The door slowly creaked as footsteps pattered across the floor, sluggish and heavy like a tumbling giant forcing its way into our home. I sat on the couch, sketchbook on my lap and a charcoal pencil in my hand, patiently drawing the design layout of a new project I was given.

A loose scarf wrapped around my shoulders just in case Bashir unexpectedly woke up. Knowing it was Ibrahim, I didn't rush to put on my hijab.

I knew Ibrahim would be late again tonight. Ever since Jared trapped him into the reel of media scandals, my husband worked twice as hard to climb his way back to the top, to satisfy his clients, and to maintain salaries for all his employees, making sure none of them suffered at his fate.

Most of the time, I would be sound asleep by the time he came home, but tonight was different. Tonight, I couldn't sleep, couldn't rest when my thoughts ran laps around my mind, chasing after every fleeting doubt, after every hesitant reality.

Tomorrow was the day.

Thomas arranged the interview with a major talk show host, who promised to televise the interview live. Damon and Tanwir gave a tip to media outlets about the entire ordeal. Every person in America that closely followed politics thirsted after my story. They wanted to know what the wife of Ibrahim Tarkan really felt.

Kanza kept social media in a buzz, urging Muslim women to stand with me and to remember our deen (religion) in times of distress, to never abandon our brothers and sisters in Islam when people slandered their names. So far, it was their word against Ibrahim.

There was no proof, no evidence, yet my husband still drowned in the aftermath of a lie.

Ibrahim's footsteps paused, and the air around us held still for a moment. I didn't dare to move. His smoldering eyes behind me seemed to burn through me. Like fire to a candle, I melted under the pressure of his scrutinizing gaze.

He had that effect on me. Given his cold, domineering personality, Ibrahim was able to emit fear through the most frozen hearts because his hardened over years of hardships. He trained his mind to be impassive during tension. Rarely would Ibrahim smile at those who weren't his family or his closest friends.

Feeling his calculative eyes on me, I swallowed hard.

He knew. There was no way that the news surpassed his line of sight, but he didn't stop the rumors from circulating or the advertisements from promoting my interview.

Why won't he say anything? Why is he playing the quiet game?

My fingers shook. I never lied to him, but I knew Ibrahim too well. Tonight wasn't going to end well.

"So," he drawled, "I expected you to be asleep by now."

Be strong, Tasneem. Be strong. "Is that so?" I asked, distracting myself with my drawing and praying that he wouldn't see through my guise.

"Supposedly."

I shrugged, still keeping my back to him. "I guess I couldn't fall asleep."

"Is there a reason?"

I bit my lip.

His footsteps started their rhythm again, except this time my stomach dropped at the sound. Ibrahim knew that I was avoiding eye contact with him, so he was going to check me for himself. One way or the other, Ibrahim would extract my confession, would question my train of thoughts.

He stopped in front of me, but I kept my gaze on the floor.

"Tasneem," he said gruffly. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that," he snapped. "Can't you at least look me in the eye?"

I shook my head.

"Why?"

"Because I know you're going to be mad at me," I whispered, sinking deeper into the cushions of our couch.

The room went deathly silent. My words lingered in the tense air, carefully tracing a tendril of doubt mixed with fear. Ibrahim said nothing, nor did he move. Like a statue, he stood tall, seeming unaffected by my small confession like fear drowned in his mind. I couldn't stand it.

I dared a look at his visage, instantly regretting it when I saw his cold, stern gaze. A chill rolled down my spine. His frown only deepened. This was the look of a businessman who was chased by wolves of economy. This was the face of a man who had been discriminated far too many times in the past. This was the side of Ibrahim that could not show any vulnerability in fear of being taken advantage of.

"Ibrahim?" I questioned slowly. "Are you alright?"

"You took an interview," he stated.

"I did."

"Why, Tasneem?" he sighed deeply, running his fingers through his mass of thick hair. The darkness in his eyes only swelled to unfathomable pain. "I thought we agreed to keep to ourselves. I thought we promised each other to stay in the comforts of our home and allow the officials to deal with this."

