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"Allah, the eternal Refuge." (112:2)
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Zoya Zameer isn't one to display her weaknesses—being the CEO of such a successful company has taught her that valuable lesson—so when Haroun witnesses the end of her panic attack, a fire ignites within her.

For the next few days, she settles all her angry focus on him. Although he's only an intern, she gives him tasks that are quite above the expectations of his job description. And on top of these absurd tasks, she summons him for tea every morning. Her behavior is a combination of merciless and flirtatious. It's precisely the latter reason that causes Haroun to purse his lips when she bats her lashes and asks for more sugar in her tea.

"I added five packets, Ms. Zoya."

"Mmm." Zoya taps her chin, pretending to be immersed in thought. "Add six next time."

Haroun nods after a beat. "Yes, ma'am." A moment of silence later, he turns to leave.

"Oh, by the way," Zoya beckons with her index finger, the laughter already bubbling inside her in anticipation of his reaction. "I want you to see this."

He walks forward tentatively, hands shoved in his pockets. The way he carries himself amuses Zoya, as if he constantly believes he needs to be prepared to defend himself against potential attack.

On Zoya's desk lies a blue file. It consists of designs for the clothes of the next bridal shoot. She flips through the designs and stops at one particularly striking sherwani.

"You're wearing this."

Haroun's black eyes seem to darken further. "What?"

Zoya revels in the pleasure she feels at riling him up. At the tensing of his shoulders and the tightness of his jaw. She's never experienced this kind of thrill before, and it feels heedy and intoxicating.

"Yeah, you're going to be the model for this part of the show," Zoya says.

"But I don't even—I'm just—why do I have to model for it?" She can see the effort it takes him in reigning his anger in, and replacing it with polite indignation instead.

Zoya raises an eyebrow. He's too respectful to be outright rude towards her, but the storm beginning to swirl in his otherwise passive eyes is unmistakable. "Because I asked you to." And I enjoy it far too much when I get under your skin.

"But I'm an intern." Haroun holds his hands out, confused. "Besides . . ." he hesitates. "Is the company allowed to force me to do something that wasn't in the job description?"

She hears the additional, unspoken sentence. "Are you allowed to force me?"

Zoya leans back in her chair. Her gaze flicks to his hands, then to his face. His choice of words intrigues her. Is the company allowed to force me? Which tells Zoya he seriously sees this as a threat, a realization which only further fascinates her.

"Your concern is justifiable," she drawls, examining her nails. "But I'm assuming you're staying in this job for the long run?"

"I—" he seems too flustered, too lost for words, to form a response.

"Besides, did you read the company policies document in its entirety?" she dares to bluff.

Haroun furrows his eyebrows.

Check. He's taking the bait.

"Well, no . . ." he murmurs quietly, but rushes to continue at the triumphant expression on Zoya's face. "But Ms. Zoya, who ever reads the company policies document in its entirety? It's like the terms and conditions on an iPhone."

Zoya gives him a smug smile. "It's your responsibility to read it. Besides, if you ask anyone who's worked here for at least a year, they have all participated in a bridal shoot." She doesn't include the very crucial fact that their "participation" didn't necessarily consist of modeling.

"Not because we don't have models," Zoya continues. "Oh, honey," she giggles, flipping behind her shoulder. "We have plenty of models. But the business was deteriorating. And we needed something"—she pauses, biting her red lips in thought—"phenomenal to get the business booming again. So we used our own employees as models. And people loved it. And you, my friend," Zoya's eyes drop from his face and travel all over him before making eye contact again.

He fidgets under her gaze.

She smiles, flashing her impeccable teeth at him. HR, HR, HR, a small voice in her head tries to warn her. But she barrels forward, "With you on that stage, not only would the crowd go wild, but the business would topple through the roof, my dear."

Haroun flinches. "I don't want to be a model."

Zoya raises her eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Because," his voice roughens. "That's exactly why I don't want to be a model."

Zoya lets out a bubbly laugh. "Because you look good?"

"No. Because I don't want to be the object of unnecessary and uncomfortable attention."

Oh. Zoya sits back once again, rubbing her chin. She mulls over his words. He doesn't want attention. Even looking like that, he doesn't want attention. Interesting.

"Everybody has initial stage fright," Zoya says slowly. "We all get over it, eventually."

Haroun sits in the chair opposite Zoya and places his palms on the table. Zoya notices that his hands are trembling. "This isn't about stage fright, Ms. Zoya. I don't want people looking at me like that." His shaky voice is a stark contrast to his appearance—to the hard set of his jaw and the fierce determination in his eyes.

Which tells Zoya that the prospect of potentially having to do this terrifies him, but he's still firm on his stance.

"Like what?" she challenges, knowing full well that this conversation is digging into his self-control.

"With . . . desire," he releases a breath and leans back, relieved.

Zoya stifles a laugh. "We've all modeled at least once. People forget about you after a while."

Haroun's eyes darken. He rubs a hand through his inky black hair and trains his eyes on the floor. "With all due respect, Ms. Zoya, I think it's . . . insulting for someone like you to model in front of others."

Zoya's blood boils. "Someone like me? Insulting?"

"Someone so . . . noteworthy. Someone so eye-catching." Suddenly, he grimaces and presses his lips together, regret etching into his features. Nonetheless, he continues moments later with a deep breath. "For someone like you—someone so respected and renowned—to be on a stage for others to ogle at." He says this quietly—with a steady expression—as if his comment can go in one ear and out the other.

But Zoya's heart—for the first time in a long time—stutters, then starts again.

Haroun clears his throat quickly and shakes his head. "Oh God. I'm sorry. It was absolutely not my place to say any of that. Really, forgive me, I—" He rubs his eyes with a loud, loaded sigh. "Bad habit I'm trying to break."

Still in shock over his previous words, Zoya eyes him quietly. You have bad habits, too, Mr. Suleiman?

Haroun stands, shaking his head again as if to clear it. "I think this conversation is over, Ms. Zoya?" He says it like a question. As if he's asking for permission. But Zoya can tell by his tense posture that it's just a formality.

He can't wait to flee.

"Yes," she murmurs quietly. "It is."

Haroun turns and exits her office.

Wait. Zoya freezes. Did I just say yes?

She grabs a strand of her hair and twirls it.

He's strange, Zoya thinks. He shows up with a casual demeanor not expecting to get the job. Then, when he gets the job, he throws his heart and soul into it in the span of a week. He's reserved and politely indifferent with his CEO, and politely indifferent—hell, any kind of indifference—is not what Zoya Zameer is used to.

On top of that, he's managed to make her speechless.

She cocks her head to the side, eyes trained on the wall hanging in her office. There's something so . . . intriguing about him.

Zoya flips her hair behind her shoulder. "To work, Ms. Zameer. To work."

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