The next few days passed in strange silence.
Zafar was quieter than usual—colder too. Not the icy professional coldness Zoha had seen on day one. This was different. This was personal.
He no longer glanced her way when Ezra reached out for her. He no longer allowed her to hold the baby during work hours. His replies became curt, sharp, and distant.
Yet Zoha didn't complain. She stayed calm. Professional. Soft-spoken.
But inside, she felt the shift. And it hurt more than she expected.
That Thursday afternoon, the moment that shattered her came.
Zoha was typing an email when Ezra's voice echoed down the hallway from the playroom next door.
"Zoha!" he giggled, calling out.
She smiled instinctively and stood to go check on him—but Zafar stepped out from his office doorway like a shadow.
"Don't," he said harshly. "You're not his nanny."
Zoha stopped, stunned.
"But he's—"
"He's fine. And I don't need you forming unnecessary attachments with him," Zafar said coldly. "Focus on your work. That's what you're paid for."
For the first time since joining the company, Zoha felt like crying.
But she didn't.
Instead, she nodded and sat back down.
She didn't see the way Zafar clenched his jaw after walking away.
Later that evening, after Ezra had gone home, Zoha stayed late to finish a project.
The office was quiet. Empty. Just the soft clicking of her keyboard.
Zafar stepped out of his cabin around 8:00 p.m. and paused when he saw her still working.
"Why are you still here?" he asked gruffly.
Zoha didn't even look up. "Finishing the Martex file. You said it was urgent."
He leaned against the glass wall, watching her.
"You didn't have to stay."
"I wanted to."
A long silence followed.
Then, without thinking, she added softly, "You're pushing me away."
Zafar's expression darkened. "I'm your boss."
"I know," she whispered. "But I care about Ezra. I didn't mean to cross any line."
"You didn't," he said, almost too quickly. "That's the problem."
Zoha finally looked up. Their eyes met. And in his, she saw the storm—his fear, his confusion, and the pain he never let anyone see.
"I don't trust people, Zoha," he said, voice low. "Especially not women. Not after what I've seen. What I've lived."
"I'm not her," Zoha said firmly. "I'm not anyone from your past."
"I know. That's why I'm afraid."
For the first time, Zafar showed his vulnerability—not in loud words, but in that one line.
That one crack in his armor.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Zoha sitting there, breathless, her heart twisting.
She was falling for a man who didn't believe in love.
And he was falling for a woman he didn't want to let close.