. . .

. . .

~

"And He found you lost and guided (you)" (Qur'an 93:7)

~

The show is a blast.

Cheers and applause continue for quite some time before thank you speeches are made, people are hugged, and confetti scatters from the roof of the great hall.

People mingle in the lobby afterwards. Employees of Zameer Co. are approached by businessmen and employees of other companies, continuously being marveled at and interviewed over their great work with the fashion show.

Farhan is approached frequently, and when one particularly blunt reporter queries, "Didn't Ms. Zoya fire you today?", Haroun steps in and adds that he doesn't know where the reporter is receiving this false information from.

The only person missing is the CEO herself. Zoya is nowhere to be found after a couple of interviews and approaches from other businessmen. When she finally emerges, people swarm over her like bees. She can be seen from a distance smoothly declining reporters' remarks and assumptions and smiling effortlessly, revealing that she must have eaten something strange and needed to take a bathroom break. Her flushed cheeks and the sweat beading on her neck support this assertion, and after a while people stop crowding around her.

She approaches her remaining employees and smiles. "What a night!"

Farhan stares at her in furious astonishment. She is — quite plainly — pretending like everything is normal.

"Let's head home, yeah?" she says. Bill and the others nod their assent and leave her with Farhan and Haroun as they get into their rides. Since they all live in proximity to one another, Zoya decided it best for them to leave together.

Farhan stares at her. "Ms. Zoya?"

"Hmm?" she says absently.

"Is everything okay?"

"Farhan, please stop pretending like you don't have any other motive than to ask me whether you're fired or not," she snaps, shoving her curls behind her ears.

"No, I wasn't —"

"You're not fired. Happy?"

He doesn't look the least bit happy. He seems perturbed to a great extent and — after telling Haroun that he's going to leave with Bill and the rest — turns and walks out, looking dejected.

Haroun stands there, wringing his hands awkwardly. "You'll be leaving, Ms. Zoya?"

"I should have been, but my limo just called and the driver got into an accident." She looks disturbed, but something on Haroun's face tells her that he knows her concern is not about the accident.

"Do you have a ride?"

She snorts. "I'm not leaving with any of these sleazy men who've offered. Imagine the embarrassment. The CEO of the company got left behind while her employees all ditched her and she had to be rescued by one of these men." She shakes her head. "I can just visualize the headlines. These people have nothing better to do."

Zoya waits with bated breath, attempting to look nonchalant in front of her employee. But there is an earnestness in her eyes that she is unable to hide.

She can only be glad he has a habit of keeping his gaze lowered.

Zoya knows it's foolish. For her to give in to her petty desires, her absurd fantasies of this seemingly simple man when he is very clearly not interested in her. But she is Zoya Zameer, and old habits die hard.

He mesmerizes her. Because she does not mesmerize him.

And for many other reasons.

Haroun looks around uncertainly. His eyes fall on the businessmen who continuously glance at Zoya. The reporters — who were raving about what a sight to behold she is — keep darting their eyes her way. Haroun visibly flinches, and Zoya knows just by looking at his tense jaw that he is disturbed by the brazen way these men watch her, as if undressing her with their eyes.

"I can drop you home," he says quickly.

Although Zoya triumphs at her small victory, she's still surprised.

He doesn't meet her eyes.

Despite her intense desire for him to do so, she did not expect Haroun Suleiman to make this offer to her. Quiet, careful Haroun Suleiman. Who flinches at the flash of a camera. To make this offer must be troubling to him as cameramen are still milling about; he'd be sure to get captured in their trap of cameras as leading his boss out of the hall.

"Really?" Zoya's voice is too high. She clears her throat.

He nods. Firmly. "My car is just parked a bit far. I can run and drive it back here?" His question is phrased oddly. She detects a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

Zoya isn't the least bit surprised that he arrived in his own car. Judging by the time she's known him, he would blanch at the attention he would receive if he arrived like everyone else did. "No, it's okay. I'll walk with you. It's better for the cameras anyway. And I don't feel like talking to any more 'eligible men'. They have no sharam in their requests."

Haroun looks relieved. He nods and together they head out of the great hall. There are even more paparazzi outside and Zoya and Haroun quickly cross by them and make their way to his car, trying to ignore the quick flashes of cameras.

He's quiet as they walk. He doesn't ask her again about why she pretended to fire Farhan on live TV and she doesn't indulge in the topic either. She simply walks at his side quietly.

The night sky is pitch black. When they had arrived, the time for Maghrib had just ended and the blue hues in the sky were fading into indigo. But now, the sheer darkness causes Zoya to shiver involuntarily. Everywhere she turns, the night sky is formidable and mysterious, creeping onto them like a cloaked hand.

