. . .

. . .

~

"But perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you; and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you know not." (Qur'an 2:216)

~

Zoya stares her employee down, fearful anticipation for his next words causing her heart to beat quicker.

He opens his mouth. "I — "

"Don't," Zoya manages to whisper. Her fists are clenched, jaw tightened, as if her very body is pleading her not to resort to this helplessness.

Haroun Suleiman does not look directly at her, of course, but his eyebrows furrow at her demeanor. "I have to, Ms. Zoya."

"Please." To her ears, the word sounds strange and ugly coming from her mouth.

His dimple flashes as he presses his lips together, but after a moment he barrels forward. "I have to leave."

A tense sigh escapes Zoya — something she has been holding in for quite a while. "Haroun."

"I can't work here anymore, Ms. Zoya."

Her fists tighten.

"I'm sure you understand. So much has happened. Not only would it be unfit for me to stay, but I no longer have the strength to."

"I know." Her voice threatens to break. "But . . . "

"But? There are no buts anymore, Ms. Zoya. I've reached the end of this precipice. It's time to head back." His voice is determined, unwavering.

Since Paki Enterprises' launch party, this threat has been nagging Zoya. This inevitable threat of Haroun's leave. But she has brushed it off because she has been too used to his presence to even acknowledge the possibility of his absence. Now the once looming threat is suspended midair in front of her face, with Zoya having nowhere to escape to avoid it anymore.

"Your character has been laid a finger on. That's not easy for me to see, either, since you are my employee. But the media office is working on repressing the news. And the statement I gave about it being a false accusation should clear the air somewhat."

Haroun shakes his head and a soft, defeated smile plays on his lips. "The damage has been done. It's like . . . paper. You can't return it to its smooth shape after it's been crumpled." He runs his fingers through his hair. "Besides, this was already written for me." He shrugs lightly. "Destiny."

A strange crawling sensation grasps at the insides of Zoya's throat. Screw destiny if it takes you away from me, Haroun Suleiman.

"In a way, this has helped me." Zoya gazes at him in utter bewilderment when he says this. "I've been trying to leave for a long time. This gave me the courage to finally do it."

"Why were you trying to leave before?"

Haroun gazes up at his surroundings. Zoya observes the way he looks at the gold-plated decorations, the extravagant furniture, the expensive flooring. "As you've known, Ms. Zoya, this is not my scene."

Do not cry, Zoya Zameer. You're not supposed to cry. "Is it really that bad?"

He shrugs lightly. "I feel like it serves no purpose for me. I feel like I'm mechanically working" — he lifts his fingers to demonstrate — "puppeteered by strings. I can't do it anymore. I was weak, but this gave me strength. There was khair in it." A kiddish smile blooms on his face. "I was finally able to grow my wings."

Zoya's lips tremble. She cannot hear these words from him. They are slowly tearing her down.

"Why did you ever work here in the first place, then?" she manages to ask.

She detects the slight clench in his fists. "We needed money for my mom's surgery. Urgently. And my dad hasn't supported us since my parents' divorce. But he offered to help cover the expenses for my mom's surgery." He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "My mom kept refusing his money, and I still needed to find a job that would earn me money quickly, so . . . "

He shrugs, then becomes thoughtful. "You know, it's crazy and scary that I didn't realize how much I relied on money to provide my family comfort and relief. It was all about the money that would help us, the money that would buy us groceries, the money that would put food on our table." He rubs his temples. "I feel like I neglected the One who provided us with that money, the One who made it possible. And in order to get that money I robbed myself of my faith and peace."

Zoya stares at him incredulously. "Working here robbed you of those things?"

Haroun sighs. "Working here has been conflicting with my faith."

At this Zoya's eyebrows rise. "Your faith? You do realize we're part of the same faith, correct? We follow the same religion."

"Correct," he echoes quietly.

"Then are you trying to say I'm not as faithful as you are?"

Haroun chuckles slightly. "Far from it. I'm human — I don't know what's in your heart. Allah knows better."

These words send a chill through Zoya. She becomes abruptly aware of the telltale thumping of her heart, as if it is assenting to what Haroun is saying. She leans back and clears her throat. "You do realize that your reasoning for requesting to let you go is laying indirect claims about my spirituality?"

"Ms. Zoya? I'm not here to question your spirituality or lay claims about mine. I myself don't know — we all" — he gestures with his hands — "lie on different spectrums of faith. I'm here to request you to let me go." His voice is resolute, unwavering. Zoya knows he is merely asking her to allow his leave from work, but it seems like so much more than that. In a softer tone, he adds, "Give people chances, Ms. Zoya. Everyone is not out to get you."

A blush creeps up her neck. Clawing around in her brain for another topic of conversation, she blurts out suddenly, "What happened of your marriage? Won't you invite your boss to the ceremony?"

