. . .

. . .

~

"They [think to] deceive Allah and those who believe, but they deceive not except themselves and realize [it] not." (Qur'an 2:9)

~

"What happened?"

"Doctors are saying she was distracted and in shock, so she didn't look where she was going and tripped. Fell down a flight of stairs. Hit her head. Might have a concussion."

"Oh, God. Is she gonna be okay?"

"Let's hope so."

Bill, Ibitoye, and Lucas rush through the hospital, searching for the ICU. A nurse stops them at the entrance. "I'm sorry. Visitors aren't allowed in this unit."

Bill holds his hands out. "Please. We just need to know that she's okay."

The nurse has that detachedly sympathetic look on her face that most doctors do. "I'm sorry, I can't let you in. The doctors are working on her. She may have suffered trauma to the head."

"Oh, God," Ibitoye whispers.

The nurse nods and walks away, leaving the two directors and the PR manager standing there with shock on their faces.

After what seems like hours of lip biting, nail chewing, and aimless pacing, the three of them rush to the doctor that steps out of Zoya Zameer's room.

"How is she doing?"

"She's stable now," the doctor says, not meeting their eyes. They let out relieved breaths. "But she's suffered some head injury. What she needs is to be away from any source of stress right now." The doctor gulps, wiping her hands on her coat. "She needs time to relax, and she's requested not to allow any visitors to meet her." The doctor tucks a curl behind her ear, and there is a slight tremble in her fingers. "She has also requested to keep this quiet. She does not want anyone in the press to know."

Lucas nods. "Okay. Just as long as she's okay."

The doctor nods and walks away quickly, throwing them one last glance before disappearing around the corner.

"How are we gonna keep this quiet?" Ibitoye frets.

"We'll worry about that later," Lucas says. "Besides, not many reporters are aware that she's here. The ones who know will be paid to keep their mouths shut."

Rushed footsteps approach the two of them and they look up to see Sameer and Farhan.

"Is she okay?" Sameer asks breathlessly. Bill nods, explaining the situation.

"Are visitors allowed?" says Farhan.

Ibitoye shakes her head. "They're saying she needs rest. And that she doesn't want to see any of us."

Just then, a nurse from Zoya's room approaches them. She points tentatively. "Is any of you named Haroun?"

The five of them glance at each other quizzically before comprehension dawns on Sameer's and Farhan's faces. "No, but we can get him."

The nurse nods and retreats.

"She wants to see Haroun?" Ibitoye says, confused.

Sameer shares a knowing glance with Farhan and then gives her a look. "Obviously."

"He has some meeting with the sponsors of the orphanage," Farhan murmurs. "But I can call and let him know."

Sameer nods. "You do that. I just need to talk to her doctor for sec." He jogs backward and disappears around the corner.

Farhan dials his friend's number and gives him the news over the phone. When the call ends, Ibitoye says, "What did he say?"

"He's coming."

. . .

Haroun enters, his mother following closely behind. There are worry lines etched into her forehead, which relax upon seeing Zoya.

Zoya turns her head when they come in, and she pushes her palms into the bed to lift herself up. Haroun's mother rushes forward and pushes her back down gently. "Don't move too much."

Zoya smiles at her. A real smile.

"These are for you." Haroun's mother sets a bouquet of flowers down on the food table. "And . . . I thought you might want some homemade food." She sets a tray of rice and roasted chicken down as well. "I pray Allah grants you a speedy recovery."

"Thank you," Zoya says, and turns away suddenly when she feels tears forming.

Her eyes fall on Haroun, who looks away when their gazes lock. "How are you feeling?" He asks, voice low.

"Better now." Her voice shakes. She gestures to the chairs. "You guys can sit down."

After a few moments of silence, Zoya begins with a shaky "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked to see you."

Haroun simply stares at the ground.

The tearing feeling comes back at the sight of him, and something aches in Zoya's chest. Her breath hitches, and she begins to cry.

