. . .

. . .

~

"Indeed, I am near." (Qur'an 2:186)

~

There's a knock on the door.

"Enter," Zoya says without looking up from the file in her hand.

Haroun enters and walks up to her desk. "Salaam, Ms. Zoya."

Upon hearing his voice, she looks up. A slow grin spreads across her face and she sits up straighter, flipping her hair behind one shoulder. Shoving away thoughts of his appearance in her dreams last night, she replies, "Wa Alaikum Salaam. What's up?"

"Sorry to interrupt, but" — Haroun holds up a newspaper. He seems distraught. "I just wanted to show you something."

Zoya eyes the newspaper. She recognizes the title Gup Shup News and immediately guesses what this is about, but furrows her eyebrows anyway. "What's this?" She layers her voice with false curiosity.

"I just" — he flips to the second page — "I wasn't sure if you had seen this already." He turns the newspaper over and sets it on the table in front of her. At the top of the page, written in large bold letters is: Zoya Zameer, CEO of Zameer Co., Rumored to Have Reunited With Alleged Husband. Underneath is a picture of the backs of Zoya and another man. The picture shows Zoya's longer auburn curls versus her shorter curls now. The news makes her blood boil, but she feigns indifference and looks up at Haroun.

"What is this?"

"Ms. Zoya, actually . . . " Haroun fidgets, agitated. "I was going to ask you that."

"What do you want to know?"

"I think it's . . . insulting for them to be spreading news like this."

"Ugh," she says, nodding vigorously. "Oh, you're so right." She points to the first line of the article. "'Twenty-five year old Zoya Zameer'? I'm twenty-four!"

This doesn't seem to lighten his mood. "Seriously, Ms. Zoya. This is highly disrespectful of them."

Zoya laughs, running her hands through her curls. "Highly disrespectful? Haroun, it's a newspaper in the twenty-first century. It's not going to be anything but disrespectful. And people barely read newspapers anymore. Everyone has everything digitally at their fingertips."

"It's not about us taking chances if people read these things or not. It's about them trying to ruin your reputation and by default the company's reputation." He pauses. "Especially since you're a woman, and you know people nowadays jump at any chance to say things about women." He points to the paper. "We should do something about this."

Zoya clucks her tongue and stands up. "Bichaare. You're so masoom." He rubs the back of his neck in frustration. "Leave it. In a company like this, we're bound to have people constantly talking and spreading news about us. Can't stop every single thing they say. So I'm telling you, leave it be."

"But . . . " He seems too disheartened to be able to form a reply. "It doesn't bother you? To have people constantly say false things about you and the company?"

Zoya shrugs. "Why should it bother me? I know the truth. And . . . " She examines her nails and looks at him out of the corner of her eyes. She doesn't know what makes her do it, but she says, "Who says it's false?"

He halts in running fingers through his hair and Zoya hides her smile. "Oh." His entire demeanor changes. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I assumed it was — I shouldn't have — " he breaks off, uneasy.

Zoya walks around her desk and leans at the front, closer to him. He immediately begins to step away. "It's alright. Thank you for looking out for me."

He seems confused now, pointing to the newspaper and holding his hands up earnestly. "I was just . . . I didn't want any harm to come to the company."

Zoya smiles. "Now my deep dark secret is out. Oh, no."

"Are you — were you married?" he asks. She strains her ears to pay careful attention to his tone but doesn't detect any underlying motives. Just plain curiosity.

She nods. "Yes."

Her lack of elaboration probably comes off as strange to him, considering Zoya Zameer loves to amplify and sugarcoat everything.

"Oh." Haroun smiles slightly, still too embarrassed to look up. His dimple appears in his cheek, a sign of his distress. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. That's really nice." He points behind him. "I'll go now. I just wanted to show this to you." He grabs the newspaper and turns around when Zoya's voice stops him in his tracks.

"And divorced," she blurts out. Again, she doesn't know what makes her say it. But she watches his back with a strict urgency, waiting for him to turn back around. "Married and divorced. Zameer is my maiden name." At the mention of her father's name, her heart lurches strangely.

He turns. Slowly. "Oh," he says again. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

"No need." She moves closer, and he moves farther. Like a dance. "Qué sera, sera. Jo ho gaya, so ho gaya."

He nods. "Right." Pause. "With your permission, Ms. Zoya . . . " He gestures to the door.

Disappointed, Zoya turns around and falls back in her chair. "Of course. I wouldn't want to keep you here." He exits and murmurs a "salaam" before shutting the door.

Zoya sighs, the image on the newspaper flashing through her mind again. The one that's been disturbing her thought process the entire morning. Thank God it was just our backs. And where did they even find that picture from anyway? These people honestly have nothing better to do than grovel around in the dirt of other people's lives.

