Mrs. Hafeez crouched low in the garden, carefully trimming the rose bushes in front of her villa. The warm December sunlight bathed the yard, a rare respite from the scorching heat Dubai was known for most of the year. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, yet her mind was elsewhere.

A sigh escaped her lips as she straightened her back and dusted off her hands. “It’s been so long since Aariz came back,” she muttered, her voice tinged with a mixture of longing and complaint. “All these big names our kids have made for themselves—one a doctor, the other a big-shot businesswoman—yet here we are, just two old people with money and an empty house. What’s the use?”

On the patio, Mr. Hafeez leaned against the railing, his phone in hand, scrolling through Facebook with the volume turned up loud enough to be heard across the garden. He paused the video he was watching and looked up at his wife.

“Wasn’t that all you ever wanted?” he asked, his tone calm but pointed. “Money. Independence. You wanted Nuha off your shoulders, living in her own house, not relying on us. You got that, didn’t you?” He paused, sighing deeply. “But you didn’t expect her to make it with her own hands, did you?”

Mrs. Hafeez stiffened, her hands gripping the hedge shears. “And what about the time her business was failing in the beginning?” she shot back defensively. “When she came to you, asking for a little money—just the plot in Pakistan—and you refused? You told her not to take a loan, yet when she did, you kicked her out! Why? Because no one lives in this house without following your rules?”

Mr. Hafeez looked away, rubbing his bald head as guilt flickered across his face.

“And now look at us,” Mrs. Hafeez continued, placing the shears down and turning to face him fully. “How did we mess up so badly? She was our first child,” she said, her voice softer, almost breaking.

Mr. Hafeez met her gaze for a moment before lowering his eyes back to his phone, his thumb scrolling absentmindedly.

Just then, a voice blared from the phone’s speakers, loud and sharp, cutting through the quiet tension in the garden.

“I didn’t know my best friend was a two-faced bitch who’d go after my husband. She was always the jealous type. That’s the problem with women who claw their way up from the bottom—they think they’re entitled to everything just because they’ve got a little cash.”

Mrs. Hafeez frowned. “What’s that noise?”

Mr. Hafeez adjusted his glasses and squinted at the screen. “Arey! Isn’t this Zoya?” he said, leaning closer to the phone.

Mrs. Hafeez hurried to his side as he read the caption aloud: "Nuha Hafeez, owner of Libaas, caught in a relationship with Omar Saeed, owner of Mariah."

The words hit Mrs. Hafeez like a blow to the chest. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Nahi... Nahi,” she whispered, shaking her head vehemently. “This cannot be true. Zaroor saazish hai meri beti ke khilaf!”

Her voice rose with panic. “Selena ko call lagain!” she cried, clutching her husband’s arm. “She’ll know what’s going on. Call Selena now!”

But Mr. Hafeez stood frozen, staring at the video. In it, Zoya’s mocking laughter filled the air, her words dripping with malice.

Mrs. Hafeez tugged at his sleeve. “Hafeez! Karo na kuch! How can you just stand there?”

Shaken from his daze, Mr. Hafeez fumbled for his phone, switching to the contact list to call Selena. His heart raced as he listened to the phone ring, his wife pacing anxiously beside him.

“She’s not answering,” he muttered, frustration lacing his voice.

“Try again!” Mrs. Hafeez insisted, wringing her hands. “We need to know what’s happening. Nuha can’t be going through this alone.”

As the phone rang unanswered once more, Mrs. Hafeez turned her gaze toward the horizon, a mixture of dread and determination etched onto her face. She clenched her hands into fists, silently praying for her daughter’s strength.

“Nuha,” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “Meri beti...”

Chapter 18 (Continued)

Mr. Hafeez paced the patio, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. After several failed attempts to reach Selena directly, he scrolled to another contact: Mr. Asad, Selena’s father. The phone barely rang twice before Mr. Asad answered.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Hafeez bhai,” Mr. Asad greeted warmly, but the urgency in Mr. Hafeez’s tone quickly wiped the casualness from his voice.

