"Are you nervous?" Azaan murmured beside me in the car.

"Is gasoline fucking flammable?" I griped back. He chuckled darkly at that, wisely silencing himself.

He didn't tell me to not be nervous. And I appreciated it. Nothing annoys me more than when people attempt to fill awkward conversations with empty words about impossible things.

"Just stop being nervous!"

"Just stop feeling angry about your Dad's indifference."

"Just ignore the hate graffiti against you and your family, that is adorning the walls of Karachi!"

"Stop being so depressed all the time! Live a little!"

"Forget the past. You need to move on!"

News Flash: I CAN'T!

There's no "off" switch for emotions. Dammit. I feel what I feel.

"Don't bite me for saying this...but...I uh...I think you look beautiful tonight." He coughed self-consciously, eyeing the two armed guards watching us expressionlessly from the opposite seats. I melted inwardly at his discomfort. That's how I know this is real. Because no matter how much of a lady's man he pretends to be, he is nervous when it's for real.

"You haven't even seen my dress." I fingered the cool silk red trench coat shrugged over my strategically chosen dress. "I'm sure you'll change your mind when you see all of me."

I'm done hiding myself.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I won't." He winked at me, flashing a brief grin.

I couldn't help feeling slightly glowy inside.

"You look...professional." I eyed the photographer gear slung around his neck. A counterfeit Press Pass dangled from his jeans pocket. His plain black tee, and red Ferrari baseball cap fit his frame to perfection. He was even chewing a mint gum, to "Get in character" as he had informed me.

"Duh." He snapped the gum lazily.

Then the car slowed down for the security scan at the Hotel's entry gate. Heart hammering, I involuntarily reached for Azaan's hand. He didn't say a word as his large fingers closed over mine. I think I heard him say my name, but the pulse was too loud in my head to be sure.

Showtime.

.............

The plan was supposed to be pretty straightforward. Supposed to be....

Sneak our models and clothes a day before the event. Gatecrash the cat-walk. Make a scene. Walk out.

Simple.

The key was to grab our confiscated security passes from the "Friend" we had inside the Bridal Couture Week management team. Since our allotted prep rooms were already in use by someone else, we had to splurge on a couple of huge honeymoon suites in the swanky hotel where BCW was being held. Razi was in charge of making sure that our models didn't blurt to their friends about our plan. He was eerily good at scaring the "Barbies".

Shay was pretending to be an upcoming designer debuting at the BCW. She was our cover. Also, she was having way too much fun faking a British Accent, and loudly complaining about the lack of quinoa at the salad bar.

Her husband insisted on joining our "Flubbing suicide mission". Faris was acting as her bodyguard, and It was hilarious, seeing him glower at Razi whenever the "Real" designer lost his temper around his wife.

Azaan had mysteriously (or not so mysteriously) gotten press passes for me and him. According to my pass, I'm "Nightlife" a fashion blogger, and Azaan is "Batman", My photographer.

But then things got complicated.

(Two days before the BCW)

"I can do makeovers." Anika timidly informed me during our planning. "Please let me do the makeovers. I have a degree in makeup-art. Before here, I interned with a costume designer in New York. I was so good at making zombies! not that we're doing zombie models of course. Haha! It would be cool though, if we could have like a "Bride of the Undead" kind of theme in Bridal Couture Week, with banshees, vampires, zombies, and demons walking the ramp with totally rad clothes!"

I bit back a smile. Anika was rapidly losing her awkwardness around me, and I loved sharing ideas freely with her. Even though most of her ideas involved dead people, and other-worldly beings...

"Why don't I just kill you, and then your immortal soul can walk the ramp instead of Nadia, and Natasha." Razi swished into the room with his snooty grimace in place. He flicked a withering glance at a crestfallen Anika."Make yourself scarce, Sarah. I need to talk to the other Hayat. And lose the damn flip flops. This isn't a fucking pool house."

"I injured my toe yesterday, Razi. I don't usually wear flip flops to work!" Anika timidly answered back, making me proud at her gall. "And I'm Anika. Not Sarah."

