. . .

. . .

~

"Did he not realize that Allah is watching?" (Qur'an 96:14)

~

Zoya shuts her eyes tightly. The memory falls on her without warning.

She sits in front of the mirror and applies red lipstick. He stands behind her, watching. "More," he says.

Zoya stares at him in the mirror. "But it's already dark enough."

His dark eyes pierce hers.

Zoya obliges, lathering more lipstick onto her already caked lips. She knows why he makes her do this. Her gut twists as she thinks of his illogical reasoning. Some strange part of him likes seeing her wear makeup as he roughly touches her. Because her painted face makes him feel less bad about the pain he causes everywhere — as if the front she puts up with her lipstick and her mascara can conceal the agony underneath.

It makes him feel masculine.

Zoya finishes and caps the lipstick, placing it on the dressing table. She feels his hands settle on her shoulders and she flinches.

The first time, she excused the predatory feel of his fingers, the way they pierced into her shoulder blades like knives. She excused the dangerous glint in his eyes, thinking she may have been mistaking it for predatory when really it was something else.

Now, months later, she recognizes the way his nails dig deep into her shoulders, knowing it's nothing but predatory. Now, she has purple marks and fresh scars underneath her clothes to testify that it's nothing but dangerous.

Zoya opens her mouth to say something when he cuts her off. "It's my God-given right." This shuts her up and she presses her lips together to keep from sobbing.

Later, she will discover various new colors on her body.

Zoya's eyes fly open, her breathing harsh and laborious.

Standing in her room fully glammed up by her hairdressers and makeup artists, she realizes there's just one thing left to do. She opens her desk drawer and pulls out a tube of lipstick, uncapping it.

It's bright red.

It's been months, but the lipstick looks the same as the last time she wore it.

The last time.

She twirls it around in her fingers, recognizing the slightly smudged look of it.

Zoya takes a deep breath and places it over her mouth, where it hovers for a few seconds before it touches her lips and she lathers it on. She's taken back to that dressing table in her memory. Under those dim, seemingly romantic lights.

Seemingly.

Once she's done, her back straightens and she stares at the woman in the mirror.

The woman looks fabulous, bold, fierce. Exactly the way Zoya Zameer should and always does.

She doesn't feel anything like she looks.

But tonight, when she does what she's about to do, she's going to make sure he sees it. And she hopes to God that wherever he is, he recognizes the red lipstick and that the fire burns within him when he realizes she's worn it by will. She hopes he realizes that his memory isn't destroying her.

Even if it may not hold true.

He's plagued her mind since she left and now she's going to plague him by giving him a preview of what she's going to do to him.

Of how she's planned to destroy him.

. . .

Sequined golden heels meet the road as stunning Zoya Zameer steps out of her limousine in a fabulous, matching sequined gown. Lights flash and the cameramen go crazy, each attempting to capture her from the best angle.

Indulging them, Zoya looks down at the floor and makes a great show of tucking her hair behind her ear. She holds on to her clutch with her other hand. Flashes of bright light surround her across the entire entrance runway and she keeps her eyes pasted to the door of the hotel as she sashays by the onlookers.

"Ready, Zoya?" she murmurs to herself through clenched teeth, smiling at one of the cameras nearest her. This is going to be one hell of a night.

Upon reaching the door to the hotel and nodding at some of her employees who have already arrived, Zoya stops. Immediately reporters flood forward, extending their mics in front of her. Zoya lets out a boisterous laugh and clutches Flora's arm.

The first few questions a reporter asks seem arbitrary. But it's only fitting, as the abrasiveness of these reporters will escalate throughout the night. Zoya knows. She has been doing this long enough to predict everything that is to come.

"Ms. Zoya Zameer!" A man booms, approaching her with a mic. "Welcome to the annual Desi World fashion show. You are dressed fantastically, as always. Is that a Zameer dress?"

Zoya smiles brightly. "You know it."

"As of late, Zameer's designs have been wowing us all even more than usual. Has any special occurrence catalyzed this?" The reporter sounds almost harmless, but Zoya wants to roll her eyes. There are always challenges disguised in their compliments.

"Just my employees doing what they do best." Zoya beams. The reporter's face falls a bit, as if he had been expecting more.

"One more thing, Ms. Zoya, before we let you go. We want to know whether —"

"Oh, look, the lead of tonight's fashion show from Zameer is here!" Flora exclaims when she spots Farhan, and she grabs Zoya's arm and steers her away into the hotel.

Zoya flips her curls behind one shoulder. "Thanks, Flora."

The reporters hustle towards the entrance as Farhan enters with someone else in tow. Immediately they begin to pester a confused Farhan with questions as Zoya watches, silent laughter in her eyes.

Her attention, however, immediately strays to someone else as the door is pushed open once again and in comes none other than Haroun Suleiman, tux and all.

Zoya freezes in her spot. His already impeccable features are groomed to perfection and the black suit and tie manufactured by Zameer Co. adorn him as if made for him. He runs a hand through his hair, posture tense and uneasy. His eyes dart around warily as he approaches Zoya and the others. Zoya immediately resumes motion so as not to seem suspicious and fluffs up her hair.

"You clean up nice," she notes admiringly.

His eyes follow her voice before he quickly looks away, nodding a polite thank you. Slightly disappointed, she tries again, noticing his agitation. "Not your scene?"

He blows out a tense sigh. "Not really."

"Ooh, well what is the Haroun Suleiman's scene?"

He grimaces. "Not . . . here."

Zoya chuckles. "Get used to it, meri jaan. You're a Zameer employee. You'll be frequently attending events like this."

Haroun doesn't look the least bit excited by this prospect. Zoya is about to ask him why he's so glum when he bites his lower lip and that dimple appears in his cheek.