Distract yourself, Zoya.

She turns to Haroun, observing him brazenly. Confusion plagues her when she sees him carrying a drawstring bag in his left hand. She hadn't seen that before. What could he possibly have brought to the fashion show?

His mom calls him as they walk. He speaks gently into the phone, telling her he'll be home in an hour or so, Insha Allah. Zoya struggles to hide her surprise at the soft voice he uses, the tenderness in his eyes. She feels a sudden, searing pain in her chest at the memory of parents.

They walk for about five more minutes during which — multiple times — Zoya wants to ask where the hell he's parked his car so far. Instead, she remains quiet, sensing he's already at the height of discomfort. His uneasiness amuses her; she finds slight humor in the way he walks at a distance from her.

While they're walking, a group of men pass by them, closer to Zoya than Haroun. They flash her a smile — she smiles back dismissively — and as if automatically, Haroun shifts ever so subtly so that his tall frame blocks her from their view.

A shock passes through her – one that has nothing to do with the chilly night air. She stares in awe at Haroun, but he seems not to notice. A strange feeling courses through her, arresting her senses and seeming to take hold of her heart and squeeze it. Like grabbing the reins of a horse and tugging it ever so gently.

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts. Haroun tilts his head slightly in her direction. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she replies. Her voice is strangely muted. "No, actually," she admits moments later.

Zoya stops and looks down at her feet. The heels are killing her. Although she's used to wearing heels on a daily basis, this day has stretched out longer than usual. Besides, she thinks bitterly. It seems like whoever manufactured these heels added some sequins on the inside, too.

"What's wrong?"

"These heels mujhe maar dalein gi."

Haroun shakes his head, his eyes unexpectedly dancing with silent laughter.

"I'm gonna walk without them." She reaches down to pull them off and lets out a relieved sigh. Haroun watches her as if she's crazy.

"You're going to injure your feet. These sidewalks aren't exactly made of marble."

She waves a hand at him dismissively. "I'll be fine." He presses his lips together and Zoya rolls her eyes. "Really, Haroun, I'll be fine." Saying his name gives her a strange, exhilarating thrill.

"Wait." He pulls his bag open. "I brought extra shoes. They're men's shoes, so I'm not sure how they'll fit, but it's better than walking barefoot."

Zoya stares at him, then bursts out laughing. "Haroun Suleiman, only you would bring extra shoes to a fashion show." She pretends to wipe a tear away.

He furrows his brows. "I knew my feet would be uncomfortable in these dress shoes."

She stops laughing. "So why don't you wear them?"

He shakes his head. "You need them more than I do." He lifts the shoes out of the bag. "I'm really sorry. They're not new. I hope you don't mind."

Her eyes trace his actions. She is unable to express her awe at his gentleness, his innocence. "No, that's fine."

He sets them down on the floor and holds his hands out for her heels. She stares at him. "I'm not putting my nasty, sweaty heels in your bag. No way." He tells her he doesn't mind but she shakes her head firmly. What an insult to her beautiful femininity for him to smell her sweaty heels. "I'll hold them."

His hand is still held out. "At least let me hold them." His posture is insistent, hands firm. She sighs and hands them to him, noticing how careful he is not to touch her fingers. She tries his shoes on and — even though they're big on her — manages to drag her feet in them as they walk.

They walk for a few more minutes when he stops. She looks up at him quizzically.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking uncomfortable. "We'll have to cross through here." He gestures to a narrow alley that leads to the other side of the road, where there seems to be a large parking space.

Zoya lets out a peal of laughter. "Haroun, did you think the FBI would tail you if you parked closer to the hotel?"

He shakes his head in embarrassment. "I just didn't want to draw too much attention. And . . . parking nearby was packed."

Once again, she marvels over his words. This guy is something else, she thinks. "Alright. Let's go." She gestures for him to go ahead but he shakes his head firmly and gestures for her to go first. Zoya — strangely touched by his protectiveness — obliges and walks ahead of him. He's quiet the entire way, and she wants so badly to turn around and look at his face. To see the expressions filtering across it. The firm protectiveness. The detached gentleness.

The gentleness he would offer to anybody, Zoya reminds herself.

Once they reach the parking lot, Haroun pulls out his keys and clicks the unlock button. A few feet away, a small car beeps. Zoya and Haroun follow the sound and when they reach it, she sees that it's an old Toyota Avalon.

For some reason, this doesn't surprise her.