Razi stared at her like she was something disgusting he'd accidentally stepped on a sidewalk.

"Just go!" I mouthed to her.

She scurried out of Mama's office.

"What's up, favorite person?" I asked Razi.

"My life's work is over for Hayat's, and you're here planning to resurrect it, so you can kill it all over again. Remind me to laugh though. Because our careers in fashion are just hilarious to you." He seethed.

"What happened now?" I sighed. Razi's world begins and ends inside the fashion world. I have learned to tolerate his theatrics. Sometimes.

"It's her. The bitch." He exploded.

"You'll have to be more specific." I shuffled through the papers I had to sign in Mama's stead.

"Saleema Shah. The Queen Bitch at BCW, who got us banned from the event this season." He slapped a Dawn Weekly in front of me, waving his hands at it. "This is her first official piss on us. I. Hate. Being. Pissed. On. Hayat."

I frowned trying to remember Saleema Shah, but the name was frustratingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

"I don't know what you have against the Shah family, but I suggest you fix it ASAP, before she ruins our chances in the Fall Fashion Week too. She has a board-membership in all the big events this year." Razi flourished one manicured nail at my face.

A wave of anger shot through my spine at the mere mention of that family.

"I don't know any Saleema Shah." I frowned. But I'll be damned if I try to "Fix" my relationship with the Shah family.

"It's because you know her as Saleema Saleem. Founder and CEO of Karachi Couture. She was very quick to change her name after she married that oaf, Musa Shah last year. Can't blame her though. Saleema Saleem. HA! Her parents must have hated her. Not that I blame them..."

I couldn't stop the shock and disgust from curling my lips. Imagining anyone marrying that deviant is just unpleasant on my nerves.

"Isn't she older than him?" I asked conversationally.

"By twenty years at least." Razi shrugged, "Quite an attractive woman though. She has the ass of a nineteen year-old. Also has some pretty awesome reviews in bed, I hear. I'd be down for it, if I swung that way, you know..."

I almost gagged, wrenching myself off the table and stuffing confidential documents in the paper shredder perched on Mama's tastefully decorated work-station. The healing burn on my shoulder throbbed with every shove, a reminder of Musa's evil.

"I don't feel that well, Razi. Could you make it snappy please?"

"Yeah, I could make it snappy." He nagged, snapping his fingers with every word. "Fix. This. Shit."

Even before the BCW ban, Saleema Saleem was never a big fan of Mama's work. I remember she wrote an article for Herald in the 90's about Plagiarism in fashion, and hinted that one of Mama's collection was a rip-off. Mama had slammed back, by inviting a popular documentary-journalist to cover Hayats Behind the Scene. She deliberately released original drawings from her archives to shut down the debate entirely.

"The only thing I've ever stolen, is the spotlight." Mama had smirked into the camera. And then for years afterwards, Saleema failed to find editors willing to print her articles, or even allowing her to attend major fashion events that Mama was a part of.

I'm assuming that she's having her day now.

"What did she say in the article?"

"She says that we have fired more women in the past three years, than we've hired. She also claims that we pay our female employees, 35% less than our male ones. Aaand...she says that she doesn't want her event to associate with an anti-feminist brand that also has criminal ties." He thumped his hands on the open article. "Her sabotage agenda is working, you know? It's not just about BCW. Her allegations have made H&M pull away from a joint venture we were planning for our Dubai Stores. We've also seen a 5% revenue drop in two days alone. What do you think it will be tomorrow? when they hear that we actually went ahead, and did something even more illegal: like gatecrash a private event?!"

"Have we done it though?" I asked flabbergasted, "Have we had a payroll gap for women?"

"Of course not! We have a gender diversity level of 65%. 7 out of 10 of our top executives are women. And believe me when I say that they're the ones deciding what the lower-tier employees get paid. If the wages are low for a tier, then it is low for both men and women. We have never discriminated based on gender, or sexual orientation! We were the first ones in Pakistan to feature transgender models in a major fashion campaign for fuck's sake! and last year, we held the record for breaking the most glass ceilings in the retail industry! HOW MUCH MORE FUCKING FEMINISM DOES SHE WANT?" Razi kicked the mahogany chair in front of him.