"This is America, Ibrahim!" I exclaimed. "Being passive doesn't always work here. Sometimes the more passive you are, the more they try to tear you apart until you finally break."

His nostrils flared, and I knew I hit a spot. "I know the country that I live in, and I know it too well. Don't you think they're going to go after you when you speak out? Look what happened to Bashir. Do you want the same to happen to you but with a mass of reporters and people that think they can define you to harass you?"

"Sitting around in defeat is just as painful as media attention," I said fiercely, staring deep into his blazing eyes.

His gaze burned me to the core, reprimanded me, yet I couldn't stop my lips, couldn't stop my onslaught when I knew he deserved better.

I was usually the shy kid in school, the kid who never spoke unless spoken to, the girl who never fought with anyone. The scandal scorned me with its consequences, and seeing the man I loved with every fiber in my being struggle through that type of emotional and mental torture finally woke a dormant side to me.

Ibrahim pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to tame the boiling anger inside him before the true beast showed his colors. "I don't think you realize the severity of this situation."

"Try me."

His jaw clenched at my challenge. "Okay, how about the fact that you finally got a good job? You're throwing all your hard work away just to get eaten alive by the American public. You're throwing away your opportunity to surpass my success by agreeing to this interview. Do you really think they'll let you go for being my wife?"

"I'm not throwing anything away. This is an opportunity to clear our names in a way that lawsuits can't," I said softly. "Don't you want them to know the truth, Ibrahim?"

"Not if it means having a repeat of Bashir's incident happen to you."

"They can't hurt me," I protested, reaching out to hold his hand, interlacing our fingers in hopes of calming him. "I won't get beaten by their lies."

He pulled away from my touch. "You'll get burned by them, Tasneem. The American public are vultures when it comes to drama. They can and they will destroy your entire reputation for even attempting to tell the truth. They'll silence you because they deem your words as insignificant due to your background."

"Isn't that more of a reason to stick up for ourselves?" I asked softly.

"Tasneem, I've been perceived as guilty from day one," he whispered, staring at me with glassy eyes. His hands clenched into tight fists. "Only a lawsuit can prove my innocence. Only a lawsuit will stop all the rumors. This interview will only fuel the fire."

"A lawsuit may proclaim your innocence in court but not in the people's hearts. They'll still believe you're guilty even if you're acquitted of all charges," I continued, refusing to lower my guard. My mind was set, and nothing could change it as determination coursed my veins. "My interview may be the only thing that could lead people to question Jared's intentions. If people hear our side of the story, they'll be able to make a more fair judgement of our family."

Abruptly, Ibrahim took steps away from me, pacing himself back and forth as his thoughts ran rampage through him like a battlefield of forgotten soldiers. Lines marred his forehead, eyes panicking with doubts for the uncertain future. He was the type of man that enjoyed his firm grasp of control, of knowing the outcomes of every solution, yet this scandal was entirely different from regular business tactics.

The Tarkan scandal required more than just calculation and words dripping with honey. It required risks and quick-thinking. There was no time to dwell on failures when the biggest target rested over our heads. This suffocation silenced me for far too long, and I watched those close to me fall into the claws of gossip.

There was no time.

"Tasneem," croaked Ibrahim, eyes pleading with me one last time. His eyes watered, and I knew he cared too much. "I am begging you. Please don't go through with this. Please don't do this interview."

I bit my lip, standing with my sketchbook clutched to my chest. "I... I can't," I sighed, meeting his gaze once more even though his eyes bled with hurt. "I'm sorry."

"Wait-"

My legs moved on their own accord, running through the empty halls, running past the blur of paintings and leaden drapes fit for royalty. My heart squeezed painfully in my chest, erratically thumping to an irregular beat, a broken trail of my ambivalence.

Behind my eyes, all I saw was Ibrahim's scandal, the scrutiny of laughing lips and placid smiles. Darkness seemed to swallow me, and I ran deeper into its jaws, falling to my own doom. This interview could ruin or save us. This interview could render or befriend us.

