𝕸ornings like today made me wish I had access to a time machine so I could go back and slap the hell out of myself for making whatever decisions led up to this very moment.

It was only six o'clock, but the skies were releasing a relentless rain over the city, and I was forcing myself to "enjoy" the only time of the day that I ever got with for myself. Fariha's engagement party had ended in a disaster. The first rumors about our financial crisis had already made the rounds, tarnishing our company. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to escape the onslaught of my wayward thoughts and those memories. What I escaped to was worse. How much longer until we'd be shunned by our social circle? I clung to these thoughts, the kind of quick judgments and forced solitude because they wouldn't betray me like my parents, friends and the people around me. Clinging to them was easier than facing the alternative.

I lay sprawled across the leather armchair, my forehead wrapped in a cotton headband, watching the alarm clock like a hawk. Waiting for the second hand to land on six so I could toss back my set of anxiety medication and deal with my "job" for another day.

The shrill noise of my phone going off halted the sense that I was moving—floating like I was on a raft on calm seas.

"Good morning, Jibran," I answered, fake cheer in my voice. "How may I help you?"

"I'm calling to make sure that you'll be arriving to work on time this morning since you were six minutes late last week," I have to do this for four more months. I can do this for four more months. Think about Nazia. Think about my mother. My father.

"Are you there, Daania?" he asked. "Am I talking to myself?"

"No, Jibran. I heard you loud and clear."

"Good. Now, besides the fact that you'll need to come in on time, Mr. Mughal has asked to see the progress you and the team have made."

"Oh did he not see the weekly ones I've been sending for the past eight weeks?"

"No."

"You're kidding right?"

"No."

"The man doesn't look at the progress reports, doesn't reply to my emails, doesn't bother to have a meeting with me and now he wants to see us?"

"See you," Jibran corrected, his voice full of compassion. "And it's in two hours. And before you think about it, no. Everyone knows you around the office so barging in unannounced or hiding in a secluded closet somewhere is not going to work."

Rage and relief washed over me. Relief that I was finally going to see the man who'd been haunting me for the past two months and rage because he could not be bothered to be concerned about the work I was doing.

"I wasn't thinking about that."

"Yeah, and it doesn't rain in this city."

"What should I..." the line went dead. "Damn it!"

An hour later, I rushed down the pavement from the parking lot toward the main building, the clouds hanging like dirty cotton balls, heavy with more rain.

My body felt like it had been fighting for its life for the past hour and a half and while it still hummed with adrenaline, I knew that as soon as that fled my system, I would collapse. I ran in, tripping over the old doorframe right into Tara, the tech genius and a genuine sweetheart. She was the one who had helped me with the more complicated codes, guiding me, despite her reservations with my appointment. I started to ask her about her agenda for the day, but she intercepted me, dragging me into her office and slamming the door shut, her eyes almost bulging out of her skull. Everything in her office was white. Neat. Crisp. Clean. Clinical.

"Do your eyes normally do that?" I asked, terrified of the way she looked right now. "You may want to get that checked out."

"No, and I would like you to know that I am rooting for you," she looked dead ass serious. "You've lasted two months, which is pretty impressive, but this streak won't last. It won't last at all."

"What?"

"Your meeting with Mr. Mughal."

"He's called me in for a meeting Tara, not to have me executed," her eyes bulged out even further.

"You've seen him twice. That's two more times than the rest of us. And you haven't said a word. Is he really terrifying?"

"Oh for goodness sake," with seconds to spare, I detached myself from her grasp and made it to my cubicle. Opening up the work files and creating extra copies of the tracking code I'd created and the still-in-progress program, I printed and gathered all of the material and ran to the elevators, jabbing on the button that would take me to the top floor.

I didn't know why I was nervous. I'd walked, no marched, into this same office, twice, but this time was different. This was for the first reckoning. The first judgment. My mind did a quick scan, thinking about anything I may have missed, smoothing down my shirt, suddenly conscious of everything about me, especially the obnoxious thudding of my heart.

"Just in time," Jibran hissed, running ahead to open the door for me. We hazarded a glance at each other, taking a synchronized deep calming breath before he pushed the door open.