“Wa Alaikum Assalam, Asad bhai,” Mr. Hafeez stammered, his words tumbling over one another. “It’s Nuha… Something terrible is happening. I don’t know how to reach her. Zoya—Zoya has said something on the internet, and now there’s a video—”

Mr. Asad frowned, sitting up straighter. “Calm down, Hafeez bhai. Let me check. Selena just came home from her shift; she might know something.”

He moved toward Selena’s room, knocking gently before pushing the door open. Selena sat cross-legged on her bed, her hair loose and messy, the exhaustion of her shift evident in the droop of her shoulders. She glanced up at her father with a questioning look.

“What is it, Dad?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

“It’s about Nuha,” Mr. Asad said, handing her the phone. “Hafeez bhai is on the line.”

Selena straightened, her fatigue dissipating as she took the phone. “Aunty, what’s wrong?” she asked, her tone sharp with concern.

Mrs. Hafeez’s shrill voice burst through the receiver, jolting Selena fully awake. “Selena! Oh, Allah, what is happening? Have you seen it? What they’re saying about my Nuha?”

Selena frowned, her stomach tightening. “What are they saying? I’ve been at work all night. I don’t know anything.”

“They’re saying terrible things,” Mrs. Hafeez cried, her voice cracking. “Zoya did an interview—she called Nuha… Oh, how could she do this? She’s accusing Nuha of stealing her fiancé! Selena, please tell me it’s not true!”

Selena clenched her jaw, the calm she’d learned from years in the ER kicking in. “Aunty, listen to me. This is all nonsense. Nuha would never do something like that. You know her better than anyone.”

“But why would Zoya say such things?” Mrs. Hafeez sobbed. “Selena, there was a video! And—and people are saying Nuha is cheating with that man, Omar Saeed!”

Selena’s breath caught. “Cheating? With Omar?” Her mind raced as she pieced together the fragments of what she knew. “Aunty, listen carefully. Zoya has been after Nuha for months. She came to her, asking for a bridal shower dress, and Nuha designed it overnight—without charging her!”

She stood, pacing as she spoke. “Zoya didn’t even return the dress, and then that same design showed up on Vogue Arabia under Maria's name! Nuha told me about this weeks ago. This is Zoya’s way of trying to destroy her reputation.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, broken only by Mrs. Hafeez’s soft cries. “Selena,” she whispered, “please… please give me Nuha’s address. I need to see her.”

Selena froze. For years, she had kept Nuha’s location a secret at her best friend’s request. Nuha had been adamant that her parents should not know where she lived, fearing they would turn her sanctuary into a battleground of guilt and demands.

“Aunty, I can’t…” Selena began hesitantly.

“Please, Selena,” Mrs. Hafeez interrupted, her voice cracking with desperation. “Nuha worked so hard for everything she has. To see it all ruined like this… Please. I need to see my daughter.”

Selena closed her eyes, torn between loyalty to Nuha and the pain in Mrs. Hafeez’s voice. “I’ll send you the address on WhatsApp,” she finally said, her voice soft but firm. “But please, don’t confront her. She’s already under enough stress.”

“I promise,” Mrs. Hafeez said, her tone laced with gratitude.

Selena ended the call and sat staring at the screen for a moment, a surge of anger rising in her chest. She had missed something. Something big. And she couldn’t let it slide.

Throwing off her blanket, Selena swung her legs off the bed and reached for her abaya. Pulling it over her scrubs, she wrapped her hair in a hijab with quick, practiced movements. Her face was set, her usual calm demeanor replaced by steely determination.

She grabbed her keys and dashed out of her apartment, muttering under her breath, “Zoya, you’ve gone too far this time.”

