. . .

. . .

~

"So which of the favors of your Lord would you (both) deny?" (Qur'an 55:13).

~

"We're going to Pakistan."

Instead of glancing at Ibitoye — who made the announcement — the staff turns to their CEO, who sits at the desk with steepled fingers. Her mind flits back to the disturbing dream that had caused her to fly awake at night. She had darted her wild eyes around and covered herself tightly with her blanket, warding off unseen threats.

She can still recall the sensations in her dream. The pressure, the force, the imaginary threat, the helplessness.

And worst of all, the unbearable anxiety she had felt when she tried to open her mouth to scream — to cry for help — but had succumbed to a terrifying helplessness that only allowed her to mumble indecipherable sounds of utter fear.

"Zoya?" Mark prompts.

She blinks and shakes her head, attempting to rid herself of the disturbing effects of her dream. Her board of directors are all staring at her quizzically.

Bewildered by their surprise, Zoya exclaims, "What?"

"Isn't it a bit early?" Bill says.

It takes her a moment to remember the conversation at hand. "Early? Bill Nye, we talked about this," she huffs out exasperatedly. "Why do you always make me repeat myself? It's been weeks since we announced international expansion. Zameer's second base now resides in Pakistan. I'd say our visit is rather overdue."

"Why didn't we go earlier?"

Zoya turns her steely gaze to him and tugs at her hair, pulling loose strands out. "We can't allow the media to think I'm escaping all the . . . allegations laid on me, now, can we? Had to clear a few things up first. But we've been keeping in touch with the contractors and advertising managers based in Pakistan's site, as we discussed in the past few meetings. The launch party will take place in about two weeks, and our presence will be the cherry on top."

"When you say 'we' . . . ." Bill prompts.

Grabbing the ends of her sequined dupatta, Zoya begins to fan herself, causing locks of hair to sway around her face. Despite the tension coiling inside her, she holds back a smirk at the expression on Bill's face. "Only a select few of us will be going. A list will be sent out later. But before that, Sumaiya wants to propose an idea."

Venom laces her throat while she says the other woman's name.

Sumaiya clears her throat. "Hello, everyone. So, as we discussed in the previous meeting, we've scheduled for a bridal shoot before attending the launch party in Pakistan. I wanted to go over the logistics of that as it's going to be different from Zameer's usual bridal shoots."

As Sumaiya speaks, Zoya watches her carefully. No matter how hard Zoya tries, she cannot hate the woman. Sameer has not been able to detect anything off-putting about her either. And on top of that, she's compassionate, patient, professional, and worst of all, easily likable.

No wonder Haroun wants to marry her.

The thought flares her up inside and she huffs out an impatient breath, signaling Sumaiya to hurry up.

At least she can still pretend to hate her.

"So the shoot will take place at Ms. Zoya's manor."

At this, heads snap in the CEO's direction. Zoya rolls her eyes and faces skyward.

Bill is the first to speak. "At Ms. Zoya's . . . how come?"

"This needs a homey environment. Something cozy and not over-the-top. And Ms. Zoya proposed that her home would be the best place to do it."

"Since you think it unnecessary to explain why, dear Sumaiya, let me go ahead and tell you guys." Zoya sighs long and loud. "I have a garden behind my manor, decorated by the finest experts on the East Coast. Not only is it gorgeous, but it's also a good site for the shoot so as to avoid it seeming too practiced and planned. This needs to be natural."

"I don't understand. I don't think it needs to be at your manor to be natural — "

Zoya's withering glare forces Bill to lapse into silence.

Lucas perks up. "Do you think it wise, Zoya, for the press to see your home base?"

A peal of laughter escapes her. "Sweetheart, you think the press is clueless? These people find out everything they want to know. The only reason they haven't broken into my house yet is the fear of being caught. Besides, we don't have to explicitly mention that the site of the shoot is my garden. If they know, they know. If they don't, they don't." Zoya shrugs lightly. Despite knowing this is nowhere near a satisfactory explanation, she doesn't bother to continue with a better one. "Besides, I just won't sleep at night afterwards. What's new?"

