. . .

. . .

~

"I only complain of my grief and sorrow to Allah." (Qur'an 12:86)

~

"Mr. Zaki, here's the information you requested."

With steepled fingers, Zaki Ahmed stares at the file placed in front of him. "You got everything?"

"Everything we could find, sir."

"And what would that be?"

"We tracked down and spoke to some of Ms. Zoya's previous relatives. It was difficult to get them to speak, but . . . " The employee shrugs by way of explanation.

"I understand. Thank you. You may leave."

"Yes, sir."

Zaki opens the file and an unintentional smile plays on his lips. "Zoya Zameer," he murmurs. "You would have done yourself a favor by just marrying me."

He sifts through the files, eyes landing on a picture of a small marriage ceremony. He can already envision the headlines.

The Marriage and Divorce of Zoya Zameer.

. . .

When Zoya steps into her office the next day with haphazard concealer rubbed under her eyes and her auburn curls a mess, her employees are all watching her with fearful expressions on their faces. She sets her handbag down on the receptionist's desk and folds her arms.

"Do I look like I'm paying you all to stare at my face? Get to work before I start firing people. And trust me, I'm in a horrible mood today, so it will happen. Don't try me," she barks. "Already the reporters and security outside have eaten what's left of my brain this morning. I barely escaped them. What the hell is going on?"

Nobody budges. Bill Lucas walk forward cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal. "Ms. Zoya, have you seen the news?"

She scoffs. "What? Another speculation about my marital status? About the identity of my parents? About my alleged sexually harassing employees?" She perches her handbag at her elbow and begins walking way from them, heels clicking noisily in the dead silence. "Tell me something I don't know, Bill Nye."

Yet when everyone continues to stare at her, she stops and furrows her brows. "What is it, Bill?"

Please say nothing. I can't do it anymore.

"Let's go to your office," Bill's tone turns placatory. He leads her there as her staff's eyes trail the two of them. Zoya's heart begins to thump frantically.

"Bill Nye, if this is some sick joke — " She stops when she sees the formidable expression on his face as they enter her office and switch the TV on. Bill is about to flick through to another news channel but stops.

He doesn't need to, Zoya realizes. The news is everywhere.

With a loud gasp, Zoya's handbag slips from her hand as she brings it up to cover her mouth. Her fingers tremble and her heart begins to beat at an alarmingly quick rate. Bill attempts to reach forward to comfort her but pulls back, the pity on his face revealing that he knows she doesn't like being touched and he finally understands why.

Because written on the TV screen in large headlines are the words: Zoya Zameer's Abusive Marriage and Divorce.

"No." She manages to find her voice. Shaking her head back and forth quickly, she repeats, "No, no, no. Oh, my God." She slides down to the floor and continues to shake her head with wide eyes. Bill hurriedly looks around and locates a water bottle, handing it to her. But she is too appalled to move.

No. Oh, God, no. Everything else, but not this.

"Ms. Zoya, are you okay?" Bill asks her worriedly. His voice is oddly far away, as if being heard through a warped glass.

And then Zoya faints.

. . .

She wakes to muffled conversation.

" — saw the news."

"Poor Ms. Zoya. No wonder she's — "

"Is it true, though?"

"Should we call a doctor?"

"Look, she's awake."

Her eyes flutter open to meet her staff's worried ones, but she only registers her surroundings when she sees a particular person standing at the far back. Her eyes widen, and she attempts to sit up straighter, temporarily forgetting abut the source of her distress.

"Haroun?" she croaks out.

The staff exchanges glances and turns.

Haroun flushes bright red at the attention but waves awkwardly nonetheless. "You doing okay there, Ms. Zoya?"

"I'm okay. What are you doing here?"

He gestures to the door behind him. "I had to collect some of my things. Are you sure you're alright? Can we get you anything?"

"Water."

Sarah, whose eyes had been traveling between the two of them, quickly reaches behind her and grabs a water bottle from the desk. She uncaps it and hands it to Zoya.

Zoya sips greedily, hyper aware of the sound of her gulps in the quiet room.

Unexpectedly, she blushes.

"Ms. Zoya — " Sarah starts.

"Not now, Sarah." Bill gives her a warning glance.

The news.

Zoya's breath constricts, the room becomes small. The bottle slips out of her hand and water seeps across the floor.

"Get out," she whispers. "Everyone."

They hesitate for a moment before obeying her command, Bill being the last to exit with a furrow in his eyebrows.

Zoya knows the staff will talk about this behind her back. They will speculate about it, question one another, remember minor details to patch their stories together. But as always, they will never ask Zoya Zameer for the truth.

Before, that never bothered her. Better their speculations and their fear in asking her than her wasting time telling them the truth that doesn't matter.

But now? Now with this news out, they will make the worst of it. And they will treat her different. They will pity her. And God knows Zoya doesn't want their pity. She has worked too hard to build herself a life that is vastly different from what it used to be. She cannot return to the same person she once was, cannot allow others to see her that way again.

That helpless, poor girl.