"Then how is she claiming that we are anti-feminist?" I snapped.

"The Bitch is quoting audit figures given to her by an accounting firm we never employed. This article has enough Bullshit statistics to fertilize crops all over Punjab..." Razi seethed. "And your brother! Does he realize that Musa Shah is preparing to have him arrested within this week? Will he still stay holed up in Pakistan to further sodomize this business?"

Abandoned papers flew away from my hands, unheeded. Blood drained from my face, as I contemplated this. I knew that Zaif's arrest was inevitable, but I'd hoped that Musa would focus his attention on just ruining our businesses, and not my brother's and Chandi's life.

"Last chance, Hayat. Call it off. This entire crazy mission. It'll just hurt us in the long run, if things go south."

My mother's tired face swam in front of my eyes. I saw decades of hard-work, and best-work practices going down the drain. I saw hundreds of female workers being laid off, when we eventually start losing our relevance to the industry. I saw millions of young girls out there, who'd never attempt to reach for impossible dreams, because they've seen tyrants like Musa Shah, and his wife shatter those dreams, one too many times. I imagined Chandi's vacant face, when she'd be snatched from the safety of my home, because I gave up on her when the going got tough. And then, I imagined the bruised faces of thousands of abused women, who'll never find the strength to fight back, because I wasn't there to show them through example, how it could have been done.

They say that reputations are built in decades, and broken in seconds.

If not build entirely, then I will attempt to renovate my mother's reputation.

And I will do it, in the craziest way possible.

I stumbled into the hallway, yelling for Anika. Razi followed me, harping about pulling the plug on this mission.

"What? What happened?" Anika popped her head out of a studio where she was practicing makeovers on a trio of volunteers. Her forearm was covered with lipstick smears from when she had tested the hues.

"I have changed my mind." I informed both Razi and Anika. "We're not gatecrashing the event..."

"Oh, thank fuck." Razi sagged against decorative mannequin in the Hallway, hugging the plastic dummy to his muscled chest.

"...we're not gatecrashing the event in our regular theme." I informed him. "We're going to do it a little differently."

Razi snapped the mannequin's neck in an irritated twist of anger, uttering a very foul word.

"WE'RE DOING ZOMBIE BRIDES, AREN'T WE??" Anika yelled excitedly. "OHMIGOD I GET TO MAKE DEAD PEOPLE!!"

"Not exactly." I thoughtfully stroked the half-healed burn on my arm. "Can you do bruises though?..."

....................

"I love this plan!" Rosemeen, one of the newer (and infinitely more excited) models squealed when I cautiously stepped into the Hotel Suite. Our team of about twenty-five supermodels, and their aesthetic assistants cheered when they saw me.

Rosemeen crouched down to hug me from her towering height of over six feet, and for a second, I had to remind myself not to gasp when I saw her face from up close.

Anika should be working in Hollywood...

"I've been practicing my pain-face!" The 17-year-old clapped her hands excitedly, like a little child.

"Your...pain face?" I asked, throwing an apprehensive glance at Razi, who was shooting death glares towards the poor girl, and me.

"Yah. My-I just got whooped- face." She giggled, making me cringe at the sound. "See?"

She pulled her disfigured face into a horribly exaggerated grimace, that would have won her a Golden Raspberry nomination for "Worst Pain-Face in the History of Pain-Faces".

"Rosey. Honey. This isn't a cosplay party," I shook my head at her immaturity, "You're honoring the cause of abuse victims. You need to be respectful of that."

She smiled vacantly at me. Her huge brown eyes-a portal to the vast emptiness of her brain. I had a vision of a buffering beach ball spinning inside her skull.

"I don't understand." She tilted her head to the side, endearingly. "Am I not convincing enough?"

"It doesn't matter, you witless twat!" Razi slithered up to us, "I told you to lose that stupid face. You look like you're giving birth to a spiked bowling ball!"

Rose's puffed up lips started trembling with the onslaught of tears. I braced myself for her theatrical sobs.

