~

"And speak to people good (words)." (Qur'an 2:83)

~

Zoya lets out a peal of hysterical laughter. "You sent the media office the wrong prints?"

A stammering program lead tries to explain as Zoya merely stares at her with folded arms. The employee's team along with Bill and the new intern Haroun stand to the side silently. "Ma'am, I was under the impression that those were the designs for Fashion Week."

Zoya takes a deep breath. "Do you realize what a colossal mistake it is to send the wrong designs to a rival fashion company? And that too to our old business partner, Paki Enterprises?"

The employee looks up meekly. "B-But Ms. Zoya," she dares. "Why does it make a difference? The designs were rejected anyway, it's not like they're actually going to be crafted and . . ." She falters when Zoya's eyes flash.

Zoya places her palms on her desk and leans forward. "It matters, Preeti, because now the rival company has the inside scoop on what we are gearing our latest designs towards. Now they have our ideas. Whether they like them or not is irrelevant to the fact that they are definitely going to get something out of our designs and take all credit for it."

Preeti nudges her glasses up her nose in a nervous gesture.

"You're fired."

The employee's head snaps up and her eyes widen. "W-What?"

"You're fired," Zoya says simply. "I want you out and I don't want to see you again. You'll get the check for the next two months as promised in the contract and then you're on your own."

Preeti seems about to burst into tears. Bill opens his mouth. "Ms. Zoya, if I may — "

"No, you may not." Zoya gathers her curls into a bun at the nape of her neck. "You may escort Preeti out. Thank you for your time, Preeti," she says dismissively, already starting to fan herself with her sequined dupatta as if this is all merely a bore to her.

Without another word, Bill leads a sobbing Preeti out. He's careful not to comfort her physically, adhering to Zoya's strict rules on professionalism in her work space.

Preeti's team — still in shock — starts to head out. Haroun — who has been watching the scene with an apt horror and surprise in his intense black eyes — starts to follow when Zoya calls him.

"You." She points with her finger. The bangles on her wrist clink against each other. "Come here. I want to talk about work with you." She gestures to the chair in front of her desk and Haroun wordlessly sits down. Zoya eyes him with the same open curiosity as yesterday, her face so interested and piqued it seems as if she has entirely forgotten the events of the past five minutes.

"Salaam," she says with a sheepish smile. His responding smile is polite but strained. "What do they call you?"

"Wa Alaikum Salam." Pause. "Haroun."

Zoya mulls over the name. Haroun. "Haroun." She tests it out on her tongue, liking the way it sounds.

He flinches a little.

Zoya lets out a giggle and sits down in her desk chair. "What would you like, Haroun? Coffee? Tea?"

He shakes his head. "I'm okay." Another pause. "Thank you."

Zoya notices how unsettling his dark black eyes are. She reaches back and tugs the band out of her hair, letting her curls cascade down her shoulders, a scene that would turn most people's faces into heart-eye emojis.

Haroun blinks.

"You can't come to my office and not drink anything," she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Haroun looks down. He seems to be avoiding her eyes. "Actually, if I may, I was called here. I didn't come on my own."

Zoya raises an eyebrow. "Day one and already so daring?"

Haroun purses his lips. "No, I didn't mean to —"

"So I'm assuming since you're here, Bill really liked you. Because he has a habit of taking forever to warm up to new employees but you — you caught his eye." And mine. Zoya leans forward and places her chin in her hand. "Tell me about yourself."

"I'm sorry, but am I still here to discuss my job?" He seems agitated, black eyes wary.

Zoya's eyes widen. "Of course. A boss must thoroughly know her workers."

Haroun raises an eyebrow at the word thoroughly. "With all due respect, Ms. Zoya, I don't think it's right for me to be in your company if it's not about work."

A little religious. Interesting. Zoya places her chin in her hand and smiles at him, fighting off emerging memories of the last couple of religious people she used to know. "I respect that," she says. "But this is solely about work. I just want to get to know you better. I do so with all my new employees."

Haroun stays quiet. Zoya observes him brazenly, allowing her eyes to covet his sharp jawline and rosy lips balanced by the dark eyes that add mystery and secrecy to him.

He looks away, discomfort lining his features.

"Why do you want to work here?" Zoya sits back, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair. She steeples her fingers and eyes him expectantly, looking entirely like the CEO that she is.

"I need the money."

Zoya raises her eyebrows. At least he's honest. "Then why apply for the intern position?"

He hesitates, then, "I want to spend more time with my mom. She recently had surgery, so . . . " He quiets suddenly.

