,

. . .

. . .

~

"My mercy embraces all things." (Qur'an 7:156)

~

Zoya buries herself in her work, often yelling at someone, threatening to fire an employee or two, and then secluding herself to her office. If her tea so much as comes in with less than five packets of sugar, she swirls up a storm and is snappish for the rest of the day. And the poor intern serving her tea leaves her office a stuttering, stumbling mess.

To everyone else, she is the same harsh Zoya Zameer, perhaps just a bit moodier than usual. Nothing new.

Only she herself knows the difference.

Sumaiya has started wearing the hijab, something that angers Zoya in a way she can't explain. Often she calls Sumaiya in and harshly evaluates her designs, criticizing what she doesn't see, pulling out mistakes that aren't there.

The warm, kind girl simply nods and takes her boss' insults, but that isn't to say she isn't utterly confused by her behavior. Sumaiya has become used to scarcely being appreciated by Zoya Zameer and even handling her jibes here and there, but this? This wild hostility, this cold nature? It leaves Sumaiya feeling more baffled than ever every time she exits the CEO's office.

She does not want to confirm her suspicions about this new, cold attitude, so she stamps out any whispers in her heart. Shakes her head to dispel her thoughts. Leaves the room quietly.

It seems that the employees of Zameer Co. have more to worry about, however, because for the entire month after the domestic violence project launch, tabloids upon tabloids upon tabloids are released. The press has done a full blow-by-blow of Zoya's outburst at the gala of her project launch. Other media outlets highlight simple, arbitrary expressions on Zoya's face and make them appear questionable, speculating what they "really mean". Others go back to the Desi World Fashion Show and even farther back, as if digging up her grave.

Zoya is unfazed. She disregards most of the tabloids that are released and tries to avoid as much news about herself as possible. Her PR manager and marketing team check in with the media office and notify her if they believe a certain news is "stepping out of line."

Needing a distraction, she occupies herself in observing Haroun Suleiman — not that she hadn't already been doing that before — but she keeps an extra careful eye on him. If she ever sees him speaking to Sumaiya within company hours, she quickly calls one of them over over to "discuss something".

Not that the two betrothed speak much, and even if they do, it's always about work. They know their limits, and for some reason, this infuriates Zoya.

Because deep down in her aching heart, she knows they are perfect for each other.

The subject of her scrutiny leaves an hour earlier every day, as he had requested. Days pass, and Zoya's curiosity is piqued. What does he do that requires him to leave early every single day? He had mentioned humanitarian work, but for some reason Zoya finds that hard to believe. She knows he would never lie simply to leave work early, but the way he had approached her about it stirs her suspicions.

Do you trust me? he had asked. She has to shake her head to dispel his words from her perturbed mind.

Back in character, Zoya Zameer, back in character. She's been chiding herself with these words every day. What's your greatest asset? Being unfazed. So be unfazed.

One day she approaches Farhan, who has been reserved with her ever since that day at the Desi World Fashion Show. She's noticed how his attitude has slowly changed since Haroun's arrival. Whereas he used to become agitated at the smallest things, now he can be seen exerting great effort to bite back any cries of frustration. A couple days ago — when Zoya criticized him for a minor mistake — he had rushed off muttering, "Fifty shades of Zoya Zameer!" and she had to hold back a laugh. Especially when he covered his mouth quickly, as if in regret.

It doesn't make her despise him any less, though.

Farhan is closest to Haroun within the company. With this in mind, Zoya saunters by him, dropping a file on the desk next to his. "Eduardo," she says to the employee sitting there. "Review the points I've highlighted. Good work." She's about to walk away but feigns surprise when her eyes meet Farhan's. "Oh, Farhan, you're still here?"

Farhan looks up from the file he's rifling through. "Uh, yes, Ms. Zoya."

She nods absentmindedly. "Hmm. No, I was just wondering." She twirls her hair. "Like, no plans or anything? You're not hanging out with Haroun or anything? Like, every day from now?"

Farhan watches her strangely. "Uh, no. He has some important work to do at this time."

He knows! Zoya nods, trying to seem unbothered, although her mind roils with questions. What important work? Where? Why? With who? And why every day?

Instead she says to Farhan, "Oh, I see . . . Like, just some random thing? Some work related to the company?"

