. . .

. . .

~

"Indeed, Allah is with the patient." (Qur'an 8:46)

~

He stabs a fork in his salad. Zoya flinches.

"What happened to your cheek?"

Zoya sputters, then looks up at him in disbelief. "What . . . what do you mean?"

"Your cheek." He reaches out to flip the page of the newspaper and she shrivels away from his hand.

Zoya doesn't know whether he's joking or not. But then again, they are never on joking terms with one another. "I . . . it was from . . . that day."

"What day?" He flips the newspaper closed and settles back in his chair, turning his piercing gaze to her.

Her breath catches in her throat and her eyes widen. Her palms begin to sweat, perspiration beading on her forehead.

Casually, he grabs a tissue and dabs at his mouth, murmuring a small, habitual "Alhamdulillah" after finishing his food. Glancing at her again, he says, "What day, Zoya?"

When he says her name, shivers crawl throughout her body. The intensity of his gaze is so overwhelming that Zoya looks down, away, heart beating like helicopter blades inside her chest.

"I . . . um . . . it was just an accident. I . . . fell on the stairs."

He stands, and Zoya's heart rate rises alarmingly. "Good." And, having done his work, he drops his napkin on the table and leaves the dining room.

Leaving her there with tremors still shaking throughout her body.

Sitting there with tears streaming down her face, this was the first time Zoya Zameer realized that those given power hardly ever use it for good. That those in power scare the weaker into silence. This was the first time she truly realized that life was a game played with queens and pawns on a chessboard. A game in which this man was manipulating and puppeteering her.

The first time she realized that before the battle had even begun, she had lost.

Zoya surges through the chaotic crowd, all hurling questions at her. She roughly shoves mics away from her face, grits her teeth at every flash of a camera. Haroun is being led — handcuffed — to the back of a police car, and more reporters swarm the area as security guards attempt to manage them.

When she approaches the police car, a security guard warns, "Ma'am, step away."

"Haroun!" she screams. Look at me, please. "Haroun!" Cameras train on her and lights flash.

The policeman holding him stops and allows him to turn around. Harous raises his tired eyes to her helpless, agonized ones for only a second, but it's enough for her to call out, "I know you didn't."

He pauses for a second before being led into the back of the police car. Lucas steps forward and attempts to maintain the situation, giving the reporters brief, clipped responses. Zoya sags dangerously, heart rate alarmingly beginning to drop. She steps back and collides into Sumaiya, who helps support her weight.

"Ms. Zoya, relax. If he's innocent, Allah will protect him. He'll be okay."

If? If? Does this woman — his fiancée— actually have an inkling of a doubt in him? Zoya releases herself from her grip and rushes forward. Security swarms around her, attempting to stop her before she snaps, "I'm going to the police station. Get out of my sight before I call my lawyer." The crowd parts for her like the Red Sea and she slides into her limo. "Follow that police car." Sumaiya breathlessly makes her way into the limo as well, and Farhan stumbles in at the last second.

Zoya's phone rings and Sameer's face flashes on the screen. She answers with a clipped "What?"

Sumaiya's eyes dart to her, fists clenched in her lap.

"Ms. Zoya." His voice is rushed, hasty. "I think I found something about — "

"Not now, Sameer. Not now." She ends the call and throws her phone back on the seat.

Sumaiya's fists relax.

Zoya's fist is clenched the entire ride. She cannot forget all the signs that are showing up in her mind's eye now. The brain's algorithmic way of putting things together after the fact completely begins to piss her off. Especially since she has trained and honed herself to always expect anything and be aware of what she is anticipating.

She begins to remember everything. The way Zaki Ahmed had been carefully following news of her company and snidely complimenting her on it. The way he had barged into her office and seen Haroun's file on the table. The way he had released the news with the photo of Haroun and Zoya at the Desi World Fashion Show to test her reaction. He had put the pieces together.

And today, he's artfully driven her to the brink of insanity. He invited her at a big risk — a risk that she may or may not bring Haroun along. But he knew she would, as he seems to know a lot of things about her now. He's been planning this for a while.

The woman whispering with the man today was planned. The woman taking advantage of Haroun's kind nature — knowing he would never try to harm her and would be willing to help her — was planned. The woman smearing her own lipstick and playing the victim card — banking on people's sympathies of crying women — was planned. The position of the cameras was planned. The way that Zaki locked eyes with the police officer — who is now making a joke of the integrity he has promised to hold in his position — planned. Hell, even Zaki slipping and falling may have been planned. It would have been a small sacrifice for him to make in order to further place himself and thus his business in everyone's good books.

All planned.

Zoya should have known. She should have known that a man like Zaki Ahmed would never let her open insult of him slide easily. He would get back at her, and he would make sure it would be unforgettable.

