. . .

. . .

~

"Consider others to be better than yourself, but never consider yourself to be better than others." —Imam 'Ali

~

"What the hell is this?" Zoya snaps, pointing to the stage.

Farhan stares back at her, shifting his feet. "What, Ms. Zoya?"

"Are those carnations I see?" she murmurs dangerously. "Where are the hydrangeas?"

"Ms. Zoya, you asked for carnations — "

"No, I did not!" she says fiercely. "I asked for hydrangeas and you know I asked for hydrangeas because we discussed this when I spoke to you."

"B-But, Ms. Zoya — "

"And here she is — the prestigious — ZOYA ZAMEER!" A reporter walks over to them and smiles widely at Zoya. She's still having a fierce eye battle with Farhan, who seems ready to pee his pants. Suddenly, Zoya turns to the reporter and flashes a huge smile at the camera next to him. "Salaam," she chirps.

Too late, the reporter looks between her and Farhan. "Did we interrupt something?"

These damn reporters, Zoya thinks. Always finding a way to appear friendly and curious while really they're sniveling and groveling around to find dirt in our seemingly perfect lives. Anyway — pick your head up, Zoya. Give them what they want. Give them a new headline in a newspaper. Something for these good-for-nothings to do in all the free time they have.

She flashes her teeth at them. "Salaam," she repeats. "How are you?"

"I'm great, thank you. How are you?"

"Fine, Alhamdulillah, thank you."

"So how's it going? What have you been doing here so far? Are you enjoying the night?"

"Oh, nothing really. Just talking to one of my incompetent employees." Zoya giggles and the reporter answers with a confused chuckle of his own, eyebrows furrowing as his gaze darts between her and Farhan.

"Shoot," Farhan curses under his breath, much to Zoya's delight. "I'm done for."

"Oh yeah. His name is Farhan. He can't tell the difference between carnations and hydrangeas. Even with Google nowadays. Haha, isn't he funny?" She looks at Farhan affectionately, and his face turns a deep, deep pink. "Oh, by the way, you're fired." Farhan's eyes widen in shock. Zoya smiles and the reporter laughs, but nervously this time, eyes full of questions. Zoya knows what he's wondering by the perplexity on his face. He has probably heard of Zoya Zameer's ruthless attitude but wonders what lengths she'll go to.

Well, she'll clear up his confusion.

"This is my favorite type of employee, by the way," Zoya continues. "One who claims he's right to lead the project and proves himself to be unworthy. Bravo, Farhan Malik, bravo." In a low voice, she mutters, "You'll get your contract." Then she smiles at the unsettled reporter, flips her hair behind her shoulder, and saunters away.

Leaving Farhan standing there with his fists clenching and unclenching by his side. He throws the confused reporter a weak smile and excuses himself.

. . .

After having paced around in the lobby for a few minutes, Haroun enters the hall to find Farhan and ensure that everything's set, knowing all too well his friend's distressed nature.

His eyes scan the hall and land on Farhan, who is standing next to Zoya in front of a reporter and cameraman. Haroun moves closer to them, stopping short when he hears his boss' giggle, which Farhan goes rigid at. Haroun follows the conversation with widened eyes, awed by the scene unfolding before him.

When Zoya walks away from an immobile Farhan, Haroun's jaw clenches as he's overtaken by a bout of frustration. He sits down for a second, rubbing his temples and taking deep breaths to calm himself.

Farhan sprints to him and grabs his arm. "Yaar, Haroun, please do something! Please tell me that was a sick joke of hers in front of the cameras. Please, yaar. I can't do without this job. You may not want to admit it, dude, but she's smitten by you. She'll listen to you. Please, please, please help me out."

Haroun doubts that anyone is smitten by him, but he rubs his friend's hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'm gonna try to do something." Then, with a tense expression, he follows his CEO into the room she's disappeared in.

. . .

There is a knock on the door.

"Oh," Zoya turns her head slightly, rubbing her ear as she removes an earring. "It's you."

Haroun towers in the doorway, struggling to find the right words, emotion-filled eyes seeming to increase his size tenfold. "Ms. Zoya . . . what was that for?"

"Uh, pardon?" Zoya takes off her other earring. "You're going to have to be more specific. I'm not going to magically know what you're talking about, hun." Despite her flippant tone, she marvels at the way he approaches her. With controlled anger, without yelling. Despite the scene she knows he just witnessed.

"You . . . fired Farhan. On live TV."

Zoya laughs. "And?"

Haroun sighs in exasperation. "And?" He rubs his forehead. "Ms. Zoya, do you realize what you just did?"

"He's incompetent." Zoya shrugs. "He couldn't do the simple job of separating carnations from hydrangeas. It's a colossal mistake."

"Ms. Zoya — " Haroun rubs the back of his neck. "It's not a big deal, to be honest. The people are here for the fashion show, not what types of flowers are decorating the stage."