Farhan blinks. "No." But he doesn't elaborate, and Zoya has never wanted to squeeze him into a pulp more than she does right now. Perhaps he senses her agitation because he turns quickly away from her.

A day later, when she's had enough, she waits for Haroun to leave work and then orders Sameer to cancel all meetings for the day. Grabbing her handbag, she rushes downstairs from the second floor, avoiding the slow elevator. She catches sight of Bill, and barks out his name authoritatively. Bill turns around with both eyebrows raised. "Come with me," she whispers.

His brows knit. "Where, Ms. Zoya?"

In irritation, she snaps "Drop the Ms., please. As of this moment, we're no longer at work."

Bill's eyebrows rise again. "Okay, but where — "

"Just come with me!" she hisses. He obliges with a confused shrug and follows her out of the building. Zoya tosses him her keys. "You're driving."

He catches them, even more confused now. "Why?"

"Because if I drive, Bill Nye, you'll lose your damn mind. So let's go." She gets into the passenger seat, tapping the window impatiently for Bill to hurry up. He enters the car and twists the keys in the ignition.

"Follow that car," Zoya orders, pointing to Haroun's car ahead. Bill stares at her pointedly as she places her handbag at her feet and puts her seat belt on. She looks at him and throws her hands up. "What? Did I speak in French? I said follow that car, Bill."

He obliges reluctantly and switches gears before gunning the engine to follow Haroun's car. Zoya shrinks down in her seat, hiding herself from outside view. The sight of her so flustered causes an amused smirk to play on Bill's lips. "Ms. Zoya, if this is something that I end up in jail because of — "

She gestures at him dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, you'll get your money as promised in the contract.

"That's not what I — "

"Can't you go any faster, Bill? Like, damn, have you never played Grand Theft Auto?" She gestures to the highway in agitation. "I didn't drive because I don't want anyone to see me but can you literally not go any faster?"

"If you want me to crash into them, sure," Bill replies dryly. "It's your car."

A frustrated sigh escapes Zoya. A few moments later, Bill queries, "So if this car goes all the way to — let's say — Florida, we're going all the way to Florida?"

"Yes," Zoya responds curtly. Tangentially she wonders, Does he not recognize his friend's car?

"Ms. Zo — Zoya, if I get arrested because of this — "

"Yeah, yeah, you'll get bailed out. And you'll still have the job, don't worry."

Bill laughs. "It's not about the job, Zoya. I just want to know what I'm risking — "

"We're following Haroun, okay?" she snaps. "Happy? And aren't you getting a little too comfortable saying my name?"

"You told me to. And Haroun?" Comprehension slowly dawns on his face. "That's whose car it is. I was wondering why it looked so familiar."

They reach the local area about twenty minutes later. An angsty Zoya (with the worst possible thoughts floating around in her head) looks out the window, and she is taken aback to find Haroun stopping in front of a dilapidated area with broken blinds at the windows. The building is sagging with wear and the paint is peeling, the sign above the alcove barely visible. She knits her brows before stepping out of the car to follow Haroun. "Stay here," she orders Bill. He opens his mouth to protest but she continues, "I mean it. Someone needs to be by the car. And keep the key in the ignition!"

In case I need to make my escape.

Zoya rushes up the cracked stairs of the building and enters, seeing Haroun's back disappear through the door to the right. She is about to follow when her eye falls on the reception desk and the "ID required" sign at the front. With no time to grab her handbag and knowing that a first-timer like her probably won't be allowed so easily into a place like this, she bites her lip nervously. She does not want to go back to the car in case she misses the opportunity to see what Haroun may be doing.

As a last resort, Zoya walks up to the guy at the reception desk. He looks to be in his late twenties. Pretending to look flustered, she approaches dramatically. When he looks up and does a double take, Zoya knows this will be a bit easier.

"Hello, ma'am. How can I help you?" he says breathlessly.

Zoya grabs a strand of hair and twirls it around her finger, arranging her face to look frantic and concerned. "Hi," she says earnestly. "I'm so sorry to bother you" — her eyes flick to his name tag — "Eric, but" — looking around desperately for something, her eye falls on the schedule behind him with the day and night shifts. It's five o'clock now, so Zoya prays he has just started his shift. "Actually, I left something here when I came earlier in the morning." She pouts and makes a show of wiping under her eye. "It was very valuable to me, you know. My — my mother gave it to me."