Zaki had continuously tried to break down Zameer Co. but when he saw that the company's dynamic was stronger than he thought, he decided to break Zoya down personally. After all, she is the company's foundation.

She destroyed him with her success; he is destroying her by sabotaging her business's reputation.

And he is succeeding.

He has ruthlessly tied her down and humiliated her in front of cameras, breaking her at an intimately personal level.

Zoya had underestimated his cunning nature. He had clearly gauged from the media and his own close observations that Haroun was important to her. What better way to rip the carpet out from under her feet than to pin the blame on an employee she values most? What better way to reveal her nasty, not-so-composed side to the cameras than to take hold of what she will protect the most? What better way to throw her own words back in her face, to throw her company's fame back in her face, than to taint it with an unforgettable smear?

A quiet voice prods at her skull, whispers in her head: Did you not also exploit Sumaiya, use her for your own advantages and to throw her in Zaki Ahmed's face? To rub all of your accomplishments in his face? To prove that you are Zoya Zameer, that you can obtain anything you ever want, that you are powerful, that you can ruin an entire business if you feel like it? That all you have to do is snap your fingers and people will fall at your feet?

And in return Zaki Ahmed exploited you, taking what you value most and throwing it in your face.

Zoya shakes her head, trying to quell the ever-rising anxiety.

I want to crack my skull open on this tinted glass window, she thinks. Better yet, I'll make someone else do it for me so I realize how stupid I've been. She turns to Sumaiya, but seeing her in such a tense state herself, thinks better of it. Her eyes flick briefly to Farhan, who is uncharacteristically silent, worry lines creasing his forehead.

You will reap what you sow, Zaki Ahmed. You mark my words.

And to think that he had felt so threatened by Zoya and Zameer Co. that the only way he felt secure was by publicly humiliating her and her company.

The thought brings a bitter smile to Zoya's face.

When the police station arrives, Zoya flies out of the car. Screams lodge in her throat when reporters who have managed to follow her attempt to step inside, but Lucas wards them off.

The officers eye her in confusion. Zoya – in her pink dress and floral dupatta, with her stunning face and curled hair – looks exactly like someone who does not belong in a police station. She rushes up to one officer and asks where Haroun Suleiman is, but receives her answer when she catches sight of him being led down a hallway.

Blind panic grips her and the hallways fly by as she dashes after them. Officers surge forward to stop her but she's too quick and approaches Haroun and the policeman.

"Ma'am, you need to step away right now." There is a clear threat in his voice.

More officers pile in behind her. "Ma'am, step away. You are not allowed in this vicinity."

Zoya laughs harshly. "Oh, yeah? You seem to follow your rules pretty strictly, don't you?" She directs her attention to the policeman in front of her. His expression remains composed, but she can detect a hint of panic in his eyes.

Zoya steps closer. "If you can do what you've just done, it should be no problem for me to do what I'm doing."

The two stare each other down quietly before he gestures to the other officers to step back. Confused, they follow his order, casting one another sidelong glasses. Zoya follows her shaken, sagging employee. They turn a corner and approach a row of cells, all surrounded by cracked walls and peeling paint. The officer inserts a key into a cell and pushes Haroun inside, closing it. "You have two minutes," he murmurs quietly.

"I can ruin your entire life," Zoya whispers to the policeman's turned back. He freezes. "Oh, yeah. You must have no idea who I am if you've just committed this act. I don't know how much money Mr. Zaki promised you, but — "

He whirls around. "Shut up, you b — "

"Say it, I dare you," Zoya taunts. "One snap of my fingers, and you'll lose everything."

"Who would believe you?" His tone is arrogant, but she can hear the underlying fear.

"Don't you know by now?" Zoya's voice lilts, threateningly sweet. "The world loves to sympathize with weak women, regardless of their dishonesty."

He stares at her for a few moments, battling with what to say. Finally, his clenched fists relax and he steps away, footsteps quietly thudding around the corner of the hall before he disappears.

Her fleeting moment of pride disappears, and she looks back at her distressed employee. Grabbing a bar of the cell, Zoya croaks, "I know you're innocent, Haroun."

He remains quiet.

"Despicable people are skilled in getting their ways. I just — I underestimated Zaki's cunning nature, his cruelty, his thirst for revenge. I should have known, I — "

"It's not your fault," he mutters.

"No, I should have known. I know the way he is. I've known him for so long. I should have known he would do something like this to — " Her voice breaks, and it becomes one of those rare moments that Zoya Zameer's fortressed walls tremble, threatening to fall. "He's a horrible man. And to spite him, I attended his launch party and dragged you guys along. None of this would have happened if — "

"Ms. Zoya. Relax. It's okay."

