,

. . .

. . .

~

"The hypocrite sees faults in everyone except in himself." —'Ali ibn Abu Talib

~

Zaki Ahmed steeples his fingers and stares at his desk. His secretary fidgets nervously in front of him.

"We are experiencing an enormous loss, sir, especially with the resignation of one of our designers. And — "

"I'm aware of that."

"And as for the printing of the news about Zoya Zameer, the reporters were coerced into canceling further printing. They were offered large sums of money."

Zaki slams his palm down on the desk and his secretary flinches. "This is all her fault," he seethes. "This is all Zoya Zameer's fault. Ever since she broke off our partnership, we've been . . . " He trails off for a moment, then tangentially adds. "She must have offered no less than thousands of dollars to the reporters."

"Correct, sir."

Zaki laughs suddenly. "It doesn't matter. The news about a possible relationship with her employee wasn't enough to rile our audience. After all, everyone is familiar with her reputation anyway." He sneers. "What we need is something more . . . uncharacteristic. Something more destructive."

His gaze drifts away as he falls back deep into thought, plotting the downfall of his rival. His secretary watches him with concern.

. . .

Sameer knocks on the door to Zoya's office and peeks inside. "There woman is here for her interview."

"Sameer, will you ever give me good news?" Zoya sighs loudly, breaking out of her disturbed thoughts of last night. Something about Haroun's young sisters coupling the burden of working along with studying won't leave her mind. "Send her in quickly. Hurry up, oh my God. You are so slow, it makes me want to puke!" she huffs dramatically.

Frustrated by the last several interviews for potential designers, Zoya can only hope this one doesn't make her lose her mind. And this task is too important to entrust to anybody but herself, no matter how tempting it is to leave the interviews to Bill as usual.

Minutes later, a woman Zoya's age enters, clad in a long, simple dress with her hair pulled back from her face in a neat ponytail. A plain shawl hangs around her shoulders and falls over her chest.

"Salaam," Zoya says, biting the end of a pen.

"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam." Her voice is soft, eyes lowered.

"Sit," Zoya orders. "Name?"

"Sumaiya. Sumaiya Akhtar."

"Sumaiya . . . " Zoya trails off. "Coffee or tea?"

"I'm okay, thank you."

"Tea it is," Zoya says, calling Sarah to send Haroun with tea; old habits die hard, and she isn't satisfied with anyone else delivering her beverages again. "So, Sumaiya." She flips her hourglass upside down and Sumaiya's eyes follow her actions. "Why do you think you can be the lead designer?"

She clears her throat. "Ms. Zoya, I believe I have the potential."

Zoya raises her brows and flips open her résumé. Haroun knocks and enters with their tea, and Zoya is too immersed in the file to notice the way Sumaiya's cheeks tinge pink at his arrival.

Zoya begins to read from the résumé and Haroun quickly leaves, holding back a smile when his eyes flick to the woman in front of Zoya.

"Worked as the lead designer for three years in Paki Enterprises." Zoya leans back, somewhat impressed. "You do know Zameer Co. and Paki Enterprises are like Harry Potter and Voldemort, correct?" She doesn't hesitate to lay her rivalries with other companies on the table. What can people put in the media and use against her that she isn't already prepared for?

Sumaiya laughs. "I'm sure the entire fashion industry is aware, yes." She takes a sip of her tea.

"Why would you leave such a secure job? I'm flattered, really, I am," Zoya drawls in a bored voice. "That you decided to come here. But why the sudden change? Ooh." She leans forward, chin in her hand. "Were you fired?"

The woman laughs. "No, Ms. Zoya. It just . . . didn't fit with my ideals. And I was tired of the team dynamic."

Zoya perks up, interested by this peek into Paki Enterprises. "Team dynamic? Interesting. What about it tired you?"

Sumaiya meets Zoya's eyes, and suddenly her expression becomes wary. "Just . . . wasn't the best," she murmurs vaguely.

Okay, Zoya thinks. So she's not naïve. She's still guarding her previous job's honor. Check.

"Just so you know, I wouldn't be able to pay you like they did," Zoya remarks, fingering the top of the hourglass.

Sumaiya shakes her head. "I'm not concerned about that. I think I have some wonderful ideas and designs on modest bridal wear and would love to bring them to the market."

Modest bridal wear. So she wants to do something bigger than earn Benjamins. Check.

Zoya inclines her brows. "I value modest wear. Walk anywhere in my company and examine any mannequin and you won't find what we offer in many other places in the world. Because unfortunately, some of us Pakistanis believe we need to compromise our beliefs and rid ourselves of old traditions and cultures to be seen by others." Zoya gestures to her office, to the luxurious furniture and the thousand-dollar decorations. "Yet look at Zameer."

Sumaiya nods, smiling.

There's something about her that sticks out to Zoya. Something she couldn't feel in the presence of the many other people she interviewed. A uniquely calm aura surrounds the woman, something that eases the restlessness in Zoya's heart from the past few days.

"You're hired." Zoya shuts her file. Sumaiya's eyes widen and Zoya shrugs. "You have the experience. And the passion." Most importantly, the integrity.