Eric observes her mournful face. "I'm so sorry about that, ma'am, but I can't let you in without ID."

Zoya pouts and scrunches her eyebrows close together in false pain. Eric's expression changes slightly. "The thing is, it is my ID," she bluffs. "My mother was my greatest help in passing my driving test. It's just . . . the last memory I have of her, you know?" She dabs at her eye theatrically and dares to say, "If you want, you can check your cameras to see when I came in earlier."

Eric's eyes rove over her face before he shakes his head. "No, that's alright, ma'am. Go ahead."

A jolt of surprise passes through her. Zoya has half a mind to stand right there and begin yelling at him about the lack of integrity he carries in his work ethic, but instead she flashes her teeth at him. He is being a great help to her after all. "Thank you, sweetheart. God bless you." Blowing the flustered guy an air kiss, she rushes away and follows Haroun's footsteps. She stops when she approaches a room at the end of the shabby hallway and scuttles to the side to hide herself from view.

Inside, Haroun enters and smiles at a group of . . . children? Once they see him, they stand up excitedly and rush over to hug him. Zoya notices their old, tattered clothing. Haroun leans down and hugs the children, planting kisses on each of their heads. They are all clamoring to talk to him, and Zoya strains to hear what they are saying. Her forehead creases in wonder. "Who are these kids?" she whispers.

A sudden thought occurs to her. What if he's already married and these are all his kids? Her eyes dart around the room. No, seven kids is too many, right? He's only, like, two or three years older than me.

Or what if he's already married Sumaiya and these are her kids? No, Sumaiya doesn't look like she birthed these many children. And he never mentioned being married before. Besides, the children don't all look the same.

Hyperventilating, Zoya watches Haroun and the children for the next fifteen minutes. The children continuously throw themselves at Haroun and he kisses their cheeks, and when another worker walks in to give him bags of food, he sits there and feeds each and every one of them. While the children finish eating, he talks to the worker with a strained look on his face, pointing to the rickety building and the tattered clothing of the children. Whatever the worker is saying seems to have a great effect on him because he rubs his temples and sighs. She tries to catch snippets of their conversation but is only able to lip read the words "sponsors" and "orphans." It seems that the worker is about to leave the room, so Zoya quickly steps away from the door and rushes back out.

She barely notices the receptionist as she trudges by, her mind a mess of muddled thoughts. The children are orphans. And Haroun came to clothe and feed and spend time with them. And he does this every day.

What had Zoya been thinking, what worst nightmares had she been entertaining?

He has been sacrificing money and time every day from work to come to this ramshackle, desolate building far away. Just to spend time with these orphan children.

A searing pain blossoms in her chest, a gaping ache that this man is engaged to someone else. Coupled with her confused thoughts, her heart palpitates strangely against her ribcage. She is unable to form words.

"Were you able to find what you were looking for?" the receptionist asks. Zoya looks up quickly, forgetting his presence. A lost, faraway look envelopes her face. "Yes. Yes, I was." She walks out slowly and stumbles into the car, ignoring Bill's questioning glance.

"So?" Bill implores. "Did he kill anyone?"

"Far from it," Zoya replies breathlessly, leaning her head against the car window. She says no more. Bill stares at his boss with knitted brows, surprised at the dramatically changed demeanor before going into the building versus coming out.

"Are you alright, Ms. Zoya?"

She flinches. The same words from someone else's mouth ring in her ears.

Are you alright?

Are you okay?

Do you trust me?

Zoya nods weakly. "Just drive us back," she murmurs.

The depth of it all suddenly seems to fall on her. Like a heavy weight suspended just above her head.

An increasingly nagging emotion tugs at Zoya, rooting restlessness in her heart. She has been antsy for days, pondering over what Haroun may be doing in the hours he takes off work. She's lost sleep many nights, coming up with bizarre scenarios to satisfy her burning curiosity.

Now she feels empty, undone. And — she's scared to admit — ashamed at the thoughts that have crossed her mind the past couple of days.

Her father had always told her that guilt was the worst feeling in the world. Guilt, regret, shame. They would all snowball into one and destroy a person. She never understood him before, much less given a lot of thought to it. Not even when he left. Because she had become scornfully accustomed to the compulsion of this emotion.

Now she is beginning to understand.

. . .