Journey to Hidaya | ✔️

| 02 |

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"And speak to people good (words)." (Qur'an 2:83)
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Zoya lets out a peal of hysterical laughter. "You sent the media office the wrong prints?"

A stammering program lead tries to explain; Zoya merely stares at her with folded arms. "Ma'am, I was under the impression that those were the designs for New York Fashion Week." The employee's team—along with Bill and the new intern Haroun—are standing silently to the side.

Zoya takes a deep breath. "Do you realize what a colossal mistake it is to send the wrong designs to a rival fashion company? And that too to our old business partner, Pak Enterprises?"

The employee looks up meekly. "B-But Ms. Zoya," she dares. "Why does it make a difference? The prints were rejected anyway, it's not like they're actually going to be designed and . . ." She falters when Zoya's eyes flash.

Zoya places her palms on her desk and leans forward. "It matters, Preeti, because now the rival company has the inside scoop on what we are gearing our latest designs towards. Now they have our ideas. Whether they like them or not is irrelevant to the fact that they are definitely going to get something out of our designs and claim all credit."

Preeti nudges her glasses up her nose, comprehension and fear simultaneously dawning on her face.

"You're fired."

The employee's head snaps up and her eyes widen. "W-What?"

"You're fired," Zoya says simply. "I want you out and I don't want to see you again. You'll get the check for the next two months as promised in the contract, and then you're on your own."

Preeti seems to be on the verge of tears. Bill opens his mouth, "Ms. Zoya, if I may—"

"No, you may not." Zoya gathers her curls into a bun at the nape of her neck. "You may escort Preeti out. Thank you for your time, Preeti," she says dismissively, already starting to fan herself with her sequined dupatta as if this is all merely a bore to her.

Without another word, Bill leads a sobbing Preeti out. He's careful not to comfort her physically, adhering to Zoya's strict rules on professionalism in her work space.

Preeti's team—still in shock—starts to head out. Haroun—who has been watching the scene with apt horror and surprise—starts to follow when Zoya calls him.

"You," she points at him. The bangles on her wrist clink against each other. "Come to my office. I want to talk about work with you."

Once Haroun has followed Zoya to her office, she gestures to the chair in front of her desk. He wordlessly sits down. Zoya eyes him with the same open curiosity she had when he arrived two days ago. Her expression is so piqued, it seems as if the events of the past five minutes have been entirely forgotten.

"Salaam," she says with a sheepish smile, opting for a religious greeting given his Muslim name. His responding smile is polite but strained.

"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam," he responds.

For formality's sake, Zoya inquires, "What do they call you?"

"Haroun."

Zoya mulls over the name. Haroun. "Haroun," she tests it out on her tongue, liking the way it sounds.

He flinches a little.

Zoya lets out a giggle and sits down in her desk chair. "What would you like, Haroun? Coffee? Tea?"

He shakes his head. "I'm okay." Pause. "Thank you."

Zoya tilts her head, scrutinizing him. His gaze is shifted elsewhere, but that doesn't stop Zoya from noticing how captivating his eyes are. She reaches back and tugs the band out of her hair, letting her curls cascade down her shoulders, a scene that would turn most people's faces into heart-eye emojis.