. . .

. . .

~

"And rely upon Allah; and sufficient is Allah as Disposer of affairs." (Qur'an 33:3)

~

Zoya and Haroun decide to have a reception in their manor. Something simple, with a few close friends and family. After everything that's happened, the last thing they need is more forced media coverage on their wedding.

A single group of reporters has been invited to their wedding upon Zoya's hire. After the press conference, people had even more demanding questions, and Zoya and Haroun thought it best to clear them voluntarily on the day of their reception rather than have people make assumptions afterward.

The next two weeks are spent with Zoya's mother-in-law and sister-in-laws planning and preparing for the reception. The three of them have moved in with Ammi's mother and father, but they visit almost every day. Every time Zoya settles down to join them in their planning, they usher her out of the room with urges to relax. Naima especially. She physically drags Zoya out of the room while Aisha threatens her from the back that if she sees Zoya trying to plan her own wedding again, she will spill tea on all of her designer clothes. Which earns her a scolding from her mother but silent giggles from Zoya.

So Zoya busies herself in her company's work, having taken on a new project with some wealthy investors. Something she used to find great pleasure in doing but now seems like a burden to her. This burdensome feeling was seeded during her trip to Pakistan — when she had voiced to Haroun her hesitations regarding the industry — and has been growing like a flower ever since.

Now that flower is wilting, and it's only so long before it dies out.

Zoya sighs as she flips through files in her office. She calls for a meeting with her board of directors, and tense sighs and furrowed brows travel all around the room as the finance manager goes over the recent decrease in revenues.

"Have we contacted the investors in Pakistan?" Zoya asks with an impatient tap of her pen.

Bill gives her a surprised look. "No."

"Why?" Her gaze is piercing.

"Ms. Zoya, you always do that. We assumed you had taken care of that already."

Zoya breathes out a deep sigh, her pen insistently tapping against the desk. Damn, she thinks. He's right. And I can't even yell at him for not reminding me because the last time he did, I got pissed off at him.

She's never going to say this out loud, though. Because that would admit that she has been distracted with other things.

Namely, Haroun.

After the meeting, Zoya unlocks her phone, fingers hesitating over the call button before she presses it. He picks up on the fifth ring, just when she's about to end the call. "Hello?"

Zoya clears her throat. "Uh, hello. Salaam."

"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam." Pause. "Everything okay?"

She blows out a frustrated sigh. "Yes, everything's okay. Why? Can't I call you just to talk to you, Haroun?"

There is silence on the other end. "Sorry, I didn't mean — "

"It's fine, I just — " She presses her fingers to her temples. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Okay." Not until she notices the smile in his voice does Zoya register what she just said.

"Oh, damn. Did I say that out loud?"

"Do you want to hear the truth?" If Zoya could see him right now, he would likely be smirking.

"Probably not."

He laughs, and the wrinkles in Zoya's forehead disappear. "Hey, listen — " His voice cuts off as he turns to speak to somebody else away from the phone. "Zoya? I have to go."

"Oh, okay," she says, flustered. "Yeah, of course."

"I'll see you at home, Insha Allah. Okay?"

"Okay," she says, but by the time her voice comes out, he's already gone.

No worries. She has gotten her daily dose of Haroun Suleiman.

. . .

When Zoya gets home, she settles her handbag on the foyer table and trudges into the dining hall. Reaching up to rub her eyes, she stops short when she sees Haroun sitting at the dining table with a blue file in front of him.

Has he been waiting for her?

"Hey," she says cheerfully.

"Hey," he replies in a subdued tone.

"Is . . . everything okay?'

Haroun rubs his forehead. "You're late today. Was everything fine at work?"

He's deflecting, Zoya thinks. Something's wrong. She nods, moving closer to him. "Yeah, I just needed to talk to PR about the press conference and . . . " She freezes suddenly, catching sight of the file in front of him.

The file containing Sumaiya's pictures with Zaki Ahmed.