She hasn't taken any wild stabs at Haroun's economic status — only some speculation after his "I need the money" statement when she first met him — but she senses that Haroun is the kind of person who would own this same car even if he was a millionaire.

He jogs forward and opens the back door for her. So chivalry is not dead. She raises her eyebrows at him but doesn't say a word as she gets in. He would probably crash the car somewhere out of nervousness if she sat next to him, anyway.

Or, a voice in Zoya's head prods. He's setting his boundaries.

Haroun gets in the driver's seat and puts on his seatbelt. Zoya bites her lip to keep from laughing. Safety first. Then he places her heels carefully on the passenger seat.

"What's your address, Ms. Zoya?" he asks. She tells him and he begins to back out of the parking space and make his way onto the road. She's surprised at herself. Although she would have flinched at telling anyone else her address, she didn't think twice before reciting it to him.

Haroun even drives gently, one hand at 1 o' clock while the other drums the inside of the steering wheel at 7 o' clock. He seems to pass over every pothole with ease and drives with a relaxing rhythm.

She's curious. "Don't you need a GPS?"

"No," he says. "I'm going the right way."

She shakes her head. "I mean you know the way?"

"Yes. I've been around that area a couple of times."

"How come?"

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I was looking for jobs there before."

"Ah." She nods.

The entire drive is silent. But uncharacteristically for her, Zoya is at ease, leaning back and observing the cleanliness of his car. Not a speck of dirt. Not a single gum wrapper or soda can. Scented Arabic calligraphy of the name Allah hangs from the rear view mirror and the du'a for traveling is pasted to the dashboard. Somehow this is even better than sitting in the back of a limo. This way, she gets a small view into the quiet life of Haroun Suleiman.

After some time, Haroun mumbles, "I must have missed the exit." He drives for a few more minutes, trying to find another exit to take and drive locally. He takes the next one and looks further confused. "I've been here so many times, why . . ." With furrowed brows, he tries to navigate the roads to find the right way.

"Did you forget the way?" Zoya asks, leaning forward slightly.

"I don't know, I — " He trails off unsurely. After a few more minutes of his confusion further plaguing him, he seems to be panicking. He stops the car on the side of the road and places his head on the steering wheel.

"Haroun, it's okay. I can just pull up the directions on my phone."

He shakes his head. "I'm straying off the path." His voice is low, pained. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Zoya is awed by witnessing this small moment of vulnerability into the quiet Haroun Suleiman's life. She would be remiss to say she isn't drinking it in like every detail she does of him. "Haroun," she says. "Seriously, it's alright. Do you want me to drive?"

A moment later, he picks his head back up and shakes it, turning the key in the ignition again. Watching him in the rear view mirror, she is confused by the expression of grief in his eyes, of loss. "Do you mind looking up the directions on your phone, Ms. Zoya? Mine is dying."

She nods and pulls them up, handing the phone to him. He's careful not to touch her as he says "thank you." With the guide of the GPS, he's able to get back on the highway and find the right exit before he approaches her manor slowly, handing the phone back to her.

Zoya finds herself carefully observing his reaction when he first looks at her house. And is surprised as well as disappointed to find that he doesn't give the same reaction that everyone else does. His eyes pass over it once before he looks back down. The dimple has reappeared, signaling he's tense about something.

"Thank you so much, Haroun." Zoya shrugs off his shoes and asks him if she can open his bag to place them in it. He nods.

"No need to thank me, Ms. Zoya," he states professionally. "It was my responsibility as your employee."

Her face falls a little, but she isn't surprised by his words. Of course he would have done this for anyone. He would never find sleep if he left a woman in the midst of a bunch of leering men. It would strain his conscience.

She slips on her heels and steps out of the car to walk over to his side, throwing her hair behind her shoulder. Her gatekeeper looks at her and then at Haroun in amazement.

She knows it's out of the question to invite him inside especially at this time, so instead she says, "Can I get you anything? Water? Juice? Something to eat?"

He shakes his head. "No, thank you, Ms. Zoya. I better get going. My mom is waiting on me."

"Alright." She taps the hood of his car and steps back. "Thanks again, Haroun. I really appreciate it."

He nods and starts the car again.

Zoya can't explain, but for some reason she finds herself not wanting to leave. She wants to stand there and watch the emotions that pass over his face. The worry, the discomfort, the fatigue.

He doesn't seem to be leaving until Zoya steps inside, so with one last wave and hair flip in his direction, she turns around and walks through the gate to her manor. Upon reaching the door, which Aman opens for her, she turns around, expecting Haroun to have left.

But Haroun Suleiman is still there, waiting patiently and earnestly as Zoya Zameer makes it safely inside.

. . .