Entering my old bedroom from when I first moved in, I closed the door, leaning against it as I slid to the floor. I brought my legs to my chest, cradling myself like a newborn baby in need of comfort.

Allah, I prayed into the shadows of a forgotten room, why do I feel so alone?

Dappled moonlight peered through the curtains, crawling past the tendrils of doubt that overwhelmed me. The light, celestial and pure, sauntered towards me, hypnotizing and intoxicating. My mind shattered among my own inhibitions, yet this peace from nature begged to pass through the closed glass.

In some way, that light was the silver lining of my struggles. Allah constantly reminded His followers that hardship came with ease, that perseverance would be rewarded, that defending Islam would always prevail even in our darkest hours.

Knock Knock.

Knowing it was Ibrahim, I didn't move.

"Tasneem," he sighed gruffly. "Please, open the door."

My lips refused to speak, my throat dry. Even if I wanted to speak, I couldn't. Tomorrow's interview was a must, a definite response to a lingering accusation. Too many people were hurt. Too many people suffered. Too many losses came from one lie.

That wasn't acceptable.

Ibrahim, his employees, his friends, his family, they all suffered, and they all felt the roar of a scandal. Our friends sacrificed their time and reputations to support my husband. Our families hid in silence to maintain the bubbling fiery inside them.

It wasn't fair.

Before a court could validate or nullify the accusations, Ibrahim was considered guilty. There was no proof except their word against his. Those poor women were so scared of Jared that they spoke in his favor because he threatened them. On a daily basis, many women were harassed and assaulted in the workplace, yet Jared teased the idea by scheming the best way to tear a reputation regardless of a guilty of innocent verdict.

How could I let that stand when his scheme went against every value I had as a Muslim-American and a woman?

"I know you're mad at me," he whispered so lowly I barely heard him. "I don't blame you. I'd be pissed at me as well for what I said, but I don't regret it. I love you, Tasneem. I love you so much that I can't let you do this to yourself."

But I love you too. I can't do it either, Ibrahim. I will not sit idly and watch you fall apart, not when I can do something.

Although he sat outside the door half the night pleading for me, my mind was set. I'd place my trust in Allah and clear both our names with only faith as my shield and the truth as my sword. This was both our battles.

* * * *

I left early that morning with Kanza and Amira. Before Ibrahim or Bashir could wake, we took our chance and drove to the interview. On the outside, Thomas and Damon would stay with Ibrahim to reason with him and prepare for the angry phone call Jared would most likely send.

Our plan was in motion, the pieces in place, and the truth ready to leave the public defenseless. I wasn't naive. I knew people would still hate Ibrahim regardless of what the truth us. Some hearts were so hardened with stones that nothing could break their ignorance except Allah's mercy and blessings. Not every battle could be won, but we should still try.

Sitting on a beige sofa, my plain black abaya stood out, a sharp contrast to the host's slender, tight-fitted blazer and skirt. Her bright, cerulean eyes stared warmly at me while the tight smile on her lips proved she was less than thrilled to interview me. With blonde hair curled to her shoulders and makeup done to enhance her natural beauty, the host was an archetype of the typical entertainment hosts in this industry.

Cameras and men rushed to their positions, staff speaking curtly into their microphones to organize the mass of people. The makeup crew added final touches to the host's makeup, painting her lips in a coat of coral, an innocent color of blush to heighten the image of professional beauty.

I felt all the stares. I felt the judgment. Every eye in the room glanced at me occasionally, weary looks entering their pupils before they quickly turned away, even the host was uneasy by my presence. Sure, curiosity fueled their interest in this interview, but deep down in the crevices of their hearts, they already made subtle judgments about me, about my culture, about my religion.

In their eyes, I married a serial molester and praised a religion that abused women.

How wrong they were.

"Staring in three, two, one!" yelled a manager, signaling a cameraman.

With one press of a button, we were live on television.

"Good morning, America!" smiled the host across from me. "Welcome back to our show. This is your host Alyssa Brooks, and we're here to welcome Tasneem Uddin, wife of controversial CEO Ibrahim Tarkan."

