Author
In Dubai (UAE)
(In Khan household)
A deep baritone voice echoed off the marble walls. "Ammi, please bring my breakfast. I have a meeting with Mr. Hassan." Halima Khan entered carrying a silver tray, her silk dupatta slipping slightly as she arranged the dishes. "Here, beta. Aaram se khaana." Her eyes lingered on her son's face, noting the tension around his eyes that even his practiced smile couldn't conceal. Izaan murmured the dua automatically, the familiar Arabic words rolling off his tongue without reaching his heart. As he reached for the omelet, his mother hesitated before speaking. "Beta...these days I see you treating deen like another item on your schedule."The fork clinked against the china plate. "I pray five times. I fast. I even donate." His voice carried the measured calm of a boardroom negotiation. "What more should I be doing?"
Tears glistened in Halima's eyes. "Before, you used to wake up for tahajjud with your father. Now you check emails during Fajr." Her fingers twisted the edge of her dupatta. "Where is the boy who cried when he first completed the Quran?" The dining room's antique clock ticked loudly in the sudden silence. "That boy buried his father at eighteen." Izaan's voice remained eerily calm, as if discussing stock prices. "Allah gives and takes? He only took from me." Halima reached across the table, but her son was already rising. "I'm late." The kiss he pressed to her forehead felt like sealing a business deal. "Allah Hafiz, Ammi."
Outside, the morning sun glared off the Rolls-Royce's polished hood. Bodyguards materialized from the shadows, one holding the car door while another scanned the perimeter. Izaan adjusted his Tom Ford sunglasses, the tinted lenses transforming the world into something more manageable - dimmer, cooler, farther away. As the gates swung open, the mansion's reflection warped in the car's dark windows before disappearing entirely.
(In Ali household)
The morning sun filtered through Elina's bedroom curtains as Mrs. Ali bustled in, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Eli! Aree, ab uth bhi jao! Kab tak yunhi soogi padi rahogii?" Her voice carried the familiar mix of exasperation and affection that only a mother could master. Elina burrowed deeper into her blankets before mumbling, "Haan Ammi...uth gayi hun," her voice thick with sleep. "You've missed your university classes again!" Mrs. Ali scolded, then added pointedly, "And that important interview at Khan's Enterprises seems to have slipped your mind completely." The young woman finally sat up, stretching with a yawn. "Nahi Ammi," she countered, "I skipped uni deliberately today. The interview is all I'm focused on."
With a sigh, Mrs. Ali turned toward the door. "Freshen up quickly then. Your father's been waiting downstairs for nearly an hour to drive you." The click of the closing door emphasized her departure. Elina dragged herself from bed and soon stood before her mirror, adjusting the final folds of her flowing white abaya over crisp black trousers and a tailored shirt. Satisfied with her hijab's drape, she headed downstairs. "Assalamualaikum, Abbu!" she called cheerfully upon entering the dining room. Mudassir Ali's face lit up at the sight of his daughter. "Hayee hayee, MashaAllah! Meri sher beti!" He enveloped her in a warm embrace before holding her at arm's length. "Look at you, all grown up and ready to make your mark in the world." Elina beamed. "Just wait, Abbu. Once I'm earning, you can finally retire properly and spend quality time with Ammi."
Mrs. Ali snorted as she set down a plate of steaming parathas. "Listen to her now - the same girl who once argued against wearing hijab because of what her friends might say."
Elina's smile faltered, a flush creeping up her neck. Before she could respond, her father's calm voice filled the space. "Beta, remember what our beloved Prophet ﷺ taught us about hayaa." His fingers gently tapped the Quran on the table. "the hijab (covering) in several hadiths (sayings), especially in relation to the broader concept of ḥayāʾ (modesty or shyness), which is a fundamental Islamic value for both men and women.
The command for hijab, specifically the covering for Muslim women, is primarily found in the Qur'an, and the Prophet explained and reinforced it through his teachings.
