The dulling noise from the television echoed into my ears, surprised anchors engulfing me with their gossips and speculations, yet I found myself frozen to my seat, staring blankly ahead at the white wall above. Sharp stabs of ominous pain shot arrows through my heart, not knowing the source behind the media madness.

It couldn't be true. It had to be a lie.

My eyes blurred, hearing endless lie after lie, countless interviews after interviews, harrowing confessions after confessions. My ears bled from their tales, from their shrill voices, from their displeasing smiles as they spoke of Ibrahim. I furiously shook my head.

It couldn't be true. They were lying.

"CEO Ibrahim Tarkan has been accused of sexually abusing four women since the first day he took over Tarkan Industries. Recently, four women who worked under the disgraced CEO have come out with allegations, claiming to file lawsuits against-" continued the female anchor.

Bashir turned off the television.

I shook my head, tears brimming my eyes. "No, that's not my Ibrahim. He would never do that," I whispered to myself. "Ibrahim is not a man who takes advantage of women! That is not my husband!"

"Tasneem-"

I covered my face with my hijab, letting the tears soak into the soft fabric. "This can't be happening," I cried, my heart torn apart from the breaking news. "Ibrahim didn't do any of that! That's not my husband! They're lying, Bashir. Tell me that they're lying."

He gazed up at me with glistening eyes, lips trembling. "Please, Tasneem. D-Don't cry. Please," he begged as a lone tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Sniffling, I brought my legs to my chest, sitting idly on cushioned sofa, its warmth doing nothing to my shaking body. All morning, new channels had been covering Ibrahim's scandal, tarnishing his name through oil and mud, making sure not a speck of white could be seen through the muck of lies. They had torn my husband to shreds.

"This doesn't sound like Ibrahim at all," said Bashir, resting on the opposite end of the sofa. "I've known my older brother my whole life, and he's never even associated with women."

"I know."

"Do you believe the media, Tasneem?" he asked, fear swirling through his dark brown eyes, almost identical to Ibrahim's. "Do you think Ibrahim sexually harassed those women?"

Shaking my head, I said, "No."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

"But I know who's behind all this," I growled, anger pulsing through my veins, pumping adrenaline. "Jared Gavlik must have done this. He... he..."

"He framed Ibrahim," finished Bashir, jaw clenched.

All at once, the emotional turmoil suffocated me, knocking the air out of my lungs. I hiccuped a shaky breath, tears streaming, and body aching. A prodigious headache began to form, pounding against my skull as I thought about the warnings that Ibrahim gave me, all the signs that he foreshadowed. My husband had been right all along.

Jared was going to play dirty, and he planned to drag Ibrahim's business down the drain, flushing all the profits. He wanted Tarkan Industries so desperately that he tampered with evidence, twisting it to prove Ibrahim's guilt when he was innocent. I knew Ibrahim's character, I knew his tendencies, I knew his habits, and none of them equaled to that fate.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I remembered Ibrahim's flawless features, dark mysterious eyes, thick lashes, and the stubble on his chin. I remembered the shadows that crossed his visage, the demons that clawed him back, and the pained twist of his lips as the future lay uncertain. He had known all along.

I opened my eyes, abruptly standing. "Let's go. We're bringing justice to Ibrahim."

"But-"

"Bashir," I pleaded with my eyes, desperation taking the reigns, "we can't leave him like this. They're going to guilt him by using us. We would be safer if we were all together."

Reluctantly, he nodded.

Don't worry Ibrahim, I'm coming.

* * * *

I pulled the hoodie over my head, pushing passed the mass of crowded bodies, reporters standing outside the building, cameras flashing. Even popular news channels were plastered against the windows of Tarkan Industries, trying to scoop a delicious layer of drama for their story. I felt Bashir grab onto my sleeve.

Pulling Bashir and I through the crowd, I managed to push through the doors, security not glancing at my small frame. The guards barricaded the front doors as soon as we walked in, their built bodies as intimidating as New York skyscrapers. From outside, I heard the chaotic bustle of reporters and interviewers. Their tongues repeated the same words over and over and over again, haunting me with their folly.

One security guard turned towards me. His reddish-brown hair mingled with his stray strands, falling over his head like a mop. Bright green eyes stared down at me, lips curling into a gentle smile.

"Miss Uddin, thank goodness you're here," he breathed in relief. "Mr. Tarkan has locked himself into his office and hasn't given us any orders except repelling the crowd."

"Is he alright?" I asked, worried for my husband's well-being.

"No."

That was all I needed before I ran towards the elevators, taking Bashir with me. We ran as if our lives depended on it, and in a way it did. The three of us were a family, a strong familial unit that protect each other from harm. Ibrahim had always kept Bashir under his care. He had stolen my heart, promising to cherish me till my last breath.

He deserved so much more than this. That was what hurt the most.

Ibrahim suffered under the hands of ominous evil for too long, patiently waiting for his release. Agonizing years of nightmares had gone by, conjuring old memories tainted by innocent blood, staining his soul. After so long, Ibrahim deserved the peace that he had been longing for.

My mind became hazy, my steps quickening as the elevator doors opened. My fingers jabbed at the buttons, whispering numerous duaas (small prayers) for Ibrahim's protection, for his strength, for his ability to resolve anything no matter how cruel. Without knowing it, we had arrived in front of his office door.

I pushed the doors open.

"Ibrahim-" my words fell on my lips as I saw his disheveled body laying on the couch, idle and eerily still. "Oh Allah, please no!"

