Now her hands were resting against someone's chest that most likely was a man, rather a

giant man. She could feel his well-built and muscular chest beneath her, and an earthy and

minty scent came off him.

As she gained balance, she got herself out of his grip and stepped back, her chest cavity

expanding with slow and shallow breaths that implied she was fretful. Slow and shallow

breaths escaped her plump lips.

"Th...thanks," she said in a low voice, and on cue, the floor illuminated again. She looked at

the ceiling and then her eyes landed on the person standing in front of her. His muscular

chest was clad in a white shirt, the first two buttons of which were open, and his sleeves

were folded up, revealing his veiny arms. His eyes had that very pinning, intense

appearance. He looked enigmatic. To her, he appeared darkly menacing. A certain coldness

and quietness enveloped him, especially in the metallic shards of his gaze that seemed to

stare into her soul.

"I'm...I'm sorry," she apologized, "and thanks," she muttered, moving past him.

"Careful," his faint yet dark voice reached her ears, and for some odd reason, his voice made

goosebumps stand on her skin.

She didn’t answer him and quickly entered the lift. The thought that only both of them were

alone on the floor was provoking ominous assumptions in her mind.

She entered the elevator, and when she turned around, she found him staring at her, his

hands in his pockets and his eyes locked onto hers. The doors closed at last, and she

released a breath. For some strange reason, she felt chills up her spine and held her breath.

He didn’t give her that warm feeling; all she sensed was coldness.

She brushed off her thoughts. After that hotel incident, she had grown far too skeptical.

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

"Shehryaar Haider Syed," a voice called out to him, and he, busy with his office work, looked

up. His gray eyes pinned the person. "Aka the bastard."

Shehryaar stood up and stuffed his hands in his pockets, giving the man a good look.

"Zaroon Junaid," he responded, "aka the fucker? How’s that treating you?"

"Well enough," Zaroon said, moving closer and spreading his arms wide before engulfing his

friend in a hug.

"When did you arrive?" Shehryaar asked.

"A week ago," he replied as they both moved to the sofa and settled down.

They got occupied with their usual chit-chat, which mostly revolved around business,

football—which was Shehryaar's favorite sport—and Zaroon's favorite topic: his friend's

marriage.

"My mother has sent an order for you. This time around, it’s not a suggestion."

"For me to marry? Ahaan?" Shehryaar guessed right away. Whenever he visited Zaroon's

home, Zaroon’s mother often pressed Shehryaar to get married.

"Exactly. She says the next time she comes to Pakistan, it should be for your wedding."

He chuckled dryly.

"Everyone wants it."

"Don’t you like any girl?"

"No," he replied smugly.

"Then what about marriage?"

"What do you want my answer to be?"

"That you want to marry. On a serious note, won’t you ever get married?"

"There’s much more to do in my life than marriage. And don’t start again, Zaroon. You know

I don’t want to marry."

"Yeah, I know. You despise women."

"Don’t start again. I warn you."

"Yo, bro, listen. Don’t see everyone from the same perspective."

"So are we talking about that? What else do you have to say that’ll make me dislocate your

jaw again?"

"Get over her."

He frowned and looked at him. "The fuck?"

"You’re still stuck on her."

And a punch landed on Zaroon's face, busting his lip.

"What the hell, Shehryaar?"

"I can do worse than that."

"I just stated a fact."

"Don’t assume things," Shehryaar’s tone was harsh and crisp, silencing his friend. "You only

know the fraction of me that I allow you to see. Don’t establish facts about me when you

don’t have a complete idea of who I actually am. The next time I hear you repeat the same

words, I’ll have bleeding knuckles, and you’ll have a broken skull," he said gravely. Zaroon

knew he was serious. Very serious.

"Fine. I won’t bring it up again. Let’s not get too serious."

"I have work to do. You can go."

"Don’t act like a pregnant woman now, Shehryaar."

"What else do you have to say?"

"I came here to chill with you after such a long time."

"You know I’m private about many things, and I don’t like discussing them with anyone. Be

it a friend, family, or anyone."

"That’s fine. I won’t bring it up again. Yet my statement still stands: if she’s a slut, that

doesn’t mean every woman is a slut. I know the notion you have about women, and I won’t

go into that, because my mother is a very strong woman. Why do you think God gave

women the status of mother?"

"Bearing a child and being a mother are two different things. Even a prostitute can bear a

child."

"I hope you’ll come across someone who’ll change your views on women." Zaroon genuinely

prayed. He really cared for his friend but Shehryaar couldn't look past the thick haze of

sexism that has surrounded him. Subjugating him. Occupying his mind.

"I hope so too," Shehryaar scoffed. He knew how deeply rooted his misogynistic and sexist

views were. He believed no woman could change these views. For him, it would be a

miracle, equivalent to the sun setting in the east, for any girl to show up and change his

thinking. He knew himself better than Zaroon did, and Zaroon was just being ridiculous, in

his opinion.

"You’ll come across her. I bet, sooner or later, but you will."

He laughed it off. He knew he was a hopeless case, and Zaroon’s lecture wouldn’t bear any

fruit.

"Is that so?" Shehryaar arched his brow up, looking back at Zaroon. He asked as if his words

held no substance

"Yes, it is—just make marriage your thing."