"I will put you on a liquid diet for the next five years if you start crying." Razi warned the girl.

It just made her cry harder.

"What Razi is trying to say sweetheart, is that you need to be your best cat-walk material." I consoled her between extremely forced sounding wails. "You just need to smile, or stay neutral. Your body will tell its own story. Okay?"

She hiccuped, "But Anika likes my Pain-Face. I like my Pain-Face!"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Of course you do.

"I can't deal with so much stupid." Razi whispered traumatically, walking out of the room to smoke his handy "herb" pipe. Even though we have a strict anti-drug policy in the office, Razi is an exception to the rule. We actually encourage him to smoke weed, because sometimes he legit needs the hit to calm him down. He becomes unbearably catty while he's sober for a long stretch.

I eyed the crestfallen beauty in front of me. I couldn't risk her pulling these horrifying faces during the show. We'll be laughed offstage, before we even get the chance to be arrested.

"Fine then. I thought you'd be smart enough to avoid wrinkles on your skin by all that grimacing, but I guess I was wrong." I sighed. "It's okay. You can always opt for skin grafts in the future. I'm sure they'll invent smaller needles by that time..."

That changed her mind real quick.

Wrinkles are a super-model's worst nightmare. Right after chipped nail polish, and regular coke.

"Anika? are we good?" I whispered to the harried looking make-up artist. My phone was beeping with messages from Shay, urging me to join her backstage.

She was putting the finishing touches on an incredibly realistic looking acid burn on a model wearing a blood-red Gharara (traditional fancy skirt).

"We're not good, Layla." She chirped as she bent down to inspect her handiwork. Her riot of curls was piled messily on top of her head, revealing a tiny starfish tattoo at the back of her neck. "We're brilliant."

Pride gushed through me at her confidence. Women can do incredible things, if given the right encouragement...

Everywhere I looked around, I saw dedicated professionals, both men and women, who'd risked their reputations to do this for me. They were standing with me and my mother in this crisis, even with the knowledge that we were pitted against one of the most powerful men in this country. Simply because, just like me, they were tired of keeping their silence.

"Everybody listen up." I raised my voice, clapping my hands a few times to get the excited chatter under control. Razi slunk back into the room, situating himself beside me, smelling slightly sweet. I clamped my nose shut, shifting away from him.

"I know that this isn't how we imagined participating in the Bridal Couture Week." I began.

Razi snorted at that. I ignored him.

"Nevertheless, the enthusiasm you've relentlessly shown for this project is incredible. You've sacrificed sleep, personal lives, leisure time, and your ethical values to be a part of this. More meaningful than simply showcasing fancy bridal skirts to a bunch of rich snobs. And I just want to let you know that I appreciate it a lot. What we're doing today is important, and I believe in my heart, that the oppressed will come to appreciate it too, in the future. Because we're about to make history. InshaAllah (Allah willing)." I paused as the team cheered and clapped.

"As a token of my appreciation. Each and every one of you will get to enjoy a week of paid vacation in Dubai--"

"If you don't get arrested first." Razi sniffed through even louder howls of appreciation.

"-if you don't get arrested first." I amended graciously. The team laughed at that.

"Razi, I would like to thank you, especially, for sticking by me, even though you think this is a bad plan." I admittedly quietly to the odd man.

"I don't think this is a bad plan, darling. I think this is a terrible, disastrous, suicidal plan." He corrected me.

"You know what? screw it. I'm done being nice to you." I snapped, "You're a wet blanket, and I hate working with you. You never give me solutions. You just give me more problems. Furthermore, I think your jacket makes you look like an overgrown Oompa loompa. So there!"

Razi's eye-linered eyes bugged out of their sockets. He puffed out his chest in shock, clutching at the lapels of his bright orange over-coat, which he'd paired with a screaming purple vest.

"I'm not offended at all. Because my look was designed last season, actually inspired by Tim Burton films. So your insult is more of a surprisingly accurate sartorial analysis." He cocked his shaved head to a side, regarding me with wonder, "I knew there was some Sanam under all that...blah."