His mother gives her a look of surprise and worry. "Are you okay? Should I call the doctor?"

Zoya shakes her head as tears spill down her cheeks. Some of them spill because of his mother's genuine concern while some spill because of what she is about to say. When she regains her bearings, she looks back at Haroun. "I wanted to request your son for something."

Haroun looks up. "Yes, Ms. Zoya?"

Zoya sniffs, taking a deep breath for what she's about to say. "I could get worse." Before his mother can say anything, she continues, "My doctor said that although it's been treated, there's the constant threat of possible internal bleeding again. And if that happens, next is possible organ failure and . . . and maybe even . . . death."

Haroun's mother reaches forward and brushes a hand over Zoya's forehead. Zoya starts, overwhelmed by the softness of the touch. It makes what she is about to do so much harder.

But she has no other choice.

"I could die, Haroun." She looks at him, then shrugs. "And I'm okay with that. I have lived a miserable life and would be better off dead."

Haroun shakes his head. "Don't say that." His voice is weak.

"It's the truth. And it doesn't bother me." Her tears continue to silently stream down her face. She braces herself for the words she is about to utter. "But you know what bothers me, Haroun?" Loud sobs erupt from her. She draws her knees up to her chest. "That I'll die, and he will be the last man who married me. Who touched me. That he'll be the last man I was with."

Haroun's eyes widen, laced with pain at her words. His mother darts a glance between the two of them, confused. Zoya turns to her. "Did you know, auntie, that my ex-husband beat me?" Her eyes widen and Zoya nods vigorously. "Yeah, and not just that. He beat me, yelled at me every chance he got, and told me he was doing it for God. And he always messed with my head, playing with my emotions. He would . . . he would . . . " She buries her face in her knees, shaking.

Haroun's mother watches her with horror and pity in her widened eyes. And Haroun shakes his head in disgust, holding his hair in his hands. Because hearing the story more than once doesn't seem to decrease his horror and anger, and perhaps it never will.

Zoya picks her head up, eyes shining with tears. She is a mess. Eye bags darker than ever, lips trembling, face wet with tears, hair disheveled. "Please." Her hands are clasped in a plea. "I'm begging you. Don't let him be the last man I was with. Please, Haroun."

After a long, charged silence, comprehension dawns on his face. Pure and clear. Haroun leans back, mouth opening and closing, unsure of what to say. His hands tighten into fists, every inch of muscle tense.

His mother looks at Zoya. "Beta." She tilts her chin up so that Zoya's tearful eyes are looking into her own strong, resolute ones. "What are you trying to say? I don't understand."

Zoya points. "Your son does."

His fists are clenched, back ramrod straight.

"Haroun?" his mother prompts.

He places his head in his hands, tension etched into every crevice of his body.

"Please." Zoya whispers through trembling lips. "Please ask your son to marry me. If I die, I do not want to die with any trace of that man."

I want to experience comfort and happiness at least once in my life.

The room is silent for a few agonizingly long moments. Zoya's shoulders continue to shake, Haroun still has his head in his hands, and his mother's face is impassive, nothing detectable.

"I know I'm asking a lot of you, Haroun. I know I am. But please, I'm begging you. You're a good man. I don't . . . I don't deserve someone like you. But out of the goodness of your heart, please do this for me." She holds her hands out, clasped tightly together in an urgent plea. Her heart hurts. It hurts so bad for what she is doing to him.

But she knows she has no other choice.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Haroun picks his head up. But instead of looking at Zoya, he glances at his mother.

His mother reaches down and covers Zoya's clasped hands with her own, her touch a soft embrace. She looks back at her son, her face determined, his helpless. There is a silent agreement between them, and she gives him a bare, almost imperceptible nod.

He continues to watch her with that helpless look in his eyes. The look that — for the first time — scares Zoya. Because it reminds her of who she is, of what she is doing to get what she wants.

But there is no turning back now.

And then Haroun turns back to Zoya and nods quietly.

. . .