She feels something so deep in her chest for the obvious source of this news: Zaki Ahmed. Something so strong and hateful that it quickens her breaths. She will destroy him, and only then will she find the peace she has been looking for. The one Haroun Suleiman told her he would pray for.

For the millionth time in a week, hot tears rapidly pool in her eyes and trail down her cheeks, dripping from her chin and planting themselves into the floor. Where remains of Zoya Zameer's vulnerability will forever stay etched into the ground.

No.

She bends down, pressing her fingers to the teardrops decorating the marble floor. She rubs them, scratches them, tears at them until she is no longer wiping those tears but clawing at the floor. Until she pulls back with cracked and bloody nails. Whimpers escape her, sounds of a lost and wounded animal, and she buries her head on the ground.

No matter how hard she tries, her past won't leave her alone. It will follow her to the grave.

. . .

Zoya exits her office half an hour later, makeup redone, hair re-fluffed, bangles jingling, heels clicking louder than ever. Her staff gives her looks of surprise, looks of pity, looks of confusion. She ignores them all and approaches Bill, slapping a file down in front of him.

"Have these signed."

"What are these?"

"Excuse me, did I put a question mark at the end of my sentence?" She gives him a withering glare, which he returns with a look of surprise. "I thought so."

Turning back around, she stops in the middle of the hall when she feels eyes on her. "Is there something on my face?" she yells loudly.

Pin drop silence.

"Then peel your eyes away from me or I'll start firing. I'm aware that I'm irresistible, thank you for reminding me, but frankly, I don't need the reminder. Get back to work!" she yells in the silent room. Papers begin to shuffle, the thrum of voices picks back up, and the staff attempts to return to work.

Zoya walks back up to her office, her heart beating frantically. She doesn't think she can pull a performance like that again, which is problematic in itself because she is going to have to spend the rest of her days like this. Even more closed off, more insufferable. But if that's what it takes to keep their pity at bay, then so be it.

She will not be losing much, anyway.

There is a knock on her door before Sameer enters.

"Do not say anything —"

"Have you talked to him?"

She cocks her head to the side, black eyes fiery and wild. "Do you have a death wish, Sameer Mirza?"

"Maybe. You didn't answer my question."

She balls her fists at her sides. "Don't give me orders."

He quiets.

She sighs. "Leave me alone." Please.

"You okay?" His voice is soft, tentative. Everything Zoya doesn't want right now.

"I said leave me alone."

He holds his hands up. "Okay. I'm sorry." And he quietly retreats.

Grabbing anything to distract herself, Zoya makes her way to the printer room with a file in hand. Opening the door, she gives one glare to the employees inside and they scuttle out quickly. This is what she likes. The power. The control. Instilling the fear.

Because it makes her so much more than her past. Than her pain.

Farhan is the last to leave, and she jerks forward just as he passes by to scare him. He flinches, backing away from her quickly.

Slamming the door behind her, she edges closer to the printer and pulls out papers from the file. Random papers from the contractors in Pakistan. Unimportant.

It is then that she realizes she hasn't had to print out anything for at least two years. Sameer or someone else is always doing these sorts of arbitrary tasks for her.

The possibility of being incompetent in something doesn't sit well with her, so she enters the printer password and gives it a long stare. She clicks on the area that says "scan" and wedges the paper into the tray as she remembers. Then she waits.

Nothing happens.

She furrows her brows and leans forward, clicking scan again. And again, nothing happens. The printer stays silent in the eerie quiet of the room. No whirring, no clicking. Nothing.

Zoya slams her finger down on "scan" again and again. "Work, you stupid, useless thing." Somewhere along the way, she loses it and begins banging the printer from the top, from the sides. Punching, kicking, pushing at it. She grabs the papers in the file and tosses them all over the floor.

But the printer remains silent.

Zoya lets out a animalistic yell before sobs emit from her throat and she begins to cry. Loud. Her breath hitches, her body quakes, and whimpers escape her lips. She vaguely registers the door to the room opening but doesn't look up. Because her eye falls on the sign taped to the side of the printer.

Out of order.

And she cries louder at that. Because something deep in her shifts at seeing these words. Something terribly aches.

She looks up to see who entered and makes out a face through watery eyes.

The face of Haroun.

Ugh. She swipes her face with the back of her hand. Why does he always see me like this?

The expression on his face is one of pure surprise, as if he wasn't expecting walking into anyone here. His eyes travel around the room, at the scattered papers strewn across the floor, at the printer Zoya unplugged while she had been assailing it.

"Ms. Zoya?" His voice is startled.

"What are you doing here?" She asks him yet again, avoiding his eyes.

"I came to give Matt this file . . . " He trails off, still confused. His dimple creases, signaling his tension.

"Matt's not here." Her voice breaks out into a sob, and she clutches her stomach to attempt to reign the pain. Haroun steps into the room unsurely before he grabs a chair and places it behind her. She collapses into it.

And quietly, he exits the room.

He left.

Just like everyone else.

Zoya's face scrunches up and her throat turns raw, hot tears pooling down her cheeks as she cries even harder than before. The pain is too deep, twisting inside her as if it has a life of its own, scarring her already jagged edges, flames licking her wounds.

