. . .

. . .

~

And Allah said: "I am with the ones whose hearts are torn." (Hadith Qudsi)

~

The photo shoots for the project follow immediately after the gala. The team huddles around the cameras and the green screen, excitedly clicking shots and taking notes. The CEO herself paces around the set, chin in her hand, observing the model. She cocks her head to the side.

"No, not like that." Zoya walks exasperatedly towards her and adjusts her hands. "Like this. Feel the role. Make it believable."

The model nods, agitated, and schools her expression carefully as she has been instructed. Her hands lie in the same position Zoya had adjusted them, but moments later Zoya clucks her tongue and shakes her head. For the next few minutes, she criticizes the model, complaining that her facial expression isn't real enough, it isn't good enough. Eventually the model becomes frustrated and snaps, "Ms. Zoya, maybe you should model for this project, since you know the perfect face and the perfect expression to make!"

The model must not have realized these words were a recipe for disaster. Zoya's eyes flash, her shoulders tightening. "How about you stop telling me what to do and just do your job right instead of behaving in such a lousy manner," she retorts sharply.

The model's mouth forms a wide O. She resumes motion, but her shoulders are stiff, posture rigid and tense.

Zoya whirls around, sensing a gaze on her from across the room. She looks up and sees Haroun leaning against the wall with a notepad in hand. His stance is casual but when their eyes lock, there is an inexplicable depth in them before he looks away.

Zoya's cheeks flush.

"I want these photos ready to review by tomorrow," she shouts at the quiet room. Pin drop silence follows her announcement, and — cheeks still red — she rushes past everyone, avoiding Haroun as she makes her way into the elevator.

Zoya is unable to ignore the pang that resonates in her chest when she sees Haroun in her peripheral vision, rushing forward to grab a box from a female employee's hands, careful not to touch her. The employee smiles gratefully at him, and Zoya cannot thank God enough for the elevator doors sliding closed.

In her office, she pages her receptionist and hesitates before asking her to send Sumaiya. Minutes later, there's a knock on the door.

"Enter."

Sumaiya walks into the room and stands in front of the desk expectantly. Sameer's words run through Zoya's flustered mind. I'm keeping track of her every move, Ms. Zoya. She goes straight home from work and comes straight to work from home.

"Salaam, Ms. Zoya. You called for me?"

Zoya flips through a file of designs and stops at one. She points to the drawing. "This is what the model is wearing, correct?"

Sumaiya nods.

"Why is it blue?"

Her eyebrows incline. "I'm sorry?"

"Why. Is it. Blue?" Zoya repeats.

"Ms. Zoya, we talked about this. Remember?" Sumaiya settles down in the chair across from her CEO. "I had initially made it blue to match your dress at the gala but then we discussed that half of the cover photo would be in black and white anyway."

"So why isn't it black?"

"Because you said that blue didn't look as harsh in the black and white tone. And you wanted some semblance of a normal girl in the picture."

Zoya taps the desk agitatedly. I know, sweetheart, I know. Say something else. Distract me.

"Is . . . everything alright, Ms. Zoya?" Sumaiya asks tentatively.

Anything but that question. Haroun's eyes flash in Zoya's mind. Dark, intense, probing. "Yes," she replies curtly. "Can you bring me the rest of the designs? I only have the first file."

Sumaiya nods. "Haroun has them. I'll get them from him."

Zoya straightens suddenly, not wanting another accidental interaction with Haroun's intense gaze – with the eyes that make her feel as if he can see everything inside her. "Bring them yourself."

The employee looks startled at this request, but she nods and exits.

The model's words filter through Zoya's head. Maybe you should model for this project since you know the perfect face and the perfect expression to make.

Zoya's fingers tremble over the desk. Someone knocks on the door and she balls her hand into a fist.

Haroun enters with Sumaiya following behind, and Zoya immediately averts her eyes. It's a new move; she isn't used to not staring him down and twirling her hair and giggling while speaking to him. She rifles through the files on her desk, hoping he can't hear her heartbeat. Hoping he can't sense the thrumming of her breath, since he seems to be able to break down all of her carefully constructed shields.