Shay threw open the door at that minute. She was wearing a neon blue floor length dress with elbow length black gloves. The flowy silk cleverly hid her subtle baby bump. A tall, scowling Faris, dressed head to toe in black, followed her behind. His eyes were hidden by the aviator sunglasses perched on his nose. I waved at him, and he saluted me in return.

"The walk started ten minutes ago, and they're asking the models to check in now backstage. Our slot begins in an hour." Shay muttered in my ear. "If we reveal them now, it will cause an uproar. I mean...err...they kinda all look like extras from a Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy documentary."

"I added veils to their pieces. Obviously." Razi drawled slowly, as if he were speaking to morons. "They're supposed to throw off the veils before they step onstage."

"Bless the toad then." Shay rolled her eyes, before dragging Faris and I with her. "Showtime, motherchuckers..."

...........

"Excuse me, Ma'am. You're not allowed backstage." A volunteer comes up to me, eyeing the card hanging around my neck. I ignored him, looking around for one particular face. She spotted me. And I could see the widening of her eyes from over ten feet away. She moved the mouthpiece of her head-set away from her lips as she approached me.

"So you weren't bluffing." She swallowed nervously.

"I never bluff, Auntie." I told Maheen, one of Mama's oldest, closest friends in the industry. She was the Creative Director of this year's show. When I had approached her with my highly illegal, and possibly dangerous request, it had taken her little more than seconds to agree to help us sneak inside the event, and set up our gear.

She gave me an impulsive hug, and I returned it woodenly. Just barely able to feel my limbs. The enormity of what I was about to do, sunk in, when I heard the crowd of over a thousand influential people murmur from behind the glass screen hiding us.

"Good luck Laylee. I'm sure your mother would be proud of you."

"Thanks you."

'This is for you, Mama. I hope you're watching.' I thought to myself when the opening strains of Beyonce's 'Run the world' filled the arena. A smatter of anticipatory applause greeted the twenty-five models, as they filed their way onstage, under the fake logo of Pareeshae's fake company. Once all the models had taken their places on the vast platform, the music changed to something by Aretha Franklin, and I held my breath, as the girls lifted the veils from their faces.

A number of people screamed in the front row. And I heard someone curse loudly. Then the gasped murmurs began. A woman was audibly sobbing in the crowd.

And I knew why.

It's because they had been expecting feminine perfection. The epitome of Pakistani Beauty.

They were expecting flawless complexions, and softly curved bodies.

They were expecting the Wedding glow of brides-to-be. The juxtaposition of red, and gold.

What they got was a horror show.

They got bruised arms. Bleeding noses.

They got acid-burned faces, and half-healed scars.

Suddenly, the priceless wedding dresses on the models' bodies, seemed to mock the very idea of a happy bride. A happy woman.

I took in Rose, carefully strutting to the front row, where she curtsied to the audience (Thankfully without her Pain-Face!). Most of her features were swollen up with half-healed bruises, as if someone had taken a belt to her face, and the other half was perfectly made up with bridal themed make-up, marred only by a random scar. A heavily embellished gold Sari dripped from her amazonian body, nipping in at her tiny waist, and flaring out at her ankles. Mama had added her signature transparent sleeves to the ensemble, and Anika had taken advantage of it, by extending the bruises down Rose's arms. I saw people cry out, and lean away from her as she continued her curtsy.

I shrugged my trench coat off, making my way down the platform. The fake logo displayed on the huge screens behind me, faded to display the original 'H' logo, that was associated with the brand of Hayat. The shocked gasps were now mingled with shouts of disapproval, and even appreciation. Friends and foes.

Cameras tracked my progress to the Microphone situated at the end of the Catwalk, and I made sure to keep my face expressionless, and my walk confident. My hair was swept up into a simple bun, that showed off the column of my neck, and most importantly, the ugly blotches of burnt skin on my right shoulder. I had specifically requested an off-the-shoulder dress for today. It was a cheerful yellow jumpsuit that highlighted my tanned complexion. Paired with the heels, it made me seem taller than I was. I resisted the urge to hide my scars from people who flinched, and gagged when they saw them.