She has about two seconds to decide whether she will feign ignorance or acknowledge the situation, but her mouth makes the decision for her as the words spill out automatically. "Where did you find that?" she whispers.

When he looks up at her, the purple underneath his eyes seems to darken. Almost bruised, as if he hasn't slept in days. "Were you ever going to tell me about this?" She detects the hurt in his voice.

Zoya swallows, pulling out a chair to sit in front of him. "It's . . . not what it looks like."

"Really?" His eyes are wounded. "What does it look like?"

"Look, just give me a chance to explain — " He doesn't interrupt her, just watches her with that look in his eyes, and it crumbles all of her steely resolve. "I was going to tell you."

Haroun closes his eyes and rubs his temples. When he speaks, there is more despair in his tone than before. Something that nags at Zoya worse than if he were to be angry. "So was I just a ploy in this game? Something else for Zaki Ahmed to exploit? And Sumaiya was a spy?"

"Haroun — "

He interrupts her, signaling the height of his distress. "Was our engagement even real?"

To this, Zoya does not have an answer. But her silence is affirmation, and Haroun places his head in his hands. She tries to reach forward to clasp his hands, but he edges back. Away from her touch. Her hand stays suspended in midair, a crestfallen expression on her face.

When he looks back up at her, his eyes are watery. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

Zoya gestures to him. "Because I knew it would upset you."

"So you decided on your own that I didn't deserve to know the truth?" Despair seeps through his tone.

"I would rather you believe a lie than know something that would hurt you."

The expression on his face changes to disbelief. "You would rather nurture our relationship with sugarcoated lies than harsh truths?"

A stab pierces Zoya's heart. If this is how he is reacting to what Sumaiya has done, how will he react if he finds out what Zoya has done?

"Tell me something, Zoya." There is a plea in his eyes. "If it were anybody else, would you have told them?"

She doesn't even have to think about an answer to that. He and her both know the reply. Zoya stands and is about to turn away when Haroun grasps her hand. She whirls back around and says agitatedly, "Yes. I would have, okay?"

His lips tremble. "Then why?"

Zoya lets out a huff of frustration, turning on her heel to stomp away. But he pulls at her wrist again, and this time Zoya turns at lightning speed with her curls flying around her face, not calculating her next words before she blurts them out. "Because I love you."

There is a moment of scary silence as Haroun stares up at her, shock passing over his face. The words hang in the air between them. In the grand room. In the quiet, dark house. In the rapid beating of their hearts. So starkly obvious.

Zoya takes a deep breath. She has said it. There is no turning back now. "I love you, and I couldn't bear to see you upset."

Haroun continues to watch her with that look on his face for a few moments before he swallows. "Love isn't built on lies, Zoya."

She knows he's right. He's always right. But that doesn't stop his words from piercing her heart. An unfamiliar anger flares up within her, anger at him for being so good and so pure. The kind of anger she felt when she first met him and was frustrated by his rare righteousness.

"Well, that's the only love I know," she seethes.

And with that, she spins on her heel and rushes up the stairs. This time, he doesn't stop her. This time, he doesn't grasp her hand again. And she's not sure she wants him to. She rushes into her room and flings herself on the bed, burying her face in the blanket. She wants to hide. Away from Haroun and the wounded look on his face. Away from the world.

She just wants to disappear.

She had tried to do the right thing. And it had still backfired in her unsuspecting face. So why bother to ever do the right thing?

Later, well into the night, as Zoya is sniffing with tears rolling down her face, she hears footsteps on the stairs. They stop near her room, and Zoya waits with baited breath, thinking Haroun may come in. But he doesn't. And his footsteps fade away into his room before he closes the door.

Whatever little peace she had with Haroun Suleiman is probably gone. He doesn't trust her, and he isn't even aware of the extent of the things she's done. If he ever does, it will destroy him. He is too pure for someone as corrupted as Zoya Zameer.

He will never trust her, never love her.