Bashir and I rushed to Ibrahim's side. He breathed deeply, body shaking, and lips trembling a small chant, one that I heard every time I entered his room. His voice was hoarse like a knife scratching against his throat.

"They... can't hurt... me. Allah will protect me. They can't... hurt... me. Allah will protect... me," he whispered.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Bashir, brown eyes widened in fear. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulders, which Ibrahim winced at, but he continued his chant.

"They... can't hurt... me. Allah will protect me."

"Ibrahim, wake up!" yelled Bashir. "Please, Ibrahim. I-I can't live without you. Please grip your sanity."

"They can't h-hurt me," chanted Ibrahim, eyes closed. Sweat began to form on his brows, his pale cheeks flushing a crimson red like the oxygen in his lungs were cut.

"Bashir," I whispered, my eyes watering at the scene. "He's having a panic attack. He must have fainted and succumbed to his nightmares."

He shook his head, arms wrapping around Ibrahim's torso. "Make him stop, Tasneem!"

I knelt beside them, my hand placed itself on Ibrahim's forehead, the heat burning my fingertips. I gently stroked the ebony strands of thick hair, brushing through each one with a newfound softness. His body shivered under my touch, deep voice getting quieter.

Waking Ibrahim in such a situation would scare him even more. He would jolt into pure panic, looking as scared as an animal. As much as it pained me, we had to endure his chantings until he peeled himself away from an alternate reality and back into my arms. I noticed the blue and green veins that pulsed through his neck like vines wrapping around his weakened voice.

"It's not real," I murmured into his ear. "It's only a nightmare. None of it is real."

My own eyes burned, but I blinked back the tears. Ibrahim was falling apart and there was nothing that could stop it. His mentality broke into shattered pieces of his past, the gruesome history coming back to taunt him. From his uncontrollable shaking to his shortness of breath, I knew that Ibrahim was reliving the torture as an escape from reality.

"Tasneem, it's not w-working," sniffled Bashir, harshly wiping at his eyes. "He won't w-wake up."

"Ibrahim," I whispered, caressing his cheeks that were damp in rivers of despair. "It's okay. We're all here. Shh."

Suddenly, the chanting had stopped, his body tensing. He slowly peeled his eyes open, blinking to adjust to his surroundings. The rapid rise and fall of his chest ceased, lips stumbling over the right words until his brown eyes met mine.

Silence.

I held my breath, urging myself to keep my mental walls from shattering, to keep my lips from trembling, to keep my eyes dry as I stared into the calamity stricken eyes of my husband. Ever so carefully, lone teardrops slid down his cheeks, falling into the small hairs that grazed his skin. His tie was half off, white dress shirt wrinkled under numerous lines of stress, and his suit jacket resting on his desk chair.

"Tasneem," he croaked, rising to a seated position. Ibrahim glanced at Bashir's anguished expression. "H-Hey, kiddo."

Immediately, Bashir ran into his arms, arms circling around his brother's neck as Ibrahim wrapped his around Bashir's shaking form. I watched, heart bursting from my chest at the genuine affection the two boys shared, the love that swirled their eyes, and the relief that eased their bodies at the sight of family. Keeping my lips shut, I smiled at the scene before me.

"I swear by Allah, i-it wasn't me," said Ibrahim as he hiccuped a breath. "It wasn't me. Please believe me. I don't have anyone left but you two. I need you to believe me. It wasn't me."

Bashir pulled back, staring up at Ibrahim. "We do. We always believed you."

Ibrahim turned to me. He opened his arms to me, allowing Bashir to take a step back as I embraced him. "Tasneem, I would never betray you. I-" he began.

"Shh," I hushed, holding his body closer to me, "I know, Ibrahim. It wasn't your fault."

"He framed me."

His body quaked under my touch, Ibrahim's breath hitching into a loud gasps of air as he struggled to breathe. With arms tightening around my waist, he rested his head on my shoulder, allowing me to cradle him to my body as if Ibrahim were a frightened child in need of comfort.

"I... I can't. My business, it's over," he cried on my shoulder.

"No, it's not."

We glanced at Bashir, standing tall and proud, an external cool demeanor taking over his features. Ibrahim lifted his head as his younger brother placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Bashir smiled.

"Bashir-" started Ibrahim.

He shook his head. "You're the most cunning person I know. You can do this," encouraged Bashir. "You're a Tarkan. We don't give up."

"I agree," I stated, tilting Ibrahim's chin to face me. "Everything will be alright. Allah will helps us. You are an innocent man accused of an evil act, but remember Prophet Yusuf (peace be upon him)? He was put into jail for years for a crime he didn't commit, but with patience and faith in Allah, he survived through every sharp obstacle that imprisoned him. You can do the same."

Ibrahim squeezed his eyes shut, muttering his chant again, "They can't hurt me. Allah will protect me."

"They can't hurt any of us," I said firmly. "Because we're going to get to the bottom of this as a family."

He exhaled a deep sigh, the previous fears vanishing as the hardened walls began to build around his heart, chaining his emotions to the back of his mind. He took out his phone, dialing a couple of numbers.

Although Jared had managed to stir the mass media, he hadn't broken our family bond, he hadn't broken our love for each other, he hadn't broken our faith. His plans were destructive, a repulsive force created solely for the purpose of greed, but people who lusted after power always had weaknesses. It was only a matter of time until we found his.