

The frown deepened across his lips, the light dissipating from his mysterious eyes, hiding himself from vulnerability. Maybe I should have told him.

"You know that we're a married couple, right?" he asked. "You know that we have each other's backs, right?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why do you insist on hiding your problems from me?"

I froze like a bucket of ice had crashed upon my head. "W-What?"

Ibrahim narrowed his eyes, suspicion swirling within. "What's wrong?" he repeated from before.

"It's nothing."

Instead of arguing back, Ibrahim chose his infamous silence. For a couple of minutes, the thick air stretched between us, driving me to insanity. A silent scream caught itself down my throat as I swallowed my uncertainty. I had never been so nervous about communication before, yet now I was trembling.

I didn't want to worry him. I didn't want to be a burden.

His deep voice cut through my thoughts like a sharp blade. "Do you remember what you said to me when you first witnessed my midnight terrors?"

What is he talking about?

"You told me that I should let you help carry my burdens. You told me to be open with my problems. You told me that the blessing Allah had given us was each other."

Shame flooded through me as I remembered those antagonizing nights of fear-enriched screams and tormented groans from a past that was better left untouched. I remembered holding him close, offering my protection and my love to heal his aching soul.

When Ibrahim's eyes stared into mine with heartbreak, I had known that I was in the wrong. All this time I had advised and counselled him, yet I had never taken my own words to heart.

Subsequently, a warm hand covered mine, sparks crawling up my arms at the electrifying weight of our heart-rendering conversation, of his sensual voice, of his affectionate gaze. He grasped onto it tightly as if I would disappear if he didn't.

"I know my scandal affects you deeply. Our lives aren't the luxury that I had promised you or the ease that I portrayed it to be, but please don't hide your vulnerability from me," he spoke softly, his free hand shakily cradling my cheek. I leaned into his touch, melting into him. "We're a family, Tasneem. You, me, and Bashir. If we don't help each other, then who will?"

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "You're right. It's just hard."

"I know."

I circled my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him as his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper into his touch. We sat there, silent as the night, in each other's company and awaiting the ambivalent future before us. My insecurities at being the strong wife had chained me to the idea that I had to trap my emotions within myself. I had done exactly what I warned Ibrahim against.

"Do you think this scandal will blow over?" I asked in a meek voice, my grip tightening.

"I don't know, Tasneem. In Shaa Allah (if Allah wills it) it does," he mumbled against my neck.

I bit my lip, knowing far too well that he was right. Once upon a time, I had thought that I would be enough for Ibrahim, but now I wondered if I really was.

That was my vulnerability.

* * * *

Ibrahim and I had talked about the scandal once again, expressing both of our inhibitions about Jared and his plan. We talked through the winding roads of life, speaking of our fears, of our terrors, and of our doubts. There was so much that we both had kept hidden for so long. When it all came out, a burden had been lifted, a step towards healing had been granted.

Currently, Ibrahim and I had started working on the redesigning of the orphanage. Damon and Amira insisted on helping with Thomas tagging along right behind them. We the blueprint I had created, we managed to tinker our ways through the broken orphanage, painting the dirtied walls and creating miracles out of wood.

Damon and Ibrahim crafted new beds for the children while Amira and I set up a more welcoming vibe to a shadowy interior, using neutral colors like beige and peach tones to brighten the main corridors. Some of the children even decided to partake in the enervating process of creativity.

"Ibrahim, did you set up the TV?" asked Damon, lifting a block of wood away from the center. "We should get that up and running before we leave."

"Almost... done," stressed Ibrahim as he engineered a couple more wires together, thick brows scrunching with concentration.

Painting the last couple of touches to the wall, I sighed in relief, taking a couple steps backwards to admire my day of hard work and determination. I painted small details on the walls ranging from a blissful nature to common Disney characters.

"What do you kids think?" I asked, turning to them.

"It looks great," smiled one child. "I like the Nemo."

A bubbling pride grew within me, knowing that I was the cause of the wide grins that spread across their little faces, emphasizing the glowing happiness that radiated off the children like rays of sunshine. All the hard work was worth every effort and struggle just for their smiles.

"Yes!" Ibrahim cheered as a news anchor flickered on the TV screen. "I got it to work!"

"Nice, man," praised Damon, patting Ibrahim on his back.

As Ibrahim increased the volume, still relishing his accomplishment, the voice of a news anchor and his story managed to shatter everything all at once. The new developing story had shook the nation, Ibrahim's smile dropping within a second as his picture flashed across the screen, and the room went silent.

Even the children had stared wide-eyed at the anchor.

My mind refused to believe it, to believe that Jared had won, to believe that my fears had come true. The anchor continued his job, showing leaked documents of a buried chapter of Ibrahim's life, where his family had been brutally slaughtered before him. His life was slashed across the screen in bold, black letters.

The Unknown History of a Turkish Millionaire.

"Investigators have reason to believe that his past may correlate with his erratic behavior with not only women but with his family as well," continued the anchor.

No.

Not again.

No.

"He was abused as a teenager, which has psychological effects that can last for a long time. Many sexual abusers have a history of being abused themselves, so it is highly possible that this segment of his life have affected Mr. Tarkan," stated a medical commentator. "I believe investigators should thoroughly examine these accusations and his past before making any arrests."

No.

My eyes had shifted to Ibrahim. This can't be real. This can't be happening.

Ibrahim's past had unraveled for the entire world to see, to drink in his despair.

My husband stood still, quiet with shock, yet his face remained impassive of all emotions. His cold-hearted defense mechanism had kicked in, and Ibrahim played the role like a natural, seeming unaffected. The only indication of fear was from the clenched fist that he hid under his sleeves.

Damon quickly turned off the TV, nervously glancing at his friend.

Ibrahim said nothing.

I tried to reach towards him, but it was too late. Ibrahim had stormed off, away from the drama, away from his friends, away from me. The door slammed shut, a loud crack echoing off the walls, shaking the ground beneath us from the tension that coiled across our necks.

It was then that I realized that Ibrahim had never broken his chains from his body.

He only loosened them.