His face falls a little, but he shakes his head. "It's not happening. The engagement was . . . broken off."

"How come?"

He holds his hands out, palms facing up. "It just . . . wasn't meant to be. We weren't written for each other."

She leans back and mulls over that, ignoring the surge of grief rising within her at the expression on his face and the burst of anger when she thinks of the source of it. In his eyes — according to what she had instructed Sumaiya to tell him — she cost him a potential wife. And still he does not harbor any animosities towards her.

"I'm very sorry about that." I'm not the least bit sorry.

He shakes his head again. "Don't be, Ms. Zoya. It wasn't written for either of us, and it wouldn't have happened no matter how much we tried if it hadn't been decreed from above." Taking a deep breath, he says, "And I'm . . . okay with that. Besides, we were written in pairs, weren't we? It's just taking a bit long to find mine." He smiles softly.

She's yet again surprised by his words, by his blind acceptance. His strong belief. "So you believe there's still someone out there written for you?"

Haroun smiles. "Of course."

She fires another question at him. "Do you believe there's someone written for me?"

He seems surprised by her question but nods firmly. "It's not about what I believe, Ms. Zoya. It's the truth. It's what's been written already. Our entire lives are predestined; we make the right or wrong decisions that lead us down the exact path we're supposed to tread. It's like" — he opens and closes his mouth, struggling to explain — "everything's set in stone, right? But we have the important job of choosing which pen we want it to be engraved with." He becomes quiet once more, eyes harboring a faraway look which signals he's contemplating his own words.

He is talking about the concept of power and free will again, about the balance between God's plans as well as human beings' responsibilities over their decisions. Zoya remembers this from the Desi World Fashion Show, and hearing it again sends tremors through her fingers. She balls her hands into fists under the table and feigns indifference.

"Ms. Zoya, may I ask you something? It's been bothering me for quite some time." When Zoya nods, he continues, "Why did Zameer and Paki Enterprises break off their partnership?"

Zoya smiles softly, knowing this question is inevitable. "Zaki Ahmed proposed to me."

Haroun's mouth opens in shock as comprehension dawns on his face. "The same Zaki Ahmed who's the CEO right now? Like, the same exact person?"

Zoya laughs at the disbelief on his face. "Yes, the very one."

After a few moments, Haroun says, "That's why he's so angry."

Zoya nods. "I broke off the partnership the very next day, sold my shares, cut off all ties."

"If I may ask, why?"

Zoya laughs. "Have you met Zaki Ahmed?"

"I mean, I didn't know him before your rivalry. I don't know what he was like without the . . . anger of your rejection."

She snorts softly. Of course Haroun Suleiman needs to give everyone a chance. "He was . . . too much of a typical man. Some of his ideals were questionable. Besides, he was angry because he thought I used him as a ladder in the start of my career to make a name for myself, then dumped him when the business boomed." Zoya shrugs lightly. "He may or may not have been wrong, but I wouldn't have married him anyway."

"Would you have married him if he wasn't a businessman? Assuming that's what made him questionable."

She shakes her head. "Absolutely not." She watches him with a longing gaze. "I don't intend to marry anybody else."

His brows furrow. "Anybody else?"

Shoot. Zoya's eyes widen, and she clears her throat quickly. "Anybody, I mean. For the rest of my life."

He quiets.

"Well," Zoya says, reluctance seeping through her voice. "You have two weeks to tie any loose ends and then . . . " Her throat constricts. "And then you can . . . "

Like always, Haroun seems to understand without Zoya finishing her sentence. "Thank you, Ms. Zoya." His voice is diplomatic. No hidden meanings, entirely professional. Like an open book.

It makes everything in Zoya ache.

Haroun stands, and Zoya's breath catches in her throat. She never envisioned this scene. In all her time with him, she never imagined saying goodbye to Haroun Suleiman. And if something isn't written in Zoya Zameer's to-do list, all hell breaks loose.

That's because this doesn't have to be goodbye, an urgent voice whispers in Zoya's head. Do something while you still can.

"Thank you for your hospitality. For giving me this job. For all the favors you've done for my family and I. For everything." Haroun's voice breaks her out of her thoughts. He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "I pray to Allah that you find your peace." Before Zoya can reply, he twists the knob and exits the room.

A quiet, painless exit for him.

Yet everything for Zoya.

And something in her threatens to break. Tears pool in her eyes, her fingers tremble. She clenches her hands into fists. You can't cry, Zoya Zameer.

Although her mind, her body, everything in her conscious being wants to obey this command, the tears rapidly pool in her eyes until finally spilling over.

And Zoya Zameer cries.

. . .

When Sameer enters her office after what feels like hours, Zoya hastily wipes her tears away. To no avail, however, because the mascara is smeared all under her eyes, the lipstick is running down her chin, and the concealer is wiped across her cheekbone.