Her breath hitches, and before she can fathom it, tears pool from her eyes and stream down her cheeks. She wipes them away furiously. It's strange to see him so calm and comforting her while he's the one inside the cell, blamed for assault, and she's the one standing outside the cell, helpless. "Tumhari izzat aur ghairat pe koi daagh lagane ki koshish kare, ye mere se bardaasht nahi hota. Jis tarha tumhe istamaal kiya gaya hai, ye mere se bardaasht nahi hota."

He listens to her quietly.

"How — how are you so calm, Haroun?"

"Because Allah knows I'm innocent. And that's all that matters."

His words throw her into shock. Such blind belief, such rigorous faith she has not seen in anyone her entire life.

Quietly, Haroun continues, "I used to hear this all the time: Zaalim taakat-ward nahi hota, hum us se dar ke us ko taakat-ward banaa dete hain."

His lack of fear, his powerful faith, shakes her to her core. Attempting to regain her composure, she says, "Do you know why you were accused, Haroun? Because in life you'll meet four types of people; those who lack faith, those who use their religiosity and good will as a weapon and throw it in others' faces to make them feel guilty, those who hypocritically force things upon you yet have a lack of knowledge themselves, and those who are good in reality and are unfortunately pushed around by the world and the many unjust people in it. You, Haroun Suleiman, fall into the very small category of these last few people."

Shaking his head, he murmurs, "You think too highly of me, Ms. Zoya."

"Because there's goodness in you. Goodness that is too much for this corrupt world."

Again, his head shakes.

"That's why people like you are taken advantage of. And that's why you're thrown into situations like this."

"I trust that there's khair in this, too."

Her eyes widen. "How can there possibly be anything good in a situation like this?"

He presses his lips together, his dimple flashing. "Allah's delay is never Allah's denial. He expects us to be patient and wait for His ultimate plan, which is better than what we could ever do for ourselves." Haroun reaches up and presses his palms against his eyelids wearily. Even now, trapped in a cell in jail for a crime he didn't commit, his faith in God doesn't waver.

Again, he has managed to render Zoya speechless. He's taken a crack at her guarded inner fortress, allowing a sliver of light to peek through. Causing the distressed shadows to hurl away from the light in panic and disappear.

"Can you do me a favor, Ms. Zoya?"

She nods vigorously.

"Please tell my mom not to worry. I'm worried about her health."

Another tear escapes her eye and she wipes it away, nodding. "Okay."

"And I know my sisters will be okay, but just tell them I'm sorry."

"For what?"

He shakes his head. "Just tell them. I don't want them to worry that their brother isn't home. And . . ." He pauses uncertainly. "The humanitarian work? The sponsors were supposed to meet tonight. But since I won't be able to, do you mind letting them know why? I'll give you the manager's phone number."

"Sponsors?"

He sighs defeatedly. "Yes, the sponsors for the orphan refugees."

"Okay, but . . . Is it wise to let them know the reason for your absence? I mean, what will they think? What if they deem you . . . incapable or something?"

He shakes his head. "They know me. They'll understand. Besides, you don't have to give them details." He chuckles mirthlessly. "Actually, they'll probably see the news anyway, so . . . "

"Okay . . . " She pauses. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

He places a hand at his forehead, rubbing it along the length to wear out the worry lines. "I couldn't."

"Why not?" Her voice is firm.

"Because . . . Ms. Zoya, the sponsors have a certain financial eligibility to meet, and at the time that I requested you to allow me an early leave every day, I didn't meet it. And I didn't tell you about the humanitarian work because you would have given me more favors. And you've already given me too many favors that I'm unable to return. I'm already too indebted to you."

Zoya steps back in shock, letting her hand fall from the bar of the cell. The way he's said it makes it sound like he's not speaking to Zoya, but to someone kind, someone respected and revered, someone merciful and caring.

Not Zoya Zameer.

Not a lot of people have treated Zoya as if they believe there is goodness in her, yet Haroun hid this humanitarian work from her because he believed in her goodness. Haroun's unwavering belief has always bothered her, especially because she doesn't understand how someone who has so much to lose can be so trusting. But being on the receiving end of this unwavering belief makes her adores him even more. For wanting to believe that even she has an inkling of good in her.

Somehow, he manages to get through to her – through his actions, sincere and gentle; with wise words that have more of an impact than any so-called religious preacher she's encountered.

Zoya, averse to any forms of religious zeal and always ready to mock religion, now pauses when the subject matter is Haroun Suleiman. The object of her scrutiny does not make her blood boil or cause her to go to sleep feeling as if she is a sinner.

Instead, he makes her feel gentle. He makes her feel that even in her, there is something worth salvaging.

Something worth saving.

. . .