Minutes later, however, the door reopens and Haroun returns with a cup of steaming tea in his hands. Chamomile.

He sets it in front of her. "This might help." His voice is small, unsure. As if he knows these are dangerous waters he is attempting to dive into.

He leaves the door wide open.

Zoya manages a warbled "thank you" as she clasps the cup, reveling in its warmth.

Warm like everything about him.

Something about him standing there brings fresh tears to her eyes. He is her safe haven, her sanctuary.

So what does one do when their sanctuary leaves?

"I'm sorry about what happened," he says quietly.

She scoffs. "Why are you saying sorry? This was just one of many of Zaki Ahmed's plans to uproot me. The only difference this time was — " Her breath hitches. It worked.

He settles down in the seat next to her. At a distance. "What will you do now?"

The question that means nothing yet everything at the same time.

"I don't know," she whispers honestly. Somehow, he makes her tongue unroll with the truth. Every single time.

He's quiet. Not uncharacteristic of him but with the tension thickening in the room, his silence makes everything all the more unbearable.

Zoya's shoulders shake as she begins to cry again, a fresh wave of tears streaming down her face.

"Ms. Zoya . . . " His voice sounds helpless. She remembers his words when she first hired him, that he didn't think it was right for him to be in her company if it wasn't about work. The discomfort is clear from the tension in his body; he seems conflicted as to whether he should stay or leave.

Finally, he says, "Trust Allah. He's going to grant you your justice."

Zoya shakes her head. "He didn't grant me justice back then and He won't grant me justice now."

"God's delay does not mean God's denial." Gentleness exudes from his tone.

These words cause her brain's gears to stutter. Then what does His delay mean? She wants to ask this but fears she is incapable of hearing his response. It will knock down her guarded steel walls.

Instead, her spool begins to unwind. Her mouth opens of its own accord and everything in her that has been held back for too long comes rushing out.

"I built myself a certain, carefully crafted image by becoming the CEO of one of the fastest growing companies in the world. The fashion industry is well immersed with my name and I have a certain respect in others eyes, even if everyone may not like me."

Haroun hands her a box of tissues as she cries messily, constantly averting her eyes away from him. "I wish people could see my femininity as something other than a source of pleasure," she adds tangentially. "I wish they would stop looking at me as a woman and start looking at me as a human."

Haroun's back tenses, his fists clench. Zoya realizes her words have probably confirmed the speculations on the news.

"You think I was always this way?" She laughs almost hysterically, then begins to cry again. "I groveled in dirt to become the CEO of this company so that I wouldn't have people leering at me." She sobs. "Being a random employee or intern wouldn't grant me the justice I needed. Being the CEO would give me the right to shoot these people down, to put them in their places. So that when someone even looked at me in the wrong way, I would have the right to do what I chose with them."

Zoya runs her hand under her nose, disgusted by herself. "Zoya Zameer this, Zoya Zameer that. Why can't people just mind their own bloody business? What do they receive from digging people's graves?" She quiets suddenly, lips trembling. Her thoughts scatter around in her mind, each one wishing to be voiced. "Everybody has made so many guesses as to who Zoya Zameer is that even I don't know who she is anymore." She laughs scornfully. "I'm a shell encased in a shell encased in a shell. Hollow like a coconut. Latching onto any form of display." Her chin wobbles. "Bruised and beaten inside. Confident and gorgeous as ever outside."

Something in her shifts at having said these words out loud. Something vulnerable. The logical part of her brain warns her to stop talking, to stop displaying her weaknesses so openly. But her logic has turned to hysteria, and the tears streaming down her face along with the ache in her heart prod her to continue speaking.

Because someone is finally listening.

"I am identity-less," Zoya murmurs quietly, clutching the cup tighter as she thinks of him. "Every time he gave me another scar, he took away a part of me. Killed a part of me. I became sucked into his vortex of lies and claims and senseless regurgitations he wrongfully took from the Qur'an. He wielded religion as a sword, and like a puppet I bent to his will and he sabotaged every single piece of my scarred soul until there was none left. So who is Zoya Zameer?" She laughs. "Even I don't know."

At this Haroun visibly tenses. His eyebrows furrow, his knuckles tighten. But for the first time, Zoya pays him no heed.

Her spool is still unfurling.

"You know every time I pray, I remember his voice telling me I'm praying for God." She whispers as a violent shiver surpasses her. "I feel like a doll, a puppet. He puppeteers me with his words, his taunts, his sneers. Even when he is nowhere near me, he has complete control over me. I am who I am because he made me this way." She blows her nose. And then there are the unsaid words: And I employ his same manipulative tactics because I never want to be placed in that position again.

For the first time, Haroun seems to be speechless with shock. He leans forward to balance his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers as he listens quietly.

Finally, finally, he clears his throat and opens his mouth. "I . . . Ms. Zoya, I am so, so sorry. For everything." His voice is a quiet whisper, a tentative and scared lull. Like a mouse when it teeters precariously around the cheese trap, confused as to how to approach it without causing any damage.