She can't forget his eyes.

In the past few years of Zoya's life, she has never done anything without careful calculation and consideration. But unexpectedly, Haroun Suleiman has turned out to be the one piece on Zoya's chessboard game of life that she hadn't anticipated. He flummoxes her. Even with all her careful plays, subtle thoughts and actions, and skillful consideration, somehow Haroun has ended up being king on her chessboard game.

While she hasn't even moved a single pawn.

"He wanted to ask you something," Sumaiya says by way of explanation, breaking Zoya out of her stupor. "That's why he brought the file." She watches her boss carefully.

Zoya nods, attempting nonchalance, and turns to the file Haroun is now pointing towards her. He flips through the papers and Zoya sneaks a peek up at him. Have his eyelashes always been this thick and long? They cast shadows over his dull eye bags and, as Zoya quietly observes him, his gaze flicks to her for just a second before he focuses back on the file.

Zoya's cheeks heat and she uncaps her water bottle to preoccupy herself.

"I just wanted to make sure these were cancelled." Haroun points to the page.

"Yes. They are."

"Okay." He shows her something else and discusses some details regarding finances before closing the file and standing before her expectantly.

Sumaiya steps forward. "Ms. Zoya, I was telling Haroun that I was wondering if the previous kameez I designed sends a stronger message? I know in our last meeting everyone agreed on the second one, but Haroun and I were looking at the first one again and I think the patterns are more insistent."

Haroun and I? Zoya's eyes dart between the two of them. Disregarding everything else Sumaiya said, Zoya settles on these three words. She points between them. "Do you two know each other? Like, outside of work?"

Sumaiya glances at Haroun quickly. "Well, yes."

"Interesting. You mean — apart from being coworkers?"

She nods tentatively.

Zoya's heart rate skyrockets. "How?" Looking for something to do to decrease the trembling of her hands, she uncaps her water bottle again and takes a large sip. She crosses one leg over the other, appearing indifferent and harmlessly curious.

Appearing.

"Well — we're engaged, Ms. Zoya."

At these words, Zoya's eyes widen and suddenly she begins coughing profusely. Haroun reaches forward uncertainly, as if looking for tissues, but she bangs her fist on the table and places a hand over her chest. Sumaiya and Haroun exchange a worried glance and Sumaiya rushes forward, patting Zoya's back. When she finally stops coughing, Zoya shrugs out of Sumaiya's grasp and takes another sip of water with trembling fingers.

We're engaged, Ms. Zoya.

It seems as if ice cold rain is being poured into Zoya's wounds and lightning is coiling around her veins, electrifying her insides. Debris rains on her. Her breath begins to shorten, but Zoya maintains the facade of a genuinely surprised CEO. "That's" — she coughs, managing to choke out — "lovely."

Sumaiya watches her worriedly. "Are you alright, Ms. Zoya?"

"I'm fine," she replies, her voice oddly calm. Her eyes search Haroun's slowly, and she doesn't know why betrayal seems to suffocate her. He never made her any promises, never indicated anything beyond professional loyalty. There should be no reason for her to feel as if she is standing in the middle of a battlefield, being pierced by her own sword.

His eyes are steady, resolute. Zoya wants to scoff. And why shouldn't they be? He knows he never promised her anything; with him there is only a business relationship with his CEO. She recalls him taking the box of tools from that woman's hands just a little while ago and wants to laugh in scorn and cry in frustration. He is good to everyone; there is nothing special about her for him.

Isn't my relationship with him also strictly business-related? Zoya thinks. I never said anything about . . . I never felt anything for —

"Are you sure you're okay?" Haroun asks politely.

She nods tightly. "So, when's the wedding?"

"In a few weeks," Sumaiya says, eyebrows knitted at Zoya's shifting attitude. "My parents are in Pakistan. They'll be coming later, so we're waiting for them."

