DECEPTION

10

"We have been waiting for you," Zaraar followed the secretary who had intercepted him, quickly and quietly at the entrance before someone leaked the proof of his presence at the firm.

At the end of a long corridor, the young man motioned him to a closed door, "You may go inside."

"Very well," Zaraar shook his nerves and opened the door, he entered with his head held high and shoulders squared, he braced his hands behind his back simultaneously concealing the paper cup coffee holder.

The noise from the television snagged his attention before she could.

The reporters stood in front of the looming gates of his house broadcasting his meeting with Manar. When the camera zoomed in on her hand placed over his chest, he frowned and turned to the woman who hadn't spared him a single glance.

Unlike others, she didn't rise from the seat in greeting, she barely looked away from the dossier laying open on the desk. That was much better than facing her with his face being painted on every news channel.

Zaraar walked straight into the room, passing the plush three-seater without waiting for any further instructions from her and dropped himself in the chair opposite her.

"Mr Alamgeer," She spoke, meeting his eyes. Her gaze shifted from the cup to the television screen and then, back to him. When she made no move to take the cup herself, Zaraar had to swallow her hasty rejection.

"Waqeel Sahiba, A peace offering."

Marjan eyed his lean finger, surreptitiously when he kept pushing the paper cup towards her.

The coffee cup in its otherwise smooth journey hit the paperweight, spilling hot coffee on her hand splayed over the sheets she had been reviewing. He had been too busy studying her face, expecting her to react in one way or another at his silly gesture but she didn't, not until-

"Ouch!" Marjan snatched her burnt hand and pushed her chair away from the desk as the warm liquid crept to the edge and dribbled on the carpeted floor.

"I am utterly sorry!" Zaraar sprang from the chair.

She flicked her hand to get rid of some of the dripping liquid, her eyes pinched shut in pain. Tissues in hand, Zaraar came around the desk, apologising profusely.

When he took her hand in his own, she nearly jumped in her skin. "I am so sorry. I didn't realise-" He stopped his rambling and clasped her elbow, instead.

"You need to run this under cool water. Is that the restroom?" He asked her, referring to the only closed door in her room but she didn't see. Marjan couldn't think straight with the burning sensation overpowering her thoughts and tears blurring her vision.

He didn't wait for her to reply.

He dragged her to it, he was beside her pushing her hand under the running water.

Several moments, later, he bowed, bringing her hand to his lips, blowing on the patch of angry red skin.

Marjan's heart thrashed against her ribs.

This man was supposedly her husband.

It wouldn't do well for her to forget he was also the same man who had the reporter's hand over his heart just a few hours, ago, the intimate photos were splashed on every media outlet. He was the same person who was accused of the attempted murder of a courtesan.

"Does that feel better?"

She didn't answer.

"We should go see a doctor." He spoke, tenderly. His kindness felt like a slap in the face.