"And tell the believing women to lower their gaze and guard their private parts and not to show their adornment except what [normally] appears thereof and to draw their veils over their chests..." Surah An-Nur (24:31):
He reached for his daughter's hand, his calloused fingers warm against hers. "Never let the world's standards dim your faith, my child. Allah's path is the only one that matters." Elina bowed her head slightly, the earlier defiance in her eyes softening. "You're right, Abbu. Insha'Allah."
"Now come," Mudassir said, patting her shoulder affectionately as he rose. "Eat something before we leave. I'll drive you to Khan's Enterprises myself today."
Elina's first impression of Khan's Enterprises was one of quiet awe. The lobby gleamed—marble floors reflecting the soft glow of pendant lights, sleek furniture arranged with precision. She barely noticed where she was walking until she collided with something solid.
"Ouch." A firm chest. The crisp scent of sandalwood. She stumbled back, rubbing her forehead before looking up—and froze. Dark brown eyes, sharp enough to cut glass, stared down at her. The man stood tall in a tailored white suit, his black shirt beneath adding an edge to his imposing presence. Handsome wasn't the right word. He was arresting, the kind of man who commanded a room without speaking.
Yet he said nothing. Not a word. Just held her gaze for a heartbeat before stepping around her, his shoulder brushing hers as he walked away. Elina's cheeks burned. "How rude!" The words slipped out before she could stop them. Then, worse—her traitorous mind whispered, but look at him. Astagfirullah. Tauba, tauba, tauba. She squeezed her eyes shut. Ya Allah, I didn't mean—. A throat cleared beside her. A woman in a navy blazer stood there, lips pursed. "Miss Elina? The interview team is ready."
As they walked, Elina hesitated. "That man at the entrance—who was he?" The woman didn't even glance back. "Mr. Khan. Our CEO." A pause. Then, quieter: "Don't take it personally. He's been like that since his father passed. Ice runs thicker than blood in that family now." Meanwhile, across the lobby, Izaan Khan stabbed the elevator button, jaw tight. The girl's startled gaze lingered in his mind—wide-eyed, soft where the world had made him hard.
In Turkey (Antalya)
(In Sikander household)
The first light of dawn had barely touched the sky when Mrs. Sikandar perched on the edge of her daughter's bed, shaking her gently. "Minoo! Minoo! I've been waking you since four, and now it's almost six. At least get up for Fajr."
Manaar groaned, tugging her mother's hand over her closed eyelids. "Cover my eyes and open them slowly,"* she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. It was their little ritual—the perfect way to wake up, seeing her mother's face first. Then reality crashed in.
"Wait—what time is it?" She bolted upright, rubbing her eyes. "I set an alarm for four! I have a deadline today!" Mrs. Sikandar sighed. "First finish your prayers, then eat something, then work." Manaar exhaled, defeated. "Okay, aşkım, don't worry." She dragged herself out of bed, heading for the bathroom to make wudu, the cool tiles jolting her awake.
(The Malik Household)
From the upper floor, a voice carried down the stairs. "Mamma, where's my blue-and-white checkered shirt?" Mrs. Malik's reply floated back as she arranged breakfast on the dining table. "I'll find it after this. Usama, come down—your Abba is asking for you!" Seconds later, Usama bounded down the steps, his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, his free hand raking through his tousled waves. He slid into the chair beside his father, grabbing a piece of toast from the plate.
Mr. Malik eyed him over his teacup. "So, how's university? Enjoying the course?"
"Yes, Abba," Usama said between bites. "It's exactly what I wanted." Mrs. Malik reappeared, shirt in hand. "It was right in front of your closet. I don't know how you missed it." Usama grinned, wiping his hands before pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Why should I worry when you're here to do it for me?" He grabbed the shirt and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Gotta run, or I'll be late." As the door shut behind him, his mother sighed, whispering under her breath, "Ya Rabbi, guide this boy and keep him under Your protection. Ameen."