Selena tightened her grip on the steering wheel of her Ford pickup truck, her fingers white-knuckled as she punched Zoya's location into the GPS. The morning sun cut through the windshield, its golden rays doing little to soften the simmering anger in her chest. Memories of Zoya's mehndi flashed in her mind—those days when laughter was genuine, and friendships seemed unshakable.

But today was different.

Selena sped through the nearly empty roads, weaving between cars, her thoughts a whirlwind. As she approached Zoya’s family villa, the looming structure did little to intimidate her. She slammed the truck into park, stepping out with a sharp slam of the door.

"Zoya! Zoya!" Selena's voice cut through the stillness as she stormed through the garden leading up to the villa. Birds scattered from the sudden noise. "Zoya!"

The front door creaked open, and an elderly woman stepped out, squinting at Selena through her bifocals. Her face carried lines of exhaustion and worry.

"Where is Zoya?" Selena demanded, her breath uneven from both the drive and her anger.

The old woman stepped forward, blocking Selena's path. “Calm down, beta. What’s all this shouting about?”

Selena’s chest heaved, but she forced herself to take a step back. She lowered her tone, but her resolve didn’t waver. “Aunty, I’m sorry, but I need to speak to Zoya. It’s urgent.”

The woman’s eyes scanned Selena from head to toe, pausing on her abaya, its top button undone, revealing sage green scrubs underneath. A flicker of recognition crossed her face. “You must be Selena... Nuha’s business partner?”

Selena nodded firmly.

The woman sighed and opened the door wider. “Zoya isn’t home right now. But come inside. Have some tea. We can talk.”

Selena hesitated but relented, stepping into the villa’s cool, dim interior. She followed Zoya’s mother to the sitting room, the space filled with ornate furniture and the faint smell of jasmine incense.

As they sat, the older woman poured tea into delicate cups, her hands trembling slightly. “It’s been hard on Zoya,” she began, her voice heavy with emotion. “Omar... he broke the engagement. Out of nowhere, he said he didn’t feel the same for her anymore.”

Selena leaned forward, her jaw tightening.

“He told Zoya,” the woman continued, her voice breaking, “that he wanted to go back to someone he liked almost ten years ago. When Zoya asked who, he said it was Nuha.”

Selena’s lips parted in disbelief. Her grip on the cup tightened as she tried to absorb the words.

“As if that wasn’t enough,” Zoya’s mother went on, “the dress Nuha designed for Zoya—it was stolen from Zoya’s bag after the bridal shower. We didn’t know where it had gone until Omar introduced it as one of Mariah’s designs. It was almost identical, down to the smallest detail.” She sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging. “You can imagine what all this has done to Zoya.”

Selena pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to make sense of the tangled web Omar had spun. “He played his cards well,” she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with contempt.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Unlocking it, she brought up the infamous interview where Zoya hurled insults at Nuha. Turning the screen toward Zoya’s mother, Selena said, “Do you think this situation justifies Zoya spreading rumors about Nuha and calling her a two-faced—” she bit her tongue but let the implication hang in the air.

Zoya’s mother looked pained, but her voice rose in protest. “But there’s a picture, Selena. A picture of Nuha and Omar together. It’s hard to deny what’s right in front of you.”

Selena froze. “What picture?”

Zoya’s mother reached for her phone, her hands shaking slightly. She pulled up the image—a blurred shot of a woman in a maroon blazer, her face obscured but her slicked-back bun unmistakable. Omar sat across from her in his signature lavish suit, his hand positioned in a way that, from this angle, appeared to be caressing her shoulder.

Selena’s stomach sank. She recognized the blazer. That was Nuha.

“See?” Zoya’s mother said quietly, showing Selena the caption below the image: ‘Nuha Hafeez, owner of Libaas, caught with Omar Saeed, Mariah’s CEO.’

Selena gulped, her throat dry. She stood abruptly, the tea left untouched on the table. “Aunty,” she said, her voice strained but composed, “this is not what it looks like. I promise you, this angle is deceiving. Omar... he’s manipulating everything.”

Zoya’s mother looked at her, her eyes filled with both doubt and hope. “Then fix it, beta. Fix it before this ruins both their lives.”

Selena nodded, her resolve hardening. “I will. Trust me.”

As she walked back to her truck, Selena’s thoughts raced. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture they formed was even uglier than she had imagined. Omar wasn’t just trying to ruin Nuha’s reputation—he was determined to take everything from her.

She tightened her hijab, climbed into her truck, and started the engine. This was no where near finished.

---

The air in the conference room felt heavier than it should have as Nuha stepped out. Nasr was still standing there, his usual composed stance slightly tense. His hands, typically clasped behind his back, were now resting by his sides. His eyes flickered toward her, but he didn’t say anything.

Nuha's gaze brushed over him briefly before moving on. The weight of the conversation with Sara Malik still lingered in her mind. She knew the PR consultant had a point—silence wasn’t an option—but the idea of addressing the rumors, of acknowledging them publicly, made her chest tighten.

As she walked back to her office, Nasr followed her at a respectful distance. The corridor was quieter now, but Nuha could still feel the occasional stares from her employees. It was as though their whispers clung to the walls, an unspoken commentary on her life.

Her office door clicked shut behind her as she stepped inside, letting out a slow, controlled breath. She glanced at her desk, where her usual coffee sat waiting. It was the perfect temperature—Nasr had always known her preference. Even now, amidst the tension between them, he hadn’t faltered in these small gestures.

Nuha’s eyes lingered on the coffee for a moment before her gaze shifted to the glass walls. Half-blurred, they offered little privacy, and the shutters she had closed earlier gave her only a semblance of seclusion. She could still feel the weight of being watched, of every move she made being analyzed and misconstrued.

The words from the corridor replayed in her mind: “A woman from a broken home...” She clenched her jaw, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. She wasn’t just fighting for her company’s reputation anymore—she was fighting for her own.

Her chair creaked softly as she sank into it, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. The events of the past few days spiraled in her thoughts—Omar’s threat, the picture, the laughter behind her back. She felt her chest tighten again, her heart racing against her will.

She reached for the coffee, hoping its warmth would steady her, but her hands betrayed her. They trembled as she lifted the cup, and the slight clink of porcelain against the desk made her flinch. The strength she’d held onto so fiercely felt as though it were slipping through her fingers.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Through the glass, she could see Nasr standing there, his expression unreadable. She hesitated, the coffee cup still in her hands, before setting it down and pressing the control to open the shutters completely.

“Come in,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.

Nasr entered, his steps careful, as though sensing the fragility of the moment. “Ms. Nuha,” he began, his tone gentle yet professional, “I wanted to let you know that the draft statement from the PR consultant has arrived. It’s in your inbox.”

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the edge of her desk. “Thank you, Nasr,” she replied, her voice quieter than usual.

He lingered for a moment, and she could feel his hesitation. “If there’s anything else you need—”

“I’ll let you know,” she cut him off, not unkindly, but firmly enough to end the conversation.

Nasr nodded, stepping back toward the door. Just before he left, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re stronger than what they say, Ms. Nuha. Don’t let them forget it.”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, but he was already walking out, the door clicking shut behind him. For a brief moment, the tremble in her hands stilled.

Nuha leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. The fight wasn’t over—not even close—but in that fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe she could win.