"You look horrible," Sameer comments.

"Oh, shut up, Sameer Mirza."

He settles down in the seat across from her. "Do something."

"You have something for me to sign?" Zoya asks absentmindedly, eyes traveling everywhere but him. She opens and closes drawers, pretending to find something misplaced.

Perhaps that something is her.

"You know what I mean."

"I have absolutely not a single clue what you're talking about."

"For someone who plays the guise of knowing everything, you sure aren't doing a great job of it right now."

Zoya turns her withering glare to him, but Sameer doesn't budge. "You've become daring, Sameer. Spending too much time with me, I presume?"

"Like boss, like employee."

Zoya scoffs. "I'm an enigma, sweetheart, an enigma. You can't be anything like me."

"And what an open book enigma you are." His tone is flat, eyes serious. After a pause, he conveys the message Zoya gauges he has been trying to say since he came in. "Tell him how you feel."

"What are you — "

"You know what I'm — "

"Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking." The two stare each other down. Zoya is not the first to look away.

Sameer's sigh resonates throughout the room. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Ms. Zoya."

"Don't 'Ms. Zoya' me. Get out."

"Look, you have to do it."

"And who are you to tell me what I have to do?"

"Someone who's known you long enough." He opens his eyes and looks at her again. In a softer tone, he continues, "You have to tell him how you feel. It's the only way he'll ever acknowledge anything. Trust me. Haroun's not the kind of guy — "

"Are you giving me relationship advice?"

Sameer pauses before shrugging. "I guess I am."

"Daring, aren't you?"

"Too much time spent with you, am I correct?" He cocks a grin, and although she feels terrible, Zoya manages a smile.

"You're not very good at it."

"You haven't even listened to what I have to say."

Zoya leans back in her chair, folds her trembling arms, and stares her employee down. "Be my guest, then."

"Tell him how you feel." His voice is soft. "He's an honest and kind person, and he would never disrespect you even if his feelings aren't mutual."

"Which they aren't," Zoya interrupts.

"You don't know that."

She scoffs. "Have you met him? Haroun Suleiman doesn't — he doesn't . . . " She falls silent, unable to say the words at the tip of her tongue. He doesn't want people like me. He wants people like Sumaiya. Not people who are battered and bruised. Not me.

Uncontrollably, fresh tears pool in her eyes. She blinks harshly and looks away, but to Sameer's credit he peels his eyes away from her face to give her the privacy she is so desperately seeking.

"He's shocked and confused right now because of his engagement breaking off, and he doesn't even know the real reason yet. He's going to need some emotional support. Someone who understands."

Zoya laughs mirthlessly. "You say that like it's easy, Mr. Hollywood. This isn't a movie. This is real life."

"At least talk to him," he says exasperatedly. Hands out, palms up.

Zoya eyes his hands, and for some reason the helplessness in his posture causes the tears to well over and spill down her cheeks. She sniffs and looks away, pressing her lips tightly together to keep from sobbing loudly. She shakes her head. "I can't." Her voice cracks.

"Why not?"

Because he won't want me. And maybe Zoya Zameer will finally fall over the ledge she is barely teetering over with the possibility of his rejection.

"Look," Sameer says. "I know you're probably thinking he wouldn't choose someone like you to be his life partner, someone who lives a life so different from his. But Haroun gives everyone chances."

Sameer, everything you're saying is right. But he won't want me. She shakes her head again and a sob emits from her. "I can't."

"Ms. Zoya." His voice is strained. "You have to try to tell him how you feel. Otherwise you'll spend your entire life not knowing what the alternative possibility could have been."

I'm going to do something. I just . . . can't tell him how I feel. "How do I feel?"

"Do you need me to tell you that?"

"He's . . . my employee." She herself grimaces at the lie.

At this, Sameer snorts so loud it scares Zoya. He shakes his head with silent laughter in his eyes. "You can't make anyone believe that. Especially not me."

"Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?"

"I'm your secretary and your personal assistant. I've been by you twenty-four seven and I've seen you in all your gradients. I've seen the way you switch up around Haroun, the way you talk about him, the way you talk to him, the way you act around him. I'm not stupid, Ms. Zoya."

"You sure about that?" she says halfheartedly, attempting to lighten her own mood.

Sameer laughs. "Positive." He pushes against the desk and stands, face becoming serious again. "I don't know if what I said had any sort of effect on you, but you have to try, Ms. Zoya. You have to."

"Why does it matter so much to you?" Zoya fires back at him.

He gives her a lost, wounded look. And it's so different from his usual expressions that Zoya does a double take. "Because I wish I had taken my chances, too." With that, he backs away slowly, exiting the room.

Which chances did he not take?

. . .