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"In the name of Allah, the most Gracious, the most Merciful." (Qur'an 1:1)

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"Ms. Zoya?"

Auburn curls fly. A pretty face turns and jhumkas dangle from ears. A sequined dupatta adorns soft shoulders and the bangles on her wrist jingle merrily as she flips through the papers in her hand in frustration.

"This better be really important, Sameer."

The guy pauses, and the helicopter blades in his ribcage can be heard even from a distance. "Uhh—"

"Stop stuttering and tell me what you want." Zoya slaps the papers onto the table. "And where the hell is this stupid file?"

After a moment of calculated silence, Sameer says, "Which file?"

"The one with the new designs and blueprints for the sherwanis and lehengas!"

"Where did you put it?" he dares to ask.

"On my head!" she shouts, glaring at him. "If I had known that, Sameer, why the hell would I ask you where it is?"

He stays quiet, knowing full well not to interrupt his boss in her rage.

Zoya sighs, closes her eyes, and pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She takes a deep breath. "You have two seconds to tell me what you disturbed me for, Sameer."

Sameer rushes forward. "Ma'am, there's someone here for an interview."

At this, her eyes fly open. She narrows her gaze. "Send him to Bill, as we discussed. And get me some chamomile tea, please."

Sameer turns to leave, then dares to run on knives and turns towards his boss again. "Ms. Zoya, are you alright? Why don't you take a small break?"

She flips her hair behind her shoulders and places a hand on her hip.

Once, Sameer's heart used to beat faster around her. And not out of fear. But whose heart hasn't and doesn't at least once beat irregularly around stunning Zoya Zameer?

"I'm okay, Sameer," she says, fanning herself with her dupatta. "Breaks can't be afforded. Especially not now, when the industry is booming and the demand for Pakistani clothes for Fashion Week and bridal occasions and so forth is higher than ever. Can you believe this? Dreams are coming true." She makes a grand sweeping motion with her arms.

Sameer smiles and leaves it at that, exiting her office.

Zoya Zameer gets to work searching for the black file again.

. . .

The man behind the large oval desk clears his throat.

"I'm Bill Krenak, the senior manager here," he says, rifling through the file in his hands and pausing to eye the interviewee in front of him. "Haroun is your name?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have a preferred name?"

"No, sir."

"Tell me about yourself, Haroun."

"What do you want to know, sir?"

Bill raises a brow, intrigued. "Surely you're well acquainted with what interviews are supposed to entail considering you've come for one of the largest businesses in the nation, correct?"

Haroun smiles. "I didn't realize interviews were supposed to be so thoroughly scripted and rehearsed."

Bill leans back and presses his lips together, staring Haroun down with an unmistakable spark of interest. "Perhaps not. But I'd like to know about you."

As Bill questions him, Haroun gives minimal responses, as if using too many words is exhausting. When Bill asks about his previous jobs, Haroun taps the desk with four fingers, the sound resembling hoof beats. A fissure appears between his brows, as if he's contemplating how best to word his next sentence. He seems to reign a sigh when he murmurs, "Have you seen my résumé?"

Bill raises another brow but quirks his lips. "Of course. That's why you're here. But what — "

Zoya barges into his office and sets a black file on his desk. She pulls strands of hair away from her face. "What is this, Bill?"

Bill steeples his fingers and stares at her. "Surely this can wait?"

"No, it can't."

"I'm conducting an interview right now."

The young man named Haroun makes a small noise, holding back a smile.

Zoya turns to look at him. "Who is this?" she asks in a somewhat friendly voice. She smiles at Haroun sweetly and bats her eyelashes at him, to which he replies by looking away.

"His name is Haroun. I haven't gotten past much yet. So if you would please — "

"No, I would not please. This file was supposed to be sent to the media office days ago. Why hasn't that been done yet?" She continues to take glances to her right at the man across Bill. Haroun. She mulls over it. Interesting. Looks Pakistani, name may be Pakistani, face certainly Pakistani. I mean, c'mon, look at that.

"I had spoken to Rana about it. He said that he had sent it to the media office for reviews and it wasn't accepted."

This grabs Zoya's attention. "Wasn't accepted? What do you mean?"

"Meaning the designs were rejected."

Zoya laughs mirthlessly. "Okay, Bill Nye. I don't have time for your silly little games."

"I'm not messing with you."

Zoya slams her palm down on the table. Haroun flinches, but Bill is unfazed. "Tell them to come to the CEO of this company and give a valid reason as to why they were rejected or I swear to God I will fire each and every one of them." She slaps the table once more before she turns — hair flying — to stomp out the door.

Bill sighs. He cannot even be annoyed with her because her anger is justified — the designs were magnificent and would surely have popularized their campaigns and expanded their reach — but the media office rejected them. And Bill and his team are all baffled.

He looks up at his guest — who hasn't moved an inch and is tense with what may be anxiety — and smiles sheepishly.

"Welcome to Zameer Co. Meet your CEO, Ms. Zoya Zameer."

. . .