"Congratulations," Zoya deadpans. I want to throw my water in your face and I don't know why.

"Thank you," Haroun and Sumaiya say simultaneously.

"Send Raj in. Now. I need to talk to him about something." Zoya rummages through her drawers, feeling awfully displaced, and Haroun and Sumaiya exchange another confused look before exiting together.

The scene causes Zoya's throat to clog, despite the fact that they walk at a careful distance from one another.

Zoya rubs her forehead. Grabbing the front of her kameez, she pulls it back and forth from her chest, suddenly feeling an inexplicable heat. Sweat beads her neck and forehead, and she hastily wipes it away.

We're engaged, Ms. Zoya.

. . .

The campaign is released, and a few days later Zameer Co. is met with an onslaught of mixed feedback. Mostly positive, but some negative. There's a buzzing excitement in the media over this new project that Zoya claimed was "very close" to her heart. Magazine covers are populated with the famous shot: a woman half in bright light and vibrant colors, adorned with jewelry — smiling — and half in black and white shadow with her wrist shackled — weeping.

Zoya's CFO and board of directors review the statistics one week after the launch of the campaign. While some concerns are expressed, overall satisfied smiles are exchanged over the climbing success. Cakes are made, celebrations take place in the company, and throughout it all, Zoya Zameer says little more than a few words.

A silence has seemed to settle above her like an ubiquitous cloud. In front of watchful eyes and cameras, she smiles and makes witty remarks, but behind closed doors she sets her head in her hands and can't stop shaking. Trying and failing to rid her mind of those four words that keep haunting her ever since they were spoken.

A week later, Zoya receives a call from her receptionist. One that momentarily distracts her from her misery. "Yes, Sarah?"

"Ms. Zoya," Sarah exclaims. "Security has been trying to hold him off and even threatened to call the police since he came, but he won't budge without speaking to you."

"Who?" Zoya inquires. A wry smile lights her face when Sarah says his name — a smile that hasn't touched her face since the surprising news from a week ago. "Send him up."

"What?" Sarah's voice lilts in surprise.

"Yes. Send him to me."

"Um, okay."

Zoya places her chin in her hands smugly, waiting. A knock sounds on her door and after her reply of "enter", someone storms in, followed by two of Zoya's security men.

"What the hell is this?" He slams the fashion magazine down, with Zoya's project on domestic abuse decorating the front cover. Security steps forward and stands on either side of him, the expressions on their faces a warning.

A smile spreads on her face as she flicks her wrists casually at the guards. "Mr. Zaki? What a pleasant surprise. It's been a couple of weeks. Have a seat, please."

Her old business-partner-turned-rival clenches his jaw. For a moment, his gaze flits to a file on her desk — a file with Haroun's name on it — before Zoya subtly shifts it to the side and he looks away.

"What is this?" he repeats.

"Looks like a magazine to me, Mr. Zaki."

"Don't try to be smart with me, Zoya. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Maybe a kameez," she pretends to guess again, pointing to the kameez the model is wearing. "A really nice one, too." She gasps in surprise. "Oh, wow, would you look at that? It was manufactured by Zameer!" She points to the little inscription on the page.

"Zoya," he says sharply.

Zoya raises her eyebrows. "Excuse me? I'm sorry, but with all due respect, in these four walls and in this company — in fact, anywhere in the world — you need to learn how to talk to someone with respect."

"Respect is earned, Zoya."

"I agree. It's also mutual, and if I haven't done anything to you, I see no reason for you to speak to me this way. So please, with all due respect." She gestures for him to continue.

"What is this?" He looks a little angry still, and Zoya wants to laugh. How comical it is that men like him get mad when shown their place, when asked to return the respect they so easily earn. He points to the magazine cover, to the model's face. "This is bad for marketing."

Since when are we still partners for you to care? "Pardon me, how is it bad for marketing?"

"Because — " He hesitates to give a proper answer. "Because it's — " Zoya raises her brows, arms folded, patiently waiting for an answer. "Because you have to think about your audience, Ms. Zoya."