I love you, she had said. What made her mouth open of its own accord? But being around him always does that to her. She unfurls with the slightest glance of his eyes, pouring everything out to him in the language of heartbreak.

As Zoya leans back against her headboard with fresh tears leaking down her face, in the room across from hers Haroun settles into his bed, arm behind his head. The two of them stare up at their ceilings.

For the rest of the night.

. . .

Whatever progress their relationship had taken seems to have disappeared in the course of a night. At the breakfast table, they simply greet each other and exchange pleasantries before digging into their food. Silence presses down on them, thick as a cloud. And this ubiquitous cloud follows them as they get ready to go to work, as they bid each other goodbye, as they settle into their cars. Even then, it doesn't leave them. Even as Zoya steps into her office — as familiar as her right hand — and Haroun enters his workplace, the cloud thickens over them.

This continues for days. Not outright anger or distress, but minimal words, accidental and awkward glances at each other across the room. At first, Zoya thinks Haroun may be the first to break. Because that is just who he is.

But he doesn't. His character won't allow him to cut her off, but he's not exactly pursuing active engagement with her. He is as politely distant as ever, leaving her medication around instead of telling her to take it, texting her what time he'll be home rather than calling her, eating as quickly as he can so that they do not have to be in each other's presence for too long.

It disappoints Zoya more than anything. Is he really so upset about being lied to? Even if it was for his own good?

Perhaps he doesn't like when others make important decisions for him. Or maybe Zoya's obsession with control bothers him.

She doesn't know. And it bothers her not to know.

Countless times she tries to speak to him for longer a couple seconds. Casual, weightless conversation. And he replies in the same politely distant manner, eyes lowered as they used to be. He responds when she speaks, but to her it seems forced. He doesn't make any effort to propel the conversation in a different direction, doesn't provide answers longer than a few words. He barely even looks at her.

And yet, before drinking his warm milk every morning, he silently waits for her to swirl her finger over the top of the mug and lick the froth off. Only then does he proceed to drink it.

It's such a small, small thing. But it's like a candle flame in a dark room, like the light at the end of the tunnel. It gives Zoya the reassurance that hope isn't entirely lost.

Before this candle flame gutters out, Zoya makes all efforts to win him over without having to say anything. When he tiredly slips into his room at night, there is a new flower tucked into the vase on his bedside table. When he leaves for work in the morning, there is a new trinket added to his car. First a new steering wheel cover, then an expensive new keychain, then neon rims on the wheels of the car. When he opens his closet to select clothes, new Armani, Guess, and Louis Vuitton shirts are piled at the top.

Zoya peeps around corners, watching his reactions with baited breath. Each time, there is a furrow in his brows before a look of comprehension. And after comprehension, a loud sigh and a rubbing of his temples.

She doesn't know entirely what that means, but a sigh is never a good sign. So she keeps trying, leaving things around for him everywhere.

A couple of evenings later, Zoya decides she has had enough of this quiet, aloof courtesy. Especially since Haroun was quieter than normal during dinner. When the two of them have eaten and retreated upstairs, Zoya paces around in front of his room.

She lifts a tentative hand and knocks on his door. It opens moments later, and Haroun stands there leaning his head against the doorframe. He blinks slowly.

"I, uh . . . " Zoya clears her throat. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"I'm okay."

There is something off about his voice. She steps closer. "Mind if I come in?"

He swings the door wide open, and she follows him inside. He settles on the bed. "Did you need something?"

The words sting her. "No. No, I just wanted to see if you were okay. And you had a job interview today, right? How'd it go?"

"I'm okay. The interview was okay."

Zoya is thrown off by his clipped attitude. So unlike him. "I, uh — I noticed you've had trouble sleeping. Do you need any sleep medication?"

When he laughs, it's mirthless. "Zoya, there isn't medicine for every pain."

"Okay," she says slowly. "So that's a no?"