"Thank you so much, Ms. Zoya." Sumaiya says. She stands and holds her hand out. Zoya stares at it pointedly before deciding to shake it, realizing she likes her.

When she leaves, Zoya makes a quick call to Sameer. While she trusts her instincts, she's also not stupid.

He picks up on the first ring.

"Yes, Ms. Zoya?"

"I've hired a new lead designer; she's a former Paki Enterprises employee." Zoya hears abrupt shuffling on the other end. "I need you to keep an eye on her 24/7. I mean it. Keep constant tabs on her and report back to me."

"Got it. Her name?" Sameer doesn't even question her. Zoya knows he has become accustomed to strange requests like this from her.

"Sumaiya Akhtar."

"Alright." He ends the call and Zoya stares at the phone, irritated that he cut the call before she did.

She pages her board of directors and PR manager into her office for a meeting, and the topic of profit margins comes up. They express concerns about possible consumer decline due to Zoya's recent "shenanigans." Zoya sharply reminds them that the CFO has tracked their revenues exponentially increasing, especially after her announcement of Zameer Co. expanding internationally.

"But we still have to remember this," one of her directors — Ibitoye — cuts in. "Rival companies, especially Paki Enterprises, will exploit Zameer's image by using any chance, any opening that they see. They'll dig up some dirt, use backhanded methods, and make seemingly harmless things appear questionable, which could have an immensely detrimental impact on us. Especially considering recent developments. You know what they say: the bigger they are, the harder they fall."

Zoya twirls a curl around her finger and rolls her eyes. "Say what you wanna say in clear words, Ibitoye."

Ibitoye looks her dead in the eye. "We can't take any risks. No more funny business, Zoya."

Another director, Raj, says, "She's right, Zoya. You have to fully understand the position you hold. Spearheading one of the most successful and one of the fastest growing businesses in the fashion industry – people won't miss any chance to bring you down."

Zoya nods nonchalantly, examining her mascara in a hand mirror.

When she dismisses them twenty minutes later, she unlocks her iPad and her eyebrows furrow upon reading the tabloid article.

Zoya Zameer: Orphaned?

She leans back in her chair, letting out a huff. "The lengths these people will go to," she mutters, tapping her nails on the desk. "Because they have no lives of their own, they love stooping around and digging up dirt on other people's lives." Zoya slams her hourglass upside down, watching bits of sand fly out of the slightly cracked glass.

The ring of the phone jostles her out of her stupor. Picking up, she drawls out a bored "Yes?"

"Ms. Zoya," Sarah hurriedly says. "Literally every Pakistani news channel has called to ask for an interview with you. And a few American news channels as well. What do you want me to say?"

A corner of Zoya's lips lifts. "What do they want to know?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Obviously, they're digging for something. Did they drop any hints, give any suggestions as to what they're looking to — ah — unveil me for now?"

"Not directly, no," Sarah murmurs, seeming unsettled. "Mostly they sound like they want to know what sparked international expansion, whether you were ever married or not, and why you fired an employee on live TV. Oh, and they suspect you're orphaned." She says the last bit quietly, as if afraid to anger her.

Is this not direct enough for you, innocent little Sarah?

Zoya laughs. "Ah, people. Interesting, aren't they? Seeing others lead successful lives causes them to pull out binoculars and begin examination."

Sarah remains silent on the other end.

"Which news channels?" Zoya asks absentmindedly. Sarah begins to prattle off names of news channels and Zoya mulls over them. She knows the press wants a statement — or several statements — and not appearing before them will make her look bad, which could undoubtedly have a ripple effect. And Zameer cannot risk that, especially with the number of improvements these past few weeks.

Zoya sighs loudly and pinches the bridge of her nose. All of this is getting exponentially messier. "The evening gala for our new project is in a week. They can all see me then."

When Zoya shuts off the phone, she remains immobile for a long time. Her eyes are closed, brows knitted together, fingers pinching her nose, when there's a knock on the door.

"Enter," she barks without looking up, thinking it may be Farhan with another document for her to sign. Whoever it is walks up to her desk quietly and waits.

Zoya opens her eyes to see Haroun Suleiman standing in front of her. Quickly, she adjusts her tired expression into a flirtatious one and throws him a smile.

"Salaam," he says quietly. "I just wanted to thank you for coming last night. It meant a lot to my mom."

She leans forward, jhumkas dangling. "Just your mom?"

"And my sisters."

This guy is hopeless. Disappointed, Zoya leans back again and drums the table with her fingers. "No problem. I enjoyed it." Pause. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Haroun nods. And then there is that thick, pressing silence.

Please don't mention what happened at your house.

"Ms. Zoya, I also wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away."

"Are you okay?"

Zoya raises her eyes to his, but he's fingering the edge of her table absentmindedly. His eyelashes cast shadows like spiderwebs over his eye bags, which have grown considerably darker recently. As if he hasn't slept in days. A lock of his raven-colored hair falls over the top of his forehead. So artful, so natural.