I walked into the office, and paused, rendered speechless. It wasn't him. It couldn't be. His face freshly shaved, this man was a stranger. My mouth almost dropped to the floor. I couldn't tell if it was just my world or the entire one that seemed to slow to a stop as he stood in the doorway, clearly debating if this meeting was worth his time or effort.

Every step was agony, as I moved closer. He looked different. Cleaner and more composed. It started with his wavy hair, a jawline so hard it looked like it was chiseled from stone, something his beard had been hiding, and grey eyes so deep that the storms themselves must have gathered in those depths just so there would be something that would reach the heights of his soul.

For a split second, they met my own as he glanced around the room and I felt myself drowning in their stormy depths as fire licked through my body making my choice of hot coffee entirely uncomfortable. The magnetic intensity of hatred burst through my veins for the man with the sea of sadness in his eyes. I wanted that sea. I wanted his beautiful melancholy. I wanted to drown in its comforting depths. Instead, all I had was an anger that I shoved deep down inside me as a boat stuck in a bottle. The last thing I was looking for was feeling like that man made me feel. Hot. Bothered. Angry. I didn't need another person to cling to who would disappoint me.

I shook with the fear that he saw it all. All my pain. All my insecurities. All my failings. As though all the walls I'd built were as clear as glass.

Then he blinked and the eyes that scanned my soul were gone, shuttered, and put away. Rightfully so. I wasn't interesting. I was so not interesting that even my own family couldn't spare one minute to concern themselves with my life or my thoughts.

"You're late."

"And a fine good morning to you, too, Mr. Mughal," I said sweetly, venom dripping from those words. "I see you're in your usual sunshine-and-rainbows mood. Did you misplace your human pills again?"

There it was again—the subtle tick of his jaw—poised for attack.

"Your report?" he said curtly, each word stealing a little more of my courage.

"Haven't you read any of the ones I've emailed you?"

"No."

"Asshole."

"What did you say?" his full lips thinned as his gaze trailed precariously over me, like a sword tracing over my skin. The sensation was almost as unnerving as the sharp threat of being sliced by his thoughts.

"I said let's start."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips and I found myself more inclined to continue the conversation.

As taught by my father, I didn't get caught up in the details, including the coding details, telling him the updates from the tracker I'd set up. "I expect to hear back in a week. It's getting closer and closer to identifying the potential IP. Once I have a general address, I'll send it to the IT department," with the kind of determination that can only be borne from the burning need to prove my worth to someone, I babbled. "As soon as that's done we'll know who stole the program-"

"Stop."

I nearly dropped my laptop on the ground at the rough command, a new rush of heat flooding through me. My heart thudded out of my chest as he began ruffling through the papers, looking at what I'd done.

"You've made considerable progress. Is there anything else that I should be aware of?"

"I believe I've covered everything," and more.

"Good. I have another project for you."

"I'm sorry what?"

"Now that you're aware of and acquainted with the 'White Rose", I want you to be added to my environmental team."

I stared at him, wondering how and where these words were coming from.

"But... why?" I bit out hoarsely.

"Isn't that your area of expertise?" too distracted by the buzzing in my head, it took a moment to realize he was being elusive again.

"It is. It's just ..." I cleared my throat. "Why would you offer that to me?"

There was silence for a moment, then he answered. "You're a capable girl. I've seen your work, your presentation, I know when someone is excelling at something. That's my job, I'm the CEO for a reason," he answered, gruff and growly as a bear. "You're allowed to not accept it."

I glanced up at him and was surprised again. I could've sworn he was looking at me with concern in his eyes. Concern and something else a little hotter. Strange how a casual remark was the first thing in months to spark a fire to define me once again.

My mouth parted at the unexpected gesture from the man who held my life in his hands, who I was dependant on, who I owed—several times, I was pretty sure. Like evil flowers, like love and loathing, the two actions didn't seem to mesh and yet still made sense.

"But the contract?"

"It stays as it is," his lips tightened. "I know how to nurture and identify talent Ms.Mansoor. I'm not your father," I froze, gaping, as he spun and left the room.

I'm not your father.