He simply shakes his head and tugs the blanket over himself. "I want to be alone right now, please." There is bare tolerance in his voice. Like a dam about to crack and explode water all over the place. It tugs at Zoya's heart uncomfortably.

"Haroun, is everything — "

"Everything's fine," he says in exasperation, pressing his palms to his eyelids. "Please. Just go. I really don't want to say anything that might upset you."

She stands with her fists clenching and unclenching. He has never been this way, never acted like this, and suddenly all her surety is thrown out the window. Zoya dares to move closer, settling at the edge of the bed. When he looks up, he raises his head to the ceiling. But the rapid blinking of his eyes is unmistakable.

"Hey," Zoya wills her voice to soften. "Hey, what's wrong?" She makes a movement to reach forward, but he flinches back as if her fingers are made of fire. She retreats like a wounded animal.

"Please," he whispers. "Don't."

"What is this about?"

"I told you. I don't want to upset you. Please just go."

Zoya shifts closer. "No, clearly there's a problem — "

"Yes." Haroun fists his hair in his hands, and it sounds like the dam has exploded and the water is beginning to flood out. "Yes, there is." He looks up, and tears fall down his cheeks. "Something bad happens every time I'm around — " He takes a deep breath, not looking in her eyes. "Zaki's accusation, being used in the name of business, and now this —" His voice is barely above a whisper, and Zoya freezes. Just what this is he doesn't say, but she gauges it means his interview didn't go well. "I don't want to say this. Really, I don't. But I can only take so much. I've tried to make this work for the past two months but I'm exhausted. I — I — " He drops his head in his hands. "Just go. Please."

Zoya's eyes are wide as saucers, heartbeat quick and persistent. She backs away from him as if he's burned her, and he doesn't look up even after she exits the room.

Outside, her fingers tremble as she presses them against her mouth, against her heart. Her body shakes, convulsing with tremors of shock and denial. He couldn't have said all those things to her. He couldn't have. It's not who he is.

But he did. Meaning Zoya has really pushed him off the edge of his precipice. It's her fault. It's all her fault.

A sound emerges form her throat, halfway between a cry for help and an attempt at a breath. Her hands find the wall behind her and she manages to trudge forward and maintain her balance, even when everything in her seems to have upended.

And then she feels it.

Defeat.

The depth of defeat, such that she has never known. Haroun Suleiman will never love her, will never want to be close to her. It's her fault that he is in pain. She did this to him. She forced everything on him the way people had forced things on her. And now he is crumbling and gasping for air under the weight of her mistakes.

Zoya's back hits a doorknob, and she blinks, turning around to register her surroundings. In her aimlessness, she's walked to the other side of the manor and is now standing in front of that room. The room her entire life was destroyed in, the room she suffered injuries in, the room her emotions were toyed around with like a marionette.

The room where the old Zoya Zameer had died.

It seems only fitting for her to revisit those brutal, violent memories again.

. . .

Haroun twists and turns in bed, sleep nowhere near finding him.

And of course it won't. He sighs and turns his face to the ceiling. Guilt dredges around his heart, persistent and prodding.

He should not have said those things to Zoya. No wonder his mother had taught her children never to let anger take control. Because when it does, then to hell with a person's character. Anger takes the wheel and allows nobody else any control. Then, when it ebbs away, a person is left baffled, surveying their surroundings. Horrified by the collateral damage they've caused just by allowing anger to take the wheel.

As Haroun feels now. Horrified.

He slips out of bed and runs his hand through his hair. What should he say to her? I'm sorry I told you you're the root of all my problems.

He snorts out loud, shaking his head. He really has screwed up this time. But he just was not able to control it when he was rejected from a job because of his "questionable character as proven by Zaki Ahmed" (the interviewer had literally used those words) and then he came home and, lo and behold, witnessed the person around whom all his problems had started.

But it wasn't fair for him to say those things to her. It wasn't fair at all. Especially when she is already so hopeless about herself all the time.