TIED BY SCENT...TESTED BY LOVE

CHAPTER 1

HALDIIYA's POV

"Subhanallah!"

I shot upright, my heart thundering, my hand already reaching for my phone, 9:00 a.m.

My stomach dropped.

How was that possible? I had woken up for Fajr at exactly 5:30 a.m. and promised myself I would only rest my eyes for a few minutesjust enough to wake again by eight.

I had failed. Spectacularly.

Panic chased sleep from my body as I hurried to the bathroom. At least I had ironed my clothes the night before; Allah had granted me that small mercy. After my shower, I rushed through my skincare routine, fanning my face while each layer dried.

I dressed quickly but carefully.

White office pants.

Yellow floral blouse.

Black scarf.

I adjusted the drape, turned left and right in front of the mirror, then nodded at my reflection. Presentable, I said.

Next came my perfume, a light mist over my clothes, and finally my secret perfume oil. I inhaled, letting the familiar scent settle my racing nerves.

I checked the time again, 9:50 a.m. My interview at Zayn Fragrance Ltd. was for 11.

Ya Allah... please don't let me be late.

I grabbed my bag and rushed out, locking the door behind me. My steps were quick, my breathing quicker. By some miracle, I found a ride almost immediately at the bus stop.

When I mentioned my destination, the driver nodded without hesitation. Of course he knew it. Everyone did. Zayn Fragrance Ltd. wasn't just a company, it was a name people spoke with admiration.

When we arrived, I glanced at the time, 10:40 a.m.

Alhamdulillah.

I paid him, stepped out, and tilted my head back to take in the building. Tall. Polished. Intimidating. I whispered a short prayer for courage before walking inside.

Cool air wrapped around me the moment I entered. The receptionist looked up from her desk.

"I'm here for the interview," I said, offering a polite smile.

She directed me to a waiting area where other candidates sat, their faces arranged in different shades of anxiety. I greeted them. A few returned it warmly; others gave brief nods. Understandable. We were competitors after all.

At exactly 11 a.m., a woman approached us. She appeared to be in her late twenties, elegant and composed, the kind of person who didn't need to raise her voice to command attention.

After greetings, she smiled.

"My name is Mutmainah. It's nice to see you all here today at Zayn Fragrance Ltd. The interview will begin now. I will call your names, and when I do, you may enter this office."

She gestured toward a door behind her. We thanked her. She told us we were welcome.

I soon realized the order wasn't based on arrival but on our surnames. The discovery pulled a quiet smile from me.

Secondary school roll call all over again.

Names rose and fell. One person entered, another came out.

Then, "Muhammed Haldiiya."

Bismillah.

I stood, smoothed my blouse, and walked in.

The interview moved faster than I expected questions, answers, small smiles, scribbling pens. When it ended, I was told I would be contacted via email.

Formal. Neutral. Impossible to read.

Outside, the tension I had been holding finally loosened.

By the time I reached home, exhaustion had claimed every bone in my body.

I dropped my bag and went straight to shower, letting warm water rinse away the day. Afterward, I changed into my satin nightgown and my soft pink slippers, then made my way to the kitchen. I decided to do something simple Fried yam with eggs and a little yaji on the side, then I Orange juice poured into my favorite glass.

Simple. Perfect.

I carried my meal to the parlor, set it on the center table, and turned on the TV. Zee World appeared just in time for Jodha Akbar.

A happy sound escaped me before I could stop it. I hugged a pillow, grinning like a child handed her favorite treat. Lately I had been missing episodes, and this felt like compensation.

I became so absorbed in the story that time dissolved. By 8:35 p.m., my food was gone, yet I remained there, moving from one program to the next.

My phone vibrated.

I didn't have to look.

Salma.

I picked up, already laughing.

"HALDIIYAH!" she yelled. "You fake friend! You didn't call me after your interview!"

On any other day, I would have. But today had wrung me dry, and hunger had taken priority. I let her rant, murmuring the occasional apology.

Then she stopped abruptly.

"Okay," she said. "I'm listening. Tell me everything."

"Alhamdulillah, it went well," I replied, and I told her all of it—the questions, my answers, the expressions I could remember.

We ended with prayers, both hoping the outcome would favor me.

But Salma could never resist drama.

"What if you end up marrying the owner of Zayn Fragrance?"

"Subhanallah! Salma, haba! Why must you turn every conversation into love-life manifestations? Nothing like that will happen, bi'znillah."

We laughed until our sides hurt, then said goodbye.

When the call ended, silence returned to the room.

And unfortunately, so did her words.

What if?

I frowned at myself.

Impossible. Nobody even knew who the man was or what he looked like. No pictures, no interviews—nothing. He was almost a myth.

I pushed the thought away before it could take root.

Ridiculous.