---

Nuha’s eyes lingered on Nasr as he stood outside her office, his silhouette framed by the glass walls. The events of the day came rushing back—Omar’s audacity, the leaked picture, the whispers in the corridors. She wasn’t sure who to trust anymore, and Nasr was no exception.

Her mind darted to the shutters, open and exposing her office to prying eyes. She straightened her posture, pulling herself together as her fingers moved to her desk controls. “Come in,” she said, her tone even, but inside, her heart thudded in her chest.

Nasr entered, his usual composed demeanor in place, but Nuha caught the faint crease in his brow. He paused as she pressed a button on her desk, the shutters quietly sliding closed to seal off her space.

“The PR consultant is here to meet you,” he said, his voice steady, though his eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer than usual. “They’re waiting in the conference room.”

Nuha nodded, standing from her chair. She smoothed down her coffee brown blazer, the fabric soft under her touch. Her movements were deliberate, controlled. She could feel Nasr watching her, but she didn’t meet his gaze.

“Thank you,” she replied, her tone clipped, but not unkind. She stepped past him, her heels clicking against the polished floor. “Let’s see what they have to say.”

Nasr followed her to the door but didn’t speak further. Nuha could sense his presence behind her as they walked down the corridor toward the conference room. Employees scattered out of the way, their conversations halting as she passed.

Nuha kept her chin high, her expression carefully neutral. She couldn’t afford to show weakness, not now. But inside, she was bracing herself for the next wave of challenges.

As they reached the conference room, Nasr opened the door for her, stepping aside. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he said softly.

Nuha paused for a brief moment, catching the hint of concern in his voice. But she pushed it aside, offering a curt nod before walking in.

The PR consultant stood by the table, a polished figure in a tailored suit that spoke of both professionalism and high fees. Her sleek tablet was tucked under her arm, and her confident smile radiated assurance.

“Ms. Nuha, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the consultant said, extending a hand. “I’m Sara Malik. I’ve been briefed on the situation, and I’m here to help manage the narrative.”

Nuha shook her hand firmly, her professional mask firmly in place. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she replied, gesturing for Sara to sit.

As they settled into their chairs, Sara wasted no time. She opened her tablet, the screen displaying a series of headlines and social media posts. “I’ve been monitoring the online chatter since this morning. The leaked photo is causing quite a stir, and the speculation around your connection to Omar has amplified the situation.”

Nuha’s jaw tightened, but she forced herself to remain calm. “And your suggestion to control this...narrative?”

Sara leaned forward, her tone direct. “We need to get ahead of the story. Silence will only allow the rumors to grow. I recommend issuing a statement—something clear and professional that distances you from the allegations without giving too much away.”

Nuha crossed her arms, her gaze steady on Sara. “A statement won’t erase the image. It’s already out there.”

“That’s true,” Sara admitted, “but we can shift the focus. Highlight your achievements, emphasize your professionalism. If we control the narrative, we can drown out the noise.”

Nuha’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t trust easily, especially now, but Sara’s confidence was compelling. “And the picture?”

“We spin it,” Sara said firmly. “Frame it as a baseless attempt to tarnish your reputation. We can even hint that it’s a ploy by competitors to undermine you. People love a story where the underdog fights back.”

Nuha nodded slowly, her mind racing. The plan made sense, but it also meant opening herself up to scrutiny. She hated being at the center of drama, especially when it came to Omar.

“I’ll consider it,” she finally said, her tone measured. “Prepare a draft statement and send it to my office by noon. I’ll review it before making a decision.”

Sara smiled, her confidence unshaken. “Of course, Ms. Nuha. I’ll make sure it’s perfect.”

Nuha stood, signaling the end of the meeting. As Sara gathered her things and left the room, Nuha let out a slow breath.

Her gaze shifted to the glass walls of the conference room, where Nasr waited outside, his arms crossed as he leaned against the opposite wall. For a fleeting moment, Nuha felt the weight of everything pressing down on her.

But there was no time to break, no time to falter. She squared her shoulders and stepped out of the room.