Seeing her foul mood, nobody further questions her.

. . .

"I thought I told you to get rid of those lamps? Get them out of my sight right this moment."

"String those lights up over there. Yes, over there. Man, why are you so slow? What am I paying you for? Ugh, give that to me." An exasperated breath later, Zoya reaches up to stretch out the lights and adjust the lanterns above her.

Her staff continues to filter in, admiring their surroundings. The shoot is taking place outside, but curious, wondrous eyes can't help but pass over the gothic architecture of her manor, beautifully convoluted windows and all. It screams extravagance, giving off a castle-like appearance.

Apart from the garden is a large, luxurious pool. The edges are decorated with petals of every color. Surrounding the entire vicinity are small, twinkling lanterns catching the sun's rays.

Although frustrated at her workers, Zoya's hospitality is unstinting as gazes sweep around to the small square tables strewn around the garden along with Chinese catering. The garden is huge, flowers decorating every crevice, every nook and cranny. Flowers of every type, every shape, every color.

"Wow. I must say, this is incredible." Bill's voice is filled with awe. Zoya glances at him for a second, grins, then returns to adjusting the lanterns.

He coughs profusely, walking away with a red tint in his cheeks.

Most of the staff has arrived and the photographing team gets to work making slight alterations to the surroundings. Half an hour later, Zoya becomes antsy and begins bouncing on her feet, searching the crowd of employees. Her gaze sweeps across the entire garden strung with garlands and lights and lanterns.

"He's not here yet."

She turns to the speaker. Sameer's face splits into a knowing grin.

"Who?"

"Haroun, of course."

Zoya narrows her eyes. "Who said I'm looking for him?"

Sameer rolls his eyes. "Your eyes say it all."

Her heart begins to beat faster. "And how, pray tell, would you know what my eyes say?"

"I'm no love expert, but . . . " He begins to back away slowly, hands in his pockets. "I'd be stupid if I didn't recognize the look in your eyes every time you see him." He turns and walks away before Zoya can even open her mouth to counter him.

Hands trembling, Zoya clears her throat nervously. Is her — admiration — of Haroun that obvious?

Shaking the thought as well as her growing concerns about his absence out of her head, she makes her way to the two models for the bridal photoshoot.

Sumaiya had proposed that the models be a real life married couple as she felt that this would be more authentic. Although Zoya hadn't pressed the matter, she knows that was probably not the main reason for this suggestion.

Zoya knows Sumaiya's authenticity consists of maintaining integrity and modesty even during the shoot. In making sure that she won't be responsible for two people gazing at each other lovingly yet unlawfully.

She hadn't been lying when she said she wanted to bring modest ideas to the fashion industry. Unlike the many phony people Zoya had interviewed, Sumaiya had chosen a few wise words and convinced Zoya of her passion for change in the fashion industry.

Adding on to the list of reasons she needn't be despised, of course.

"I'm assuming I need to remind you not to overdo the love act," Zoya says haughtily as she approaches the models.

The male model, Salar, glances at her quizzically. "Why would we overdo it?"

"Oh, you know. Newlyweds tend to do so." There is a hint of resentment in Zoya's voice.

The female, Inaya, raises her brows and gives her a quizzical look. Probably because the very point of the shoot is to ooze newlywed love and excitement. "Don't you worry, Ms. Zoya." Zoya turns around with a shake of her head as the team begins preparing for the shoot.

Suddenly, Zoya's eye falls on the person who has just arrived and is standing uncertainly at the far end of the garden. Her heart beats persistently against her ribcage, remembering Sameer's words.

Haroun is standing at a distance, eyes darting warily around. Fumbling with the collar of his shirt, he glances at his wristwatch with a pained expression on his face, sighing before making his way to the rest of them.

