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"Allah, the eternal Refuge." (112:2)

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Zoya Zameer isn't one to display her weaknesses — being the CEO of such a large company has taught her that most valuable lesson — so when Haroun witnesses the end of her panic attack, she cannot help the fire that ignites within her.

For the next few days, she settles all her angry focus on him. Although he's only an intern, she gives him tasks that are quite above the expectations on his job description. And on top of these absurd tasks, she pages him in for tea every morning. She is merciless in her attitude yet flirtatious as ever. It is precisely the latter reason that causes Haroun to purse his lips when she asks him for more sugar.

"I added five packets, Ms. Zoya."

"Mmm." Zoya places a well-groomed nail on her chin. "Add six next time."

Haroun nods after a beat. "Yes, ma'am." After a moment's silence, he turns to leave.

"Oh, by the way." Zoya beckons to him with her index finger, the laughter already bubbling inside her in anticipation of his reaction. "I want you to see this."

He walks forward tentatively, hands shoved in his pockets. The way he carries himself amuses Zoya, as if he constantly believes he needs to be prepared to defend himself against an attack.

On Zoya's desk lies a blue file with designs for the clothes of the next bridal shoot. She flips through the designs and stops at one particularly striking sherwani in black and blue.

"You're wearing this."

Haroun's black eyes darken, as if someone stole all the light from them. "What?"

Zoya revels in the pleasure she feels at riling him up. At the tensing of his shoulders and the rigidness that takes over him. She's never experienced this kind of thrill before, and it feels heedy and intoxicating.

"Yeah, you're going to be the model for this part of the show."

"But I don't even — I'm just — why do I have to model for it?" She can see him trying to reign his anger in, replacing it with polite indignation instead.

Zoya raises an eyebrow. He's too respectful to be outright rude towards her, but the storm beginning to swirl in his otherwise passive eyes is unmistakable. "Because I asked you to." And I enjoy it far too much when I get under your skin.

"But I'm just an intern." Haroun holds his hands out, confused. "Besides . . ." He hesitates. "Is the company allowed to force me to do something like this that wasn't even in the job description?"

She hears the unspoken sentence. "Are you allowed to force me?"

Zoya leans back in her chair and her gaze flicks to his hands, then to his face. His choice of words intrigues her. Is the company allowed to force me. Which tells Zoya he seriously sees this as a threat. And this realization only further fascinates her.

"Your concern is justifiable," she drawls, examining her nails. "But I'm assuming you're staying in this job for the long run?"

"I — " he seems too flustered, too at a loss for words, to reply.

"Besides, did you read the contract in its entirety?" she dares to bluff.

Haroun furrows his eyebrows.

Check. He's taking the bait.

"Well, no . . ." He murmurs quietly, but rushes to continue at the triumphant expression on Zoya's face. "But Ms. Zoya, who ever reads the contract in its entirety? It's like the terms and conditions on an iPhone."

Zoya chuckles. "Right. If you ask anyone who has been here for at least a year, they have all participated in a bridal shoot." She doesn't include the very crucial fact that their "participation" didn't necessarily consist of modeling. "Not because we don't have models. Oh, honey," she giggles, flipping a curl behind her shoulder. "We have plenty of models. But the business was deteriorating. And we needed something" — she pauses, biting her perfect pink lips in thought — "phenomenal, per se, to get the business booming again. So we used our own employees as models. And people loved it. And you, my friend," Zoya's gaze drops from his face and travels all over him before making eye contact again. He shifts uncomfortably. She smiles, flashing her impeccable teeth at him. "With you on that stage, not only would the crowd go wild, but the business would topple through the roof, my dear."

Haroun flinches. "I don't want to be a model."

Zoya raises her eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Because," his voice roughens. "That's exactly why I don't want to be a model."

Zoya lets out a bubbly laugh. "Because you look good?"

"No. Because I don't want that unnecessary and uncomfortable attention on me."

Oh. Zoya sits back once again, rubbing her chin. She stares at him and mulls over his words. He doesn't want attention. Even looking like that, he doesn't want attention.

"Everybody has initial stage fright. We all get over it, eventually."

Haroun seats himself in the chair opposite Zoya and places his palms on the table. Zoya notices his hands trembling. "This isn't about stage fright, Ms. Zoya. I don't want people looking at me like that." His nervousness is a stark contrast to his appearance — to the hard set of his jaw and the fierce determination in his eyes.

Which tells Zoya the prospect of potentially having to do this terrifies him, but he's still firm on his stance.

"Like what?" she challenges, knowing full well this conversation is digging into his self-control.

"Like they want me," he releases a breath and leans back, as if relieved.

Zoya stifles a laugh. "We've all modeled at least once. People forget about you after a while."

Haroun's eyes darken. He rubs a hand through his inky black hair and trains his eyes on the floor. "With all due respect, Ms. Zoya, I think it . . . insulting for someone like you to model in front of others."

Zoya's blood boils. "Someone like me? And insulting?"

"Someone so . . . noteworthy. Someone so eye-catching." Suddenly, he grimaces and presses his lips together, as if regretting what he said, but continues moments later with a deep breath. "For someone like you — someone so respected and revered — to be on a stage for others to ogle at." He says it quietly and casually, like it means nothing. And judging by his steady expression, he does not seem to think it means something. But Zoya's heart — for the first time in a long time — stutters, then starts again.

He clears his throat quickly and shakes his head. "Oh God, I'm sorry. It was absolutely not my place to say any of that. Really, forgive me, I — " He rubs his eyes with a loud, loaded sigh. "Bad habit I'm trying to break."

Still in shock over his previous words, Zoya eyes him quietly. You have bad habits, too, Mr. Suleiman?

Haroun stands, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I think this conversation is over, Ms. Zoya?" He says it like a question. As if he is asking for permission. But Zoya can tell by his tense posture that it's just a formality.

He can't wait to flee.

"Yes," she murmurs quietly. "It is."

Haroun turns around and exits her office.

Wait. Zoya freezes. Did I just say yes?

She grabs a strand of her hair and twirls it around her finger. Yes. She rubs her face with her hands, but lightly so as not to ruin the makeup. He's a strange one, he is, she thinks.

He shows up with a casual demeanor not even expecting to get the job, then he gets the job and throws his heart and soul into it in the span of a week, then he is quiet and reserved with his CEO. His demeanor is politely indifferent, and politely indifferent is not what Zoya Zameer is used to. On top of that, he's managed to make her speechless.

She cocks her head to the side, eyes fixated on the wall of her office. There's something so . . . intriguing about him.

Zoya flips her hair behind her shoulder. "To work, Ms. Zameer. To work."

. . .