I nodded in acknowledgement, ignoring the fear gripping me at my sides. Deep breaths, I thought. You have to do this for Ibrahim.

"So, Ms. Uddin-"

"You can call me Tasneem. No need for formalities here, Alyssa," I smiled warmly at her, hoping to melt the ice that surrounded her hesitance towards me.

Alyssa seemed taken aback by my request. "Of course!" she brightened. "So, Tasneem, there have been multiple accusations surrounding your husband these past couple of weeks. How did you initially react when the first woman spoke up?"

"Shock, horror, fear. I felt so many emotions to even list them all, but I knew that it wasn't my husband. Ibrahim would never touch a woman, let alone harm one. He keeps to himself and prefers his solitude, not female company."

As soon as the word left my mouth, I cringed. Every wife of an accused man says something to this extent especially when their husband's guilt usurps his innocence with a leaden weight. Some men were heinous enough to use women to their advantage, to craft their pretty minds with white lies and sweet words.

When Alyssa arched her brow, I knew she didn't believe a word of what I said. Her blue, accusing eyes narrowed, lips pressed thinly as she tried to comprehend how I could believe a man who's reputation befell his success.

"Tasneem," she started slowly, inching closer to me, "how do you know that your husband is innocent? How do you know that he isn't the man these women accuse him to be?"

Without losing my guard, I stared directly into her eyes, voice firm and fierce enough to vibrate justice along the seams of an entertainment set. "Well, how do you know he's guilty?" I asked.

She straightened, frowning.

"Without knowing the full story or hearing both sides, people are making assumptions based on his background, gender, and religion. There is no legal evidence against Ibrahim, no text messages, no phone calls, no documents, and no medical reports about the incidents. You have no proof."

"Are you undermining the testimonies of four women who claim to have been sexually assaulted by your husband?" she questioned, suspicious of my morals.

"No," I said sternly. "In fact, I find it horrible that someone forced these women to testify against an innocent man over a business negotiation. Rape and sexual assault are very grave crimes, ones that are not taken lightly by the court or authorities. If someone deliberately uses such a crime to advance their status in society, then shame on them."

"You mention someone forcing these women to come out for personal gain. Who might this person be?"

The room went silent, a deafening stillness that ringed my ears with its intensity. All around, they froze, hungry eyes burning me with their gaze, bodies unconsciously leaning forward to grasp the next piece to the puzzle of the Tarkan scandal.

They thirsted for more drama, more rumors, more heartaches for my family. To them, we were entertainment, the warriors within a Colosseum. When our sweat and tears dripped with our sorrows, they laughed. When our blood stained the steel Ibrahim worked so hard for, they rejoiced. Like the elites, they watched our crumbling lives with giddy excitement, not realizing that Ibrahim and I were just like them.

We were all Allah's creations, yet we turned against each other.

Inhaling a slow breath, I enunciated every word, every breath. "Before this scandal, Ibrahim and another foreign businessman engaged in a difficult negotiation with each other. The businessman had unrealistic ideas that would damage Tarkan Industries if my husband took his offer, so Ibrahim rejected it. In response to the rejection, my husband was threatened by this man for weeks, and so was I."

"Do you have proof?" she asked, clearly in disbelief as she leaned back into her seat, arms crossed. "It isn't wise to make such accusations at an unnamed man."

I arched a brow in question. "Excuse me? The American public has done the exact same thing to my husband. They pinned a crime on him without any proof and harassed his life and his family's since the media attention. My in-laws can't even leave their homes to go grocery shopping. My brother-in-law, who is in middle school, was assaulted by other students due to his cultural background, so if you want to talk about proof, let's talk about it.

"Where in the world does a little boy deserve to be reminded of his deceased parents, to be told that he was nothing but a statistic, to be deemed unworthy of opportunities because he came from a different country? Where in the world does an adult man deserve to be mistreated in American politics and socioeconomic culture based on one man's lie, one man's finger pointing blame? Why does no one question the validity of these statements, the root cause for innocent women to be coerced into this type of public defamation?" I asked, hands flailing around during my speech.