Zoya's eyes follow him until he reaches Farhan, who throws an affectionate arm around him and shakes him roughly, causing the ghost of a smile to appear on his face. Farhan says something to him, something Zoya can't hear, and she automatically draws closer when Haroun lets out a resounding laugh.

Approaching them, she makes out a "Well, look who finally made it" breathlessly. Everyone turns to look at her and she suddenly becomes hyper aware of Sameer's eyes boring into the side of her head.

For a moment, Zoya forgets who and where she is. She forgets about all of her various projects, her initiatives, her vengeful claims about destroying Zaki Ahmed. She forgets that she is one of the most wealthy and powerful businesspeople in the nation.

She forgets that she's Zoya Zameer.

And for this split moment, she would be remiss to say she isn't reveling in the pleasure of the feeling. Basking in the warmth of not being who she is.

Until her illusions are shattered by Haroun's reply of "Salaam, Ms. Zoya."

"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam." Pause. Calm down, Zoya. Act normal. "You're late?"

"Uh, yeah." He rubs the back of his neck. "Traffic."

"Mm." Zoya turns to glance at the quiet roads across from her manor. Haroun seems to be uncomfortable with his lie, but Zoya doesn't push the matter. "Alright, everyone, let's get started."

Throughout the early evening and into the twilight, they work on the photoshoot as the sun's rays and the decorations cast various hues and lights upon the couple with the passing of time. Zoya settles into a chair near them, a mug of tea in her hands.

While the shoot takes place, Zoya gestures around wildly and cups her hands around her mouth to yell something from time to time, pausing only to pray 'Asr in congregation with some employees.

While praying she is completely out of focus, continuously reminding herself to breathe and relax as she fidgets next to the women.

They wrap up before praying Maghrib — Zoya concocts an excuse and hurriedly finishes prayer in her room alone — and everyone begins eating the food and relaxing. Chit chat and laughter echo across the garden, along with the occasional clink of cutlery.

A quiet smile hovers on Zoya's lips. She had quelled the initial anxiety she felt at inviting people to her home, convincing herself that these are her employees. She's known most of them for too long to become uncomfortable with the idea of them in her house.

And now, days later, when her garden is crawling with people after years of the grounds being empty, she can't help but feel strangely lighthearted.

Zoya climbs the staircase, halting in surprise when she sees Haroun and Farhan at the far end of the hallway. Haroun is whispering something frantically to Farhan, who shrugs and whispers something back. He peeks through doors slightly to check inside before moving on.

Zoya's fists clench and she flees forward. Farhan's eyes widen when he sees her and Haroun just places a hand at his forehead.

"Can I help you?" Her voice is icy.

"Uh, sorry, Ms. Zoya. We were looking for the bathroom." Farhan croaks out, and Haroun gives his friend a bewildered look at the word "we".

Zoya stabs her thumb in the direction behind her and says through gritted teeth, "It's that way. You should have just asked me instead of — " Her voice stops, eyes widening when she sees which door Farhan is standing in front of.

Zoya hadn't realized she had walked in this direction. Knees trembling, heartbeat hammering, she moves closer slowly. It seems as if the air has stilled, a menacing draft seeping out of the walls.

"You can go," she orders Farhan. Haroun's head raises at the tone of her voice. She sounds strangled, as though she's trying to suffocate the emotions within her chest. Zoya's barely repressed anger is clear, her seething rage evident in the clenching and unclenching of her fists.

Farhan walks away unsurely.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Zoya's voice is muffled as she says, "Haroun. Can you do me a favor, please?" She knows she is probably imagining it, but a chilly, threatening draft of air seems to creep out of the room, caressing her with dangerous memories. Memories she cannot afford to crumble under here, in front of him.

"Of course, Ms. Zoya." The sound of his gentle, quiet voice begins to calm her down. She focuses on it as if it is a melody.

Zoya opens her eyes. "Close this door, please."

And just like that, without questioning anything, without a comment, Haroun's fingers wrap around the door knob and he shuts the door.