I'm done hiding.

"Who the fuck let her in? WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?" I could hear Saleema Shah scream hysterically from her seat in the VIP section.

"I'll tell you what the fuck is happening." I spoke into the mic onstage, and the hall quieted down. "Abuse is getting harder to ignore. THAT'S WHAT'S FUCKING HAPPENING!" My trembling nerves calmed down at the answering roar of approval from the crowd.

They get it now!

"These brides represent the 80,000 Pakistani women who died last year from domestic abuse. They represent two thirds of the female population who experience abuse on a daily basis." I continued, "They represent the 1,100* honor killing victims who never got justice. They represent the 400 acid burn victims whose faces were stolen from them..."

"...and they represent, our utter lack of concern for such horrors. As a community we're so busy taking care not to offend the important people, that we've let them do whatever they wanted to us. To us, women, girls, children, and even men." I pointed at the model standing next to me, "This isn't random makeup-play. These bruises, burns, and scars were inspired by real file photos of some of the survivors who came to my safe-house for protection. Trust me when I say that no makeup-artist can quite capture the true horror of what an abuse victim looks like..."

I laughed bitterly at the horrified silence that followed my statement, "All of you privileged, well-fed, designer-bag toting so-called 'cultured people'. You want to plaster some bullshit rumor on my mother's brand just to get back at me? You want to pretend you don't know who gave me these scars? You want to side with a man who has done nothing for women empowerment, and instead has tried to sabotage my efforts to help survivors? Fine, you're entitled to do so. But I refuse to let you do it without these images burned into your memory." I waved my hand towards the girls behind me, proudly showing off their hideous scars. And I knew I had won, because the entire arena stayed silent at this jab.

"God doesn't help those, who don't help themselves." I quoted, "So this is me, helping myself. This is me doing something I should done a long, long time ago. This is me declaring war on oppression."

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes.

"Musa Shah. I'm speaking to you. I'm not going to hide, and lick my wounds in private like a disgraced whore that you've made me out to be. I'm not going to let you snatch away my friend, so you can give her back to her abusive husband. The same fourteen-year-old girl that you debased with your touch. The same child who was forced to carry babies that you impregnated in her..."

Outrage boiled throughout the crowd. Some were yelling in support of me, others doubting me.

"LIES. LIES!" Someone from the VIP box screamed at me, and I smiled sweetly at them.

"I have forensic proof of my "Lies", that I will be releasing to the courts tomorrow, so they may be able to make a more prudent decision on the girl's emancipation rights."

"Everything I do, and everything that I will keep on doing will be a flawed, humble attempt to heal the wounds of those who're suffering. To lend them an umbrella in the thunderstorm. To offer them a shoulder to limp away on, after a fight, when nobody else would." I swallowed the tears clogging my throat, "Our society deems men to be the protectors of women. But when these protectors fail in their duties, then it fall to "Whores" like me to protect the weak."

"I don't need validation from you people. I don't need awards, and applause. The only reward I seek is from my Allah. And I know that it will be untainted, pure, and beautiful. But I also don't need your hate, for a crime that I never committed. And might I just add that there's a special place in hell for women who bring down other women?" I paused here to glare at the top executives of the bridal couture event seated in the front row. They had the grace to look away embarrassed.

"I won't let one man's venom get in my way. Because you see, I've got important stuff to do." I stepped back, grasping the hands of the girls standing next to me. "A fortnight ago, I was attacked outside my home. A week after that, my mother's brand was kicked out of this event, for no good reason. Just yesterday, my security team thwarted another attempt on my life. But guess what? I'm still standing here. I'm still alive, because it's not my time to go yet. And I want all those women and girls who're suffering in silence, to know that I'll always be on your team, no matter what. No scare tactics, hate graffiti, kidnapping threats will bring me down. Not until He decides it." I pointed upwards, indicating Allah. "This is what I stand for. What my mother stands for. What the hayat name stands for. What do YOU stand for?"