Shame washed over me. And not just because the first part of what he said was a lie, he didn't offer me this opportunity because of my father; we both knew it. Soul-crushing shame came from the other thing that we both knew, my father wouldn't have seen this side of me. He never wanted to. And to insinuate that he did was like a stab in the heart.

Hot angry tears marched down my face and I ran out of the office, following the sound of his footsteps.

I jammed my foot into the elevator door and he didn't even flinch, the paper he was holding in his hands tipping down slightly.

"How. Dare. You," my words were laced with loathing as it slammed shut behind me, not caring if there was anyone else on the floor to hear; I had a feeling there wasn't. "What is the matter with you? I was about to thank you. Do you know what that means? Do you understand the English or should I have said Urdu for you to get it through your thick skull?"

He let the papers fall to the floor. I think it was the first time I'd ever seen him do something so spontaneous, so completely out of control and that's how I knew I was in trouble. He stood slowly, the lion locking in on his prey, and advanced. The air, the scent, everything about the moment oozed the calm before the kill.

The world shifted violently underneath me, the back wall of the elevator against my back was the only stable thing that I could cling to, and even that was beginning to slip from my consciousness. His gaze could have ended a war, or started one, depending on how you looked at it.

Cold and sharp, it would have cut a stronger person to nothing. He may know about my dad, but he didn't know that I wasn't afraid of being cut; he didn't know that when it came to it, I would cut myself in order to become stronger.

No, that stare was meant to make men fall underneath it. Too bad I wasn't afraid of the fall. He crowded me against the back wall, like the proximity of his hard body could force me out of this box, away from him.

"I said what was necessary," he growled,

Raw, bitter agony flicked across his face like the sun peeking from behind clouds, bright and blinding for a split second before the clouds of frustration crossed over his features again.

"I don't need your thanks. Don't want it," his head dipped even closer to mine and my breath crawled inside my lungs and clung to the walls, begging not to be let go. "Never make the mistake of thinking I'm the good guy here"

"You had no right," I demanded, my lip quivering as the last of my tears tumbled down my cheek. "You had absolutely no right to say that."

His smirk was hard and fast. Careless. Like a hit and run, it left me shaking. I dragged in a frustrated breath, noticing how the rich spice of his scent rolled off in potent waves followed by empty lulls; instead of a steady abuse to my senses. His gaze made my skin crawl with need. Like a snake, it slithered nefariously over every limb before it began to squeeze. Tighter and tighter. Hotter and hotter.

"I have every right," he ground out, staring intently at my lips that interrogated him. "You deserve to know what you're worth. And if you're father can't recognize that that's his mistake."

I hated him. I hated him for making me hate myself because he was right. He planted his palms on either side of my face, his eyes piercing into mine, daring me to disobey.

"You're right," I said with a low voice. "You're not my dad," I gave him a beat to think that I was bowing out in defeat. "But you are becoming yours."

My chin ticked up a notch. Defiant. Always defiant. I hadn't wasted my time in the company. I'd kept my ear to the ground. I knew about the rumors. The silent whispers.

If I was going to fall, it would be with my head held high. I looked at him determined to not let him see the fear that bubbled, that insisted I apologize. That's what we did, he and I, we hated with a force that was never enough until it was self-inflicted. I wanted to know him— his secrets, his pain. I wasn't a whole person. I wasn't in any place to give any kind of help. He was struggling with his demons, some of them visible others under his skin and I was struggling with mine, both mental and corporeal. But sometimes, it didn't take a whole person to fix someone's broken; sometimes, it only took bits of your pieces to fill in their gaps.

An attack like that couldn't hold for very long, so as soon as the elevator dinged, on whichever floor, I stormed from the cart before I broke. Only once I was outside, did the sea pull me under and let me drown in mouthfuls of mortification. And each step I took, trying to figure out my gathering, had me wondering if I'd started a fight I couldn't finish.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but Taimoor Ali Haider Mughal and his words would break me.

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What you wanted. There's nothing else to say. I want to read what you guys think about this chapter. What do you think about their dynamic?

Comments? Thoughts? Feedback? Until next time ✨

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