Releasing a breath, she says, "Thank you."

"Are you alright?" His voice is quizzical.

She nods.

"I'm really sorry about that. I know we should have asked you where the bathroom was. That's what I was trying to tell Far — "

"It's fine. You can head down. I'll be with you guys in a minute."

When Haroun leaves, Zoya reaches up to clutch the area above her heart. As she watches him trudge down her stairs with Farhan, her heart aches at seeing him go.

And that's when she knows that seeing him in her house is what she has needed all along. His mere presence is like a repellent, something to ward off the evil memories threatening to drown her under. His footsteps in this house are what chase away the footsteps of her horrible memories. His calming presence is exactly why she had wanted this shoot at her house in the first place.

Hoping maybe he will manifest in corners of her house whenever she's feeling exceptionally distraught by her haunting past, whenever the memories become truly unbearable.

She'll remember him here. And that will be enough.

. . .

When the staff is mingling and enjoying themselves under the glow of the lights, Zoya traipses over to one of the prop team members. She looks a bit younger than the rest — maybe a nineteen- or twenty-year-old intern — and Zoya's eyes roam over her once before she eyes the boxes of tools by her feet. "What's your name?"

"Jadyn, ma'am." Her voice is high-pitched, like the pretentious, privileged voices of youth who've never heard the word "no."

"Jadyn, can you call some of those male workers to grab these boxes and place them near the tables?"

Jadyn's head swivels around, then back to Zoya's tired face. Her eyebrows rise and she places her hands on her hips. "Are you implying I can't carry these by myself because I'm a woman?"

Zoya's eyebrows fly high. She is — needless to say — astounded because this is the last thing she had expected to come out of the girl's mouth. "Excuse me?"

"That's what you want the men here for, right? Because you think I can't carry these by myself?"

A hysterical, impatient laugh bubbles out of Zoya. She raises her hand to her forehead, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply, attempting to maintain her sanity. Why the hell did Bill hire you?

This must be one of those interns hired by Bill. Those fresh-out-of-high-school, one-year-into-college, "I can do anything" interns.

Patience wearing thin, Zoya looks back at the girl and says in a tight voice, "Yes."

Jadyn cocks her head to the side, not backing down. She must be relatively new is if she dares to be this brash with Zoya Zameer. "Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I can't — "

Zoya snaps. "Sweetheart, if you want to break your back in the name of this supposed feminism, then go ahead. I won't stop you."

By now the men — having heard the commotion — approach Zoya and dart their eyes between the two. One of them says, "Zoya, ma'am, should we take these boxes over there?"

"Oh, no, no," Zoya says. Her voice has taken on a high pitch. "No, Jadyn over here will take them."

Their eyes dart to the girl in front of Zoya, who now that her challenge has been accepted, doesn't seem all too confident anymore. She eyes the boxes filled with expensive lanterns, stringed lights, and many other tools and bites down on her bottom lip nervously.

"Are you sure, Ms. Zoya?" the man says.

"Oh, yeah," Zoya nods vigorously. "Positive. Actually, why don't we call everyone here to watch her?" Before anyone can stop her and before the plea in Jadyn's eyes begins to manifest, Zoya signals for her employees to make way towards her.

She gestures to Jadyn. "My sweet employee here would like to show you guys a magic trick." The staff exchanges glances, wariness settling on their faces.

Jadyn has reached the height of embarrassment, her eyes becoming guarded and her hands beginning to tremble. After a moment of uncertain lip biting and tense silence, she grabs the first box. Standing up, she wobbles for a second and the man reaches out to steady her but she shoulders the weight and trudges to the tables with all eyes on her. Some confused, some pitiful. When others reach out to help her, Zoya's withering glare causes them to halt in their tracks.

Jadyn continues to come back and forth, head bowed, with everyone's attention and Zoya's eyes trained sharply on her.

Zoya has to give her credit — the girl doesn't say a word, stubbornly carrying the boxes back and forth.