It is now that Zoya realizes how beautiful Haroun Suleiman is. Of course, she's always known this. Ever since the day she laid eyes on him. But to see him in this fatigued, confused state, with dark bags under his tired, bleak eyes and his hair artfully strewn around on his head — so natural, so vulnerable — awakens a feeling within her. A feeling that has long been dead.

"I'm okay," she replies quietly, ignoring the thrumming of her heart. The question he asked — the one she hasn't heard in a while — seems to reverberate through her core. "Why do you ask?"

He shifts, resting his hands in his pockets. "You just seem . . ." He mulls over the right terminology. "On edge."

Zoya grabs a pen and begins clicking the end of it. Her bangles clink against one another, awfully loud in the silent room. "I'm okay," she repeats.

If you ask me one more time, there's a ninety-nine percent chance I might burst into tears.

Haroun nods, but the tension doesn't leave his face. Without another word, he leaves the room.

Zoya stares at the spot he disappeared through, for the first time feeling unsettled. She shakes her head and pages her directors in to discuss the statement she'll give to the media.

Ibitoye is the first to come in, and she walks in on her boss tugging at the end of her hair to pull out loose strands. Zoya wraps the strands around her finger to form a ring of hair. The two women lock eyes, and Zoya throws Ibitoye a cocky grin, offering her the circle of hair.

Ibitoye scrunches her nose. "No thank you."

Zoya raises her brows and shrugs. "No? Okay. I was giving you my DNA and an open chance to clone me, and who wouldn't want that? But you refused." Zoya sighs theatrically and throws the hair in a trash can. "What will the world do with just one Zoya Zameer?"

Ibitoye gives her an exasperated look.

. . .

Haroun is absentmindedly typing data into his laptop when — with a shock — he sees someone he recognizes standing a few feet away. He stands up quickly and rushes forward, desperately eager to apologize. To untie the knots that have been in his stomach since the day she was fired.

"Hey, Flora. How are you?"

She doesn't reply. Her back is turned to him, shoulders stiff

"Can I please talk to you?"

Flora still doesn't turn around. "I just had to get some of my belongings. I don't have much time. I parked my car against the curb."

"Please, Flora? I won't take too much of your time." Haroun's forehead is lined with concern.

She shifts slightly so that the side of her head is visible. "Make it quick."

Haroun sighs, walking around to face her. "Look, Flora, I — "

"Don't," she interrupts, clenching her fists. "Just don't."

"I need to," he whispers. "My chest feels like it's being crushed since that day. I need to apologize. Flora, I am so — "

"It's not you." Flora squeezes her eyes shut and reopens them. Tears begin to pool at the corners. "It's not you," she repeats slowly, reluctantly. As if she doesn't want to admit what she is saying. "So don't apologize."

"I feel like it's my responsibility to — "

"No, everyone's right about what they say about her." Flora nods. "I was too blinded by her affection of me to see it before, but everyone's right. She's inconsiderate and cruel to the max. She doesn't give a damn about anyone's feelings. I know this is the 'corrupt corporate sector', but I have seen plenty of humane bosses in this 'corrupt corporate sector.'"

Haroun quiets. "With all due respect, I thinks she's just been through a lot."

Flora's fists clench. "Yeah. You may be right. But that gives her no license to ball her pain up and throw it around in other people's faces," she snaps. Haroun's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Yeah, you also seem like the kind of guy who's been through a lot. I've heard you always worrying with Farhan about your mom and the expenses of her surgery or whatever. You've been through a lot, too. But you don't allow the pain that's packed in you to hurt others. You don't." Flora pauses. "You really are a great person, Haroun. I guess even at the age of twenty-seven, jealousy and neglect from my parents got to me." She sighs.

Haroun presses his lips together, suddenly overwhelmed by the words he doesn't deserve. "Have you found a job yet?"

Flora looks up at the ceiling, then around the pipes surrounding it and down to the racks and mannequins covered in designer clothing. "No," she says. "I'm unemployed, single, and I have an elderly mom to take care of. I don't know what I'm going to do. Even the money from the contract is going to be gone eventually and then — " She looks around again and tears up. "It's been a good few years here." She laughs a little. "I'll miss almost always knocking the mannequins over while pinning the dresses on them." Flora's smile disappears, and she sighs.

Haroun attempts to lighten the mood. "I have a sort of suggestion for you," he says. Flora looks up at him curiously and he shrugs. "Get married." Her eyebrows furrow. "You won't solely be burdened with a job and you'll have more financial stability. Oh, and you'll even have a life partner."

Flora stares at him, then bursts out laughing. "'And you'll even have a life partner?' As if that's not the exact reason people get married. That's like saying I went to the White House and even got to meet the President." She laughs again, then gets serious. "You really are a good person. And . . . I'm sorry for all the things I've said to you."

Haroun shakes his head. "Forgotten."

She smiles, grabbing her bag.

Haroun hesitates. "I hope . . . I hope your journey ahead brings you happiness and success."

Flora gives a slight smile, a well of tears in her eyes accompanying it. Then she nods and rushes out quickly.

Leaving Haroun standing there feeling as if the burden of the sky has been lifted from his shoulders.

. . .