Zoya waits for him to continue, but it seems that Haroun is a man of few words. She clears her throat. "I'm pretty sure you would have been able to find a well-paying job anywhere, especially considering the way that you look."

Haroun presses his lips together and Zoya drinks in the small detail: a dimple in his left cheek. He seems to be blushing.

"I'm not trying to embarrass you, Haroun. It's just the truth. Psychologically and in the business world, people tend to gravitate towards someone who is more" — she pauses to find the right words — "visually appealing."

Haroun averts his eyes. "I'm sorry, would you rather I not work here?"

"No, no. That's not what I said. I asked you why you wanted to work here specifically. At Zameer Co."

"Because it was the highest-paying job on my list of potential jobs."

Interesting. Zoya grabs a pen and twirls it between her fingers. "Do you know how I became the boss of this company?"

He shakes his head but doesn't indicate for her to continue.

She does anyway. "Grit. Hard work. Determination." Zoya uncaps the pen and starts absentmindedly writing on the palm of her hand. "It wasn't handed down to me. It wasn't through family connections. It was because I wanted it and I made it happen." She sets the pen down on the table and leans forward to look into Haroun's eyes. Although her posture exudes intimidation, he doesn't seem fazed. "I expect the same level of commitment and determination from you as well, Mr. Haroun . . . ?"

"Suleiman," he prompts.

"Mr. Haroun Suleiman."

He nods once. "Understood."

"Good." Zoya gives him her most sugary smile. Her eyes rove over him once again, and she notices that underneath the jean jacket he's wearing a black T-Shirt. Everything about his posture and attitude and appearance suggest he never actually expected to receive the job. "Oh, and I expect all my employees to wear at least one of the things we ourselves manufacture, whether it's clothing or badges of our company's logo. It gives the company credibility and status in others' eyes and makes us seem like dedicated workers, which we are. Obviously." Zoya flips her hair behind her shoulder and tucks a strand behind her ear. Everything about her is asking for distraction; the merry bangles on her wrists, the sparkly jhumkas dangling from her ears, the curly hair cascading down her back, the winged eyeliner, and the vibrant Pakistani clothes.

Haroun doesn't seem to be the least bit distracted. "Okay."

"Oh, and kabhi kabhi meri Urdu bahir nikal jaati hai." Zoya smiles at Haroun's raised brows and dares to say her next, kiddish request. Just to see how he will react. Because for some reason, his politely aloof demeanor makes her want to dig for more to discover what's beneath the quiet exterior. "So I expect that you reply in Urdu. That is, considering you're well versed in it." She stares at him expectantly.

He doesn't deny it. "Okay."

"What did I just say?"

There's a small pause. Then:

"'Okay' is used in Urdu as well."

Zoya giggles. "I like you. No wonder Bill did, too. You're staying."

"May I leave now?"

"You leave when I ask you to leave, sweetheart. Which, if I recall, I haven't done so yet." Finger twisting around one of her curls, Zoya bats her lashes at Haroun. "I'm sure Bill has already filled you in on your responsibilities. You're going to train for a week, and then I'm going to personally monitor your progress and see how you do. Don't disappoint me." She gives him a lopsided grin, which he is hesitant in returning. "I don't believe you will. I am already content.

"I have a special job for you in the mornings. You're going to bring me coffee, tea, whatever it is I feel like drinking that day. Every morning. Understood?"

Haroun doesn't seem too excited by the prospect. "Isn't there anyone else who can bring you tea?" Zoya raises her eyebrows. He rushes to continue. "No — I mean — in a company this large, isn't there someone designated to handle these types of tasks?"

"No. Mene tumse bola, to tum hi karo ge. Samaj aai?"

He nods grudgingly.

"Jawaab do mujhe Urdu me, meri jaan."

Haroun seems as if his patience is being tested. But he maintains the polite demeanor."G, samaj aai."

A jolt of shocked pleasure runs through Zoya when she hears him speak in her mother tongue. "Bravo. You sound good."

Running his fingers through his hair, he sighs. "Thank you."

"You may leave now."

He stands as if there is nothing on earth he would rather do than leave. His flustered and agitated nature causes Zoya immense humor. She smiles at him. "I expect you to fulfill your responsibilities, otherwise you may end up like Preeti a few minutes ago."

Grimacing, Haroun nods and makes his way to the door. Before leaving, he turns around and murmurs a "salaam."

Zoya smiles. "Wa 'Alaikum Salaam," she replies even though he's already gone.

There's something, she decides. I like this guy.

. . .

❤️