You call this fate?

Chapter 8

After I pulled the desk chair over, I stowed away my bag and abaya, adjusted my rapidly slipping hijab, and gathered writing supplies. All set, I grabbed only my good-side crutch, so as to have a free hand, and entered the main office. My prison had obviously been aired out recently, but the stuffy feeling characteristic to closed-off spaces still remained. I was thankful for the smallest moment of escape.

When I hobbled out the door, Mr. Rodwell took one look at me and did a double take. “When did you change?” he asked, staring like he expected me to sprout wings and fly away.

I snorted and looked down. Today I wore the same outfit as yesterday. It might seem disgusting, but the clothes were still perfectly fine and no one knew I had worn them the day before, except some close confidantes. Hence, no problem at all.  “I didn’t. I just removed my abaya. This is a work atmosphere. I don’t need it.”

He cleared his throat. “I see. Fair enough. But a warning would be appreciated the next time you feel inclined to divulge your clothing.”

I scowled. What a presumptuous bastard.  “I did not divulge my clothing. As a matter of face, one might say that I just removed my coat.”

“Fair enough,” he repeated. “Now, if you have any intention of getting some work done today, I suggest coming here right now.” He cocked his fingers as his attention once again went back to the desk.

I tightened my grip on the book and pencil and slowly limped to his side, determined not to let his black mood affect me. He had a thick book open before him. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t anything official. In fact, it looked like a diary.

“So,” he started when I was close enough to see the spidery scrawl over the pages. “This is—”

I shifted my grip on the things in my hand, leaning forward. He looked at me, lips thin. “Do you need to sit down?”

“Excuse me?” I said, putting the pencil in my mouth to stop it from slipping from between my fingers.

He frowned impatiently. “I said, do you need to sit down, Miss Mahal? We cannot get any work done if you can’t even stand still for a moment.”

I couldn’t help feeling irritated myself. Be cool… Breath… You need to be cool.

“Actually, sir, as you might have noticed, it is not my fault that I can’t stand still.” I motioned with the book at my off-the-floor-leg.

He looked down at it and his frown deepened. “Fine,” he said, sounding like he was making a huge concession. “Come.”

He stood up so fast I didn’t get a chance to move back, causing me to teeter off-balance. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm, steadying me. At first, preoccupied as I was with trying to stay straight, I didn’t notice. But when my senses kick-started, I ripped my arm out of his grip. My heart rate spiked, and not in a good way. My breath came in short gasps. I looked at him with wide eyes and for a moment the face before me changed into something else.

I stepped back.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

His face was back to normal. The high cheekbones, the aquiline nose. He hadn’t had an aquiline nose. No, his had been shorter, fatter. I took a deep breath. Okay, it isn’t him. You are not there anymore. You are safe. He is far away. I blinked. Far away.

“Miss Mahal?”

“Y-yes.” I cleared my throat and shook my head. “Yes, I am sorry. I was just—”

“Save it.” He brushed past me and rounded the table. “We can sit here and get this done with.” He sat down on the couch, the leather moulding around his body, and looked at me with unreadable eyes, waiting.