I don't think I was prepared for the standing ovation I got in response to his speech. In spite of the silent critics in the crowd, the support I got from the public was overwhelming. When they started chanting my name, I had to bow out, and walk offstage, before I started bawling my eyes out. It would have ruined my show of power.

Shay and Faris whisked me away from the backstage, of the event, so as to escort our little illegal party out of the premises.

"No. Get the models out first. I'll go last." I tried to twist out of Shay's bruising grip.

"Razi is dealing with that. We need to get out before the media descends on you." She replied huffing as we sprinted towards one of the fire exits where our cars were parked out.

"Wait! Azaan? Where's Azaan?" I panicked, looking around for his ridiculous Ferrari hat.

"Oh, for Flub's sake!" Faris snapped, "You have bigger problems right now Layla!"

"I'm not leaving without him! Where is he? He was supposed to stay with you two! I haven't seen him since he dropped me outside our suite." I tried to twist my arm away from his steely grip, and nearly dislocated my elbow.

"I'm not leaving my wife to search for the moron." Faris whined. "He is like a two-year-old at a supermarket with his flubbing camera..."

"Well then, you two can leave without me, because I'm not budging." I stomped my heels with resolve. A few cameramen milling about started pointing at our direction. One of the volunteers of the event threw a flying kiss at me, and yet another flipped me off. "I want to see him right now. I want to make sure that he's safe."

"PAREESHAE!?" Faris growled. "I'm gonna curse!"

"No you won't. I'm here." Azaan drawled, as he locked the press-door behind him. pulling his cap low on his eyes. I felt weak-kneed with relief at the sight of him.

"Great. I'll sacrifice a lamb in your honor. Dipshit." Faris rolled his eyes, reluctantly giving Azaan a manly thump on his back. He started steering Shay towards the exit.

Azaan followed me out of the back door, and I suddenly realized that I forgot to pick up my trench coat, from where I'd dramatically shed it backstage. I also realized that the hotel parking lot was freezing, and that I was almost indecently exposed with my bare shoulders.

"You fool." Azaan muttered softly, swiftly shrugging out of his cheap flannel hoodie. After releasing my opinions in front of thousands of people, I was suddenly tongue tied when he came near, and I encountered the subtle hint of his cologne. The shadows of his stupid cap made his jaw seem sharper, the stubble darker. He artlessly draped the hoodie over my shoulders, and I breathed it in: him. "You beautiful, brave little fool."

I reached up to yank the cap off his head. What with my four-inch heels, I was actually able to reach the top of his head.

I want to see you. I want to see what you think of me. The real me.

I perched his cap on my own head, silently waiting for him to say something. This gut feeling was telling me that this moment was important for us, that his reaction will mean everything to me. His eyes were glittering with happiness, pride, and something else...

"I'm so in love with you. It's stupid..." He finally spoke, swallowing painfully. "God, how much I love you, you fool."

You know how they say that a person can only love once? And that's how I came to believe that I won't ever love anyone the way I loved this man standing in front of me, all those years ago. In fact, I believed that I won't even love him that much ever again.

You're not happy once. Or kind once. Why ever can you not love more than once?

"Do you believe me?" His deep voice pierced through my own insecurities. And I saw the truth in his eyes.

How could I not?

He was right when he called us mirrors. We're the same person in love.

"Yes." I finally say. "I believe you."

A/N:

Listen to this soundcloud link. This is my Author's note:

OMG GUYS!!! I HAVE THE MOST AMAZING COVERS AND ART TO SHOW OFF THIS TIME!! (I'm saving some of them for the next chapter though, which will be uploaded sooner than you might think! *Wink*).

Aillurophilee, my girl, made this:

*Heart eyes* I'm squealing y'all.

Minnie_xX- made these awesomesauce ones:

And I'm totes flipping out over this amazing art that NayshaNaman the super talented-drew for me!

It's her interpretation of what Musa looks like, and YEP. TOTALLY LEGIT, GIRL! THAT'S SO POINT!

Anyways.

I love you all. :)

Thanks for your support.

I'm lucky to have y'all around.

Hope you enjoyed this super long chapter. My back's aching jbtw....

Love, and Jello.

-E.