"Nikkamme log," she grumbles, shaking her head.

. . .

"Farhan, I need the presentation sent to me by tomorrow. Just to make sure you haven't made any faltoo mistakes." Zoya points a finger in his face accusingly. "Alright?"

"Uh — yes, Ms. Zoya," Farhan says, standing nervously at attention in front of her.

"And why are you always stuttering around me?" she holds her hands out in frustration.

"Um — I — no, Ms. Zoya. I was just worried about the news from this morning."

"Is the news about you and your alleged wife?" Zoya asks him.

"Well, no, but — "

"Then you have no need to worry about it. It was about me. So apne kaam se kaam rakho."

"We were all just worrying about the company's image, Ms. Zoya. False news is dangerous not only to you, but to us and PR as well."

False news. Zoya mulls over Farhan's words. Although it is false — no doubt a hatched plot of her rival Zaki Ahmed to attempt to unsettle her — Zoya hasn't addressed it with her employees. Farhan believes it's false, and he's closest to Haroun at this company. Meaning Haroun has defended Zoya after their conversation in her office. Meaning he knew it was something Zoya would want to make clear.

Unexpectedly, a slow smile spreads on her face.

Farhan looks confused. "Ms. Zoya?" He tries to catch her gaze.

She breaks out of her stupor and flips her hair behind her shoulders. Adjusting her dupatta and jhumkas, she straightens. "You think this stuff doesn't occur to me, Farhan? Jaan, I'm the CEO. I think about what's best for this company before you do. PR is strengthening because of our marketing and all we need to do is introduce new, fantastic designs for this bakwaas news to become the last thing on people's minds. Besides, the media office is constantly working on taking bakwaas news down on social media as well as other platforms." Zoya runs her fingers through her hair, pulling out the loose strands. "Why do you think I've been going crazy asking Flora and the rest of the designers to come up with all those designs?"

Farhan seems impressed. "That's . . . pretty smart, Ms. Zoya." He pauses for a second, then dares to ask, "Did you know this false news was going to be publicized? Is that why you prepared so much for it?"

Zoya giggles. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

Farhan laughs nervously at her cryptic answer. Then his voice takes on a nasally monotone. "Right. But still, Ms. Zoya, I appreciate you for taking the right steps beforehand to ensure we can block out this type of news as fast as possible. You're always two steps ahead." He seems to be holding his breath for her next words.

She stops giggling suddenly as if she remembers who she's talking to and straightens her face. "Acha, acha. Don't get too free with me. Go do your work."

He deflates and turns back to his desk.

Zoya sighs contently. "You're fabulous, Zoya Zameer, you are." She kisses her own hand and turns around to walk back to her office, heels clicking against the floor and her dupatta flying through the air behind her.

. . .

On the way home that evening, Zoya — having been too uptight to drive on her own — exits the building to head to her driver's car when reporters crowd around her. She ignores them, trying to shove their mics away from her face.

"Ma'am, is it true that you've reunited with an alleged husband of yours?"

"Ma'am, the media wasn't even aware that you were married. Were you ever in a marital relationship?"

Zoya stops, takes her sunglasses off, and smiles at the cameras, showing her bright teeth. She can already imagine the headlines: "Zoya Zameer's Smile: Affirmation or Declination?" She giggles out loud, surprising them. Taking advantage of their confusion, Zoya darts between them and rushes to the car, ignoring the cries of "Ms. Zoya!" behind her.

In the car, her driver raises his eyebrows at her. "Why didn't you deny their accusations?"

"Sometimes it's honestly better just to shut the hell up. Opening up is going to give them what they want. They provoke us, so answering invites them to ask more questions and make more assumptions." Zoya furrows her eyebrows and pulls out a tube of lipstick from her purse. She tugs down the visor from the roof of the car and begins prattling off almost absentmindedly as she applies her lipstick.

"People think that you constantly have to speak up and carry around wild banners and rave about this and that to defend yourself. Sometimes the power lies in just the silence." Zoya presses her lips together and fluffs up her hair. Tangentially, she says, "Feminism is just a joke, to be honest. Western feminism, at that." She mimics holding something up and contorts her face into an angry expression. "'We want to be equal' — actually, we say we want equality when really we want to be above men. 'Men are spawns of Satan and deserve to be buried six feet under! Women should cut their hands before stepping into the kitchen!'" She drops her hands and rolls her eyes. "What a joke."

Her driver raises his eyebrows at her again.

"Hey, don't get me wrong. I don't hate women — actually, that's debatable — I just hate this false feminism."

He continues to watch her with a baffled look.

"Acha, acha!" she says agitatedly. "Let's go already before these leeches come to the window."

Without another word, he revs the engine and they drive away.

. . .