"Who's my audience?" she says quizzically, almost laughing at his forced use of "Ms."

"This is strictly a Pakistani clothing company. Who do you think your audience is?"

"Culture can be appreciated by those not a part of it as well."

"Yes, but your work focuses solely on the Pakistani population — Pakistani men and women — and bridal wear and fancy clothes as such. You have to think about the men that will be seeing this — "

"And?"

"Ms. Zoya, if you want overseas success and expansion, you have to think about not just the people here but the Pakistani men living in Pakistan who are seeing this. They don't want to see feminism — "

"Don't you dare call it feminism," Zoya snaps, appalled at having to explain this yet again. She shoves her curls away from her face. "It's not about feminism, it's about respect. It's about humanity. It has nothing to do with feminism. I could have put a man on this this but unfortunately, statistics tell us the real story. That women suffer from this the most. And I want those Pakistanis to get it out of their sick, twisted heads that this is not about feminism, it's about insaaniat. Ghairat. It's about gaining and earning respect and staying within your limits no matter who you are. And most importantly, it's about not stigmatizing and scandalizing those who speak of these illnesses that are so common in Eastern countries."

"What illnesses?"

"Oh, please, Mr. Zaki." Zoya waves a hand at him dismissively. "You think it's not obvious that the men you are defending are simply showcasing their power over others, their fabricated sense of strength? Because by the way, Mr. Zaki, in case you didn't know, this spousal abuse is seen as the husband making a 'brave' show of masculinity. Trust me, though, masculinity is nothing that these muscled, heavy-handed men show." She sighs long and loud and barrels forward. "Masculinity is honoring a woman's dignity and self-respect, elevating her respect in other's eyes, and protecting her dignity behind her back when people say things about her. That's masculinity — not mustaches, beards, or muscled abs."

Zoya lets out a huff of exasperation and Zaki simply shakes his head at her. "You won't understand," he says, shoulders sagging.

"I won't understand?" Zoya can't hold back her mirthless laugh. "Mr. Zaki, since when are we partners for you to feel as if you can simply barge into my office and tell me what I will and won't understand?"

"I know why you're doing this." Zaki barks out a short laugh. "You need to show people you support things like this so that you gain more recognition. And let me tell you, it's working."

Zoya leans forward, chin set casually in her hands. Although he's standing and she's sitting, the waves of fury emanating from her cause Zaki to shrink back slightly. "Do you know what Zameer means, Mr. Zaki? Conscience. It refers to those who — before doing something questionable — feel the telltale dharkan of their hearts, the quiet signal from their conscience that what they're setting out to do isn't right. The whisper to stop. The warning to halt. That's what Zameer is. And mai apne naam par qaaim rehti hun, to mujh par jhoota aur ghatiya ilzaam lagaane se pehle is naam ka soch kar lehaaz kar liya kare, please. Kyun ke I'm the daughter of Zameer, and I am Zameer."

Zaki stares at her for a moment, jaw clenched.

"Don't think I don't know why you came here, Mr. Zaki. You don't approve of this, and you're scared our old partnership will get in the way of the press, and they'll turn around and point fingers at you, questioning your company's values. You only give a damn about yourself, you despicable human being." Zaki looks baffled but doesn't reply, and Zoya points to the door. "Kindly exit. Thank you."

With one last shake of his head, he storms out the same way he came in, fists clenched so tightly that his veins are popping out. Security leads him into the elevator.

Zoya sinks her head into her hands, nails digging into her auburn curls.

I'm spiraling downward.

She had attempted to talk to Zaki Ahmed in a placatory fashion, knowing losing her nerve would do none of them good. But when he spoke, Zoya abruptly remembered her ex-husband.

This is my God-given right.

Zoya shivers. Once, and only once, she had mustered up the nerve to question this continuous statement of his, countering with a curious "what are my rights?" and asking for a more detailed explanation of his.

She shivers violently once more, remembering how that ended.

. . .