"He humiliated me in front of Desi World and those sleazy businessmen."

"But . . . was it necessary to humiliate him in return?"

Zoya shrugs as if to say, of course. "An eye for an eye." She tenses as the memory falls on her.

This used to be one of her ex-husband's favorite lines from the Qur'an. He used to say it all the time, purposefully forgetting the continuation of the verse that said forgiveness and patience would yield a much greater reward. Something Zoya only found out much, much afterwards. When it was already too late.

"Haven't you heard that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Ms. Zoya?" Check, thinks Zoya. Haroun tenses and rubs his hands over his temples. "Are Farhan's concerns true? Do you really not like him? Did you purposely ask him to lead the project so that he could be publicly humiliated?" Haroun tenses, as if he reviles the words coming out of his own mouth. "Were you banking on him screwing up?" he asks quietly. "Forgive me, Ms. Zoya, if I'm making any wrong assumptions."

Even now, Zoya is amazed by his patience with her. By his dignified and respectful approach to what is obviously a stressful situation for him.

"Sweetie, I don't mix my personal and my work life." She loosens her curls and massages her hair with her fingers. "Farhan was incompetent, so he deserved what he got. I don't know where you're coming up with these conspiracy theories from."

Haroun shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but this isn't fair."

"Yeah? Well, a lot of things aren't fair! Domestic abuse isn't fair! What can you do about it?" Zoya — always cool, calm, and collected — has her hands splayed out in front of her, begging for an explanation.

Haroun's face scrunches up in confusion. "Domestic abuse? I agree, but where did that come from? We were talking about Farhan."

Zoya swallows hard and turns away. "Anyway, Farhan is fired."

"Ms. Zoya, please don't do this. Give him another chance, please," he insists. "Besides, I was co-lead, and technically lead of the project in your eyes, so realistically you should be punishing both of us. The responsibility lies on both of us."

Zoya shakes her head. "I know there's no way you made this mistake."

"How can you know that?" Haroun holds his hands out helplessly. "I'm human. Why do you place me on such a high pedestal, Ms. Zoya?"

"Because there's goodness in you!" she cries out fiercely as she whirls to face him again. "There is goodness in you! Like right now, you're willing to take responsibility for something you didn't even do because you want justice. This goodness of yours eats into my flesh." She makes a helpless gesture. "It eats into my flesh, Mr. Suleiman. It renders me powerless, and I do not like feeling powerless." For the first time since she's met him, she expresses the raw emotion she feels in his presence. "So stop being so good for your own good. No one in the world is ever going to be able to match your goodness."

Haroun's hands drop limply to his sides, jaw slacking at her words. "You overestimate me."

Zoya laughs mirthlessly. "So they all say in the movies." She shakes her head again and unclips her hair from the left side to readjust it.

Haroun shakes his head. "Really, Ms. Zoya." After a moment of tense silence, he murmurs, "And do you even realize what a big loss this could give the company? You fired an employee on live TV. It could potentially ruin not only your image but the image of Zameer as a whole. This could . . . backfire and whatever you were thinking could come crashing down on your unsuspecting shoulders." He says this quietly, with reservation. As if he's afraid to hurt her with the dangerous prospect his words have.

Zoya places a hand on one hip. "Unsuspecting? Me? Honey, you're deluding yourself. Zoya Zameer never does anything without calculation."

"What do you mean by 'calculation?'" Haroun says worriedly.

She huffs out a resigned sigh. "Farhan's not being fired, sweetheart. That was just. . . . a calculation."

"But you just said . . . " Haroun's face changes to sheer confusion. "Did you plan this, Ms. Zoya?"

"Not a plan. Just . . . " She takes a deep breath. "I pray to Allah that the person who was supposed to see that saw it, otherwise it will have all been for nothing." She turns her face suddenly, afraid that she has exposed too much. What about him causes her tongue to unroll of its own accord? "Now if you will please leave, I need to take care of something before the show begins."

"Wait, wait." Haroun's voice is dangerously low. "Did you do this intentionally?"

Zoya lifts her head to the ceiling and closes her eyes. Her hands begin to tremble. Clenching them into fists, she thinks desperately, not here, not now. "Please leave. I need to take care of something."

Haroun presses his lips together and worry lines crease his forehead. "We can talk about this later." The firm statement is a promise, and quickly he exits the room.

After an anxiety-ridden moment, Zoya sighs. She pulls out her phone and dials a number.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Sameer?"

"Yes, Ms. Zoya?"

"Are the reports ready?"

"Yes, Ms. Zoya."

"Good. Ask the press to release them now."

"Got it."

Zoya ends the call and tucks her phone away into her clutch. She takes a deep breath.

"Let's see what the press remembers of this after they find out that Zameer is extending its manufacturing to the international level."

. . .