Bewitched

11

MUNTASSIR

I was pacing in my office like a caged animal. My nerves were shot, frayed beyond anything I'd ever felt. It was ridiculous, really. I hadn't been this nervous even when I had to give my valedictorian speech in front of a thousand people. But this? This was on a whole different level. I could barely breathe, let alone think straight.

Christopher, my assistant, sat at his desk, eyes darting between me and his computer screen. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. What could he say anyway? I wasn't just anxious—I was terrified.

I knew how far I could push Mumtaz, how much I could toy with her before she snapped, and somehow, I'd crossed into uncharted territory this time. My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for the call that I was sure would come. I'd been expecting it all day, anticipating the moment when she'd call me up and scream, call me every name in the book. The image of her throwing Mr. Whiskers at my head—or worse, a bottle—kept flashing through my mind.

Pacing helped, but only a little. I was so deep in my thoughts that when my phone finally rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Shit," I muttered, fumbling to pull it out of my pocket. The screen flashed with her name, and I could feel my pulse quicken. I turned to Christopher, who was watching me with wide eyes.

"Leave," I barked, not trusting myself to be calm right now.

Christopher quickly gathered his things and slipped out the door without a word. The room felt impossibly quiet as I stared down at the phone. The ringing seemed louder, more ominous.

I gulped, then took a deep breath and answered, putting it on speaker. I didn't want to risk her shouting right into my ear. But instead of the barrage of angry words I'd been bracing myself for, there was only silence.

"Muntassir," she finally said, her voice unnervingly calm.

"Mumtaz," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady, though I was sure she could hear the nerves in it.

"Did you know about the engagement?" she asked, straight to the point.

I closed my eyes and leaned against my desk, bracing myself. "Yes."

There was a pause, and I could hear her humming softly, as if she was thinking it over. The silence was killing me. I was ready to launch into a string of apologies, explanations—anything to fix this, but she spoke before I could.

"We're getting married then," she said, her tone still eerily calm. "After I come back from Milan."

"Milan?" I echoed, thrown off by the sudden change in the conversation.

"Yes, Milan," she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You said you'd let me go."

"Oh, right. Yes, of course," I stammered, still processing the fact that she had just... accepted it. I was ready for a battle, but this? This was something else entirely. "I'll come see you later," I said, trying to regain some control over the situation.

"Okay," she replied simply, and then she hung up.

I stared at the phone in disbelief. Was this really happening? Did she just agree to marry me? I waited for the panic to hit, for the other shoe to drop, but instead, something else bubbled up from deep inside me—a laugh. At first, it was just a chuckle, but it quickly grew into something uncontrollable. I was laughing manically, like a madman who had just won the lottery.

"Mumtaz is going to be my wife!" I shouted to the empty room, barely able to contain my happiness. I had to go home—I had to tell someone. I had to brag. I couldn't keep this to myself.