She looks away, a strange flutter in her heart.

For the next hour or so before the show starts, people mill around being interviewed and taking pictures with one another. Many eligible men and renowned members of the fashion industry — including her old business-partner-turned-rival Zaki Ahmed — approach Zoya, concealing their admiration for her appearance by marveling over her company instead. She receives many offers of companionship and even more offers to contract deals with businessmen of other companies, which she laughs off by flipping her hair around a lot and not making any promises.

Her interests lie elsewhere tonight.

The subject of her scrutiny seems to be at the height of discomfort, pacing around Farhan uncertainly, eyes darting everywhere without really looking at anything. He keeps his gaze lowered as much as possible and when women of other fashion companies approach him, Zoya recognizes his nervous habit of pressing his lips together to reveal his dimple. He speaks to the women politely but succinctly so that after a few moments, they give up and walk away, disappointed by his lack of attention.

" — are you looking at, Ms. Zoya?"

"Hmm?" she murmurs absentmindedly, turning to a fellow CEO speaking to her.

"Oh, I was just wondering what you were looking at."

"Just the design of the hall." Zoya gestures around vaguely. "It's marvelous."

The man in front of her nods. "You like it?"

She flashes a smile at him and watches in satisfaction as his face goes from suspicious to taken aback. "Love it. Now if you'll excuse me . . . " She lifts her gown slightly to take a step. Lights flash all around them. Zoya is entirely aware of the cameras following her conversation with this man.

"Wait. Will you consider my offer?"

Zoya bats her eyelashes at him. "What offer?" The one that made me throw up a little in my mouth?

He grins at her and she almost cringes at his shameless nature, at his lack of decorum. "The one that could solidify our companies' relationship and potentially cause them both to excel further in the industry."

Zoya's eyes dart to the cameras before she looks back at him. "Is that your only reason for wanting to marry me, Mr. Hassan?" she says loudly. The cameramen move closer.

He looks slightly embarrassed. Tossing him one last smile, Zoya turns around and makes her way to her distressed employee.

"Why so antsy?" she remarks airily. A waiter walks by with a tray of soda glasses and Zoya grabs one. Haroun politely declines.

"I'm just tired."

She takes a sip. "Tired? Before the show has even started? Don't you want to see all the work you put into this?"

Haroun shakes his head. "No, not really."

Zoya is amazed at his reply. "No? How come?"

Haroun lifts his head to the ceiling and a camera suddenly flashes in their direction. He flinches, clenching his jaw. "It's just . . . I'm not fond of this environment."

Zoya laughs. "Says the employee working in one of the biggest fashion companies in the world."

"Sometimes man has to bend under life's wills," he murmurs quietly. "Majbooris."

Zoya knits her brows. "Life gives you a chance to take control."

He shakes his head, smiling slightly. "True, but we are mere humans. Sometimes we're not in control."

Now Zoya is surprised by this claim. "Do you really believe nothing is in your power?"

"Not . . . no, that's not what I meant. It's just that . . . power, Ms. Zoya? Humans weren't made for sovereignty. True power doesn't necessarily lie in our hands." Haroun shoves a shaky hand through his hair. "True, we have . . . choice and free will, but everything happens for a divine, predestined reason. We choose, Allah controls." His voice is incredibly soft, incredibly careful. He seems to be warring with his own thoughts, a pucker between his eyebrows and his lips pressed together. When he sees that Zoya is watching him with rapt attention — still willing to listen —he continues.

"But . . . " He hesitates. "You know, we do have the power to rewrite our destiny through our choices and our prayers." Suddenly Haroun shakes his head, the storm in his eyes clearing.

"The prophet Muhammad said 'Tie your camel first, then place your trust in Allah.' I have tied my camel." Briefly, his eyes pass over the hall as he sighs softly. "Now I'm placing my trust in Allah. Because . . . even if the things we experience aren't what we consciously choose, they're what's best for us." He smiles gently. "And sometimes we are far too human to understand that."

There is pin drop silence between them for a couple of seconds.

Zoya always knew Haroun was religious, but he had never directly expressed his views until now. Although he seems to have just experienced some kind of internal conflict, it had been . . . different witnessing his innocent thought process. She cocks her head at him, expecting the slew of religious comments to make her blood boil. But something about his true, gentle nature always catches her off guard. Something about his rigorous belief — even when he doesn't say a word — renders her speechless.

Her jumbled thoughts are interrupted when the moderator of the show announces that it will start in fifteen minutes and everyone should make their way into the great hall to their seats. Zoya, of course, has reserved front row seats for her and her employees.

She turns back to Haroun, unable to explain why she suddenly feels so strange asking him to join her in watching a fashion show when he expressed his distaste about this very environment.

"Coming?" she inquires anyway.

He lifts a hand to rub his forehead and murmurs, "I'll just be a minute."

Zoya has a feeling he won't be coming anytime soon. With one last quizzical look thrown his way, she turns to join the show with the rest of her employees.

Farhan is, of course, nowhere to be found, probably bustling around making sure everything is perfect.

For a moment, Zoya marvels over his and Haroun's friendship — about how he doesn't seem to be at all worried that Haroun is not in there with him helping out.

As she enters the hall and focuses on the runway decor, she takes a deep breath, remembering her whole purpose for being here tonight. Zoya puts her restless thoughts of Haroun Suleiman aside and begins to walk forward to build momentum for the façade that's coming. She ignores the looks darted towards her and the cameras that don't stop following her.

This is your moment, Zoya. This is what you've been waiting for.

Reaching the end of the hall near the stage, she finds who she's looking for. Taking another deep breath, her expression shifts into a more appropriate one for this moment.

Zoya charges forward, curls flying behind her as she approaches Farhan.

. . .