FF: Asya - Written in the Skies (Part 19/pg.80) - Page 7

not bad what zoya got... now differnt game start

PART 6

Zoya yanked a dress out of her closet to wear to the Diwali party, tossed it across the bed, and pulled off her bathrobe. This summer, which had begun with a funeral, had degenerated into a five-week battle with her father over which college she would attend"a battle that had escalated into a full-fledged war the previous day. In the past, Zoya had always bent over backward to please him; when he was needlessly strict, she told herself it was only because he loved her and was afraid for her, when he was brusque, she rationalized that he had responsibilities that tired him, but now, now that she'd belatedly discovered that his plans for her were on a collision course with her own, she was not willing to give up her dreams to pacify him.

From the time she was a young girl, she'd assumed that someday she would have the chance to follow in the footsteps of all her forebears and take her rightful place at Siddiqui & Company. Each successive generation of Siddiqui men had proudly worked their way up through the store's hierarchy, starting there as a department manager, then moving up through the ranks to vice president, and later, president and chief executive officer. Finally, when they were ready to turn the direction of the store over to their sons, they became chairman of the board. Not once in nearly one hundred years had a Siddiqui failed to do that, and not once in all that time had any Siddiqui ever been ridiculed by the press or by the store's employees for being incompetent or undeserving of the titles they eventually held. Zoya believed, she knew, she could prove herself worthy, too, if she were just given the chance. All she wanted or expected was that chance. And the only reason her father didn't want to give it to her was that she hadn't had the foresight to be his son instead of his daughter!

Frustrated to the point of tears, she stepped into the dress and pulled it up. Reaching behind her back, she struggled with the zipper as she walked over to the dressing table and looked in the mirror above it. With complete disinterest she surveyed the strapless cocktail dress that she'd bought weeks before for that night's occasion. The bodice was sheared at the sides so that it crisscrossed her breasts, sarong-style, in a multicolored rainbow of pale pastel silk chiffon, then it nipped in at the waist before falling in a graceful swirl to her knees. Picking up a hairbrush, she ran it through her long hair. Rather than expend the effort of doing anything special with it, she brushed it back off her face, twisted it up into a chignon, and pulled a few tendrils loose at her ears to soften the effect. The rose topaz pendant would have been the perfect accent for her dress, but her father was also going to Palms tonight, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her wear it. Instead, she clipped on a pair of ornate gold earrings inset with pink stones that sparkled and danced in the light, and left her shoulders and neck bare. The hairstyle gave her a more sophisticated look and the golden tan she'd acquired looked lovely against the strapless bodice of the dress; if it hadn't, Zoya wouldn't have cared, nor would she have changed into something different. How she looked was a matter of complete indifference to her, the only reason she was going was that she couldn't stand the thought of staying home and letting frustration drive her insane, and that she'd promised Sana Hayat and the rest of Mubashir's friends that she'd join them there.

She made that discovery while they were having dinner soon after her grandfather's funeral. In the past, she'd repeatedly mentioned her intention of following tradition and taking her place at Siddiqui's, but either he hadn't listened or he hadn't believed her. That night he did take her seriously, and he informed her with brutal frankness that he did not expect her to succeed him, nor did he want her to. That was a privilege he planned to reserve for a future grandson. Then he coldly acquainted Zoya with an entirely different tradition and one he intended she follow: Siddiqui women did not work at the store, or anywhere else, for that matter. Their duty was to be exemplary wives and mothers, and to donate whatever additional talents and time they had to charitable and civic endeavors.

Zoya wasn't willing to accept that; she couldn't, not now. It was too late. Long before she'd fallen in love with Ayaan"or thought she had"she had fallen in love with "her" store.

Now, at eighteen, she already had a general knowledge of things like workers compensation problems, profit margins, merchandising techniques, and product liability problems. Those were the things that fascinated her, the things she wanted to study, and she was not going to spend the next four years of her life taking classes in romance languages and Renaissance art!

When she told him that, he had slammed his hand down on the table with a crash that made the dishes jump. "You are going to Mumbai, where both your grandmothers have gone, and you will continue to live at home! At home!" he reiterated. "Is that clear? The subject is closed!" Then he'd shoved his chair back and left.

As a child, Zoya had done everything to please him, and please him she had"with her grades, her manners, and her deportment. In fact, she'd been a model daughter. Now, however, she was finally realizing that the price of pleasing her father and maintaining the peace was becoming much higher: It required subjugating her individuality and surrendering all her dreams for her own future, not to mention sacrificing a social life!

His absurd attitude toward her dating or going to parties wasn't her main problem right now, but it had become a sharp point of contention and embarrassment for her this summer. Now that she was eighteen, he appeared to be tightening restrictions instead of loosening them. If Zoya had a date, he personally met the young man at the door and subjected him to a lengthy cross-examination while treating him with an insulting contempt that was intended to intimidate him into never asking her out again. Then he set a ridiculously early curfew of midnight. If she spent the night at Humairah's, he invented a reason to call her and make certain she was there. If she went out for a drive in the evening, he wanted an itinerary of where she was going; when she came back home he wanted an accounting of every minute she'd been gone. After all those years in private schools with the strictest possible rules, she wanted a taste of complete freedom. She'd earned it. She deserved it. The idea of living at home for the next four years, under her father's increasingly watchful eye, was unbearable and unnecessary.

Yesterday, however, the hostilities between them had erupted into their first raging battle. The bill for her tuition deposit had come from Delhi University, and Zoya had taken it to him in his study. Calmly and quietly, she had said, "I am not going to go to Mumbai. I'm going to Delhi and getting a degree that's worth something."

When she handed him the bill, he tossed it aside and regarded her with an expression that made her stomach cramp. "Really?" he jeered. "And just how do you plan to pay your tuition? I've told you I won't pay it, and you can't touch a cent of your inheritance until you're thirty. It's too late to try for a scholarship now, and you'll never qualify for a student loan, so you can forget about it. You will live here at home and go to Mumbai University. Do you understand me, Zoya?"

Years of suppressed resentment came spilling out, bursting past Zoya's dam of control. "You're completely irrational'!" she cried. "Why can't you understand""

He stood up slowly, deliberately, his gaze slicing over her with savage contempt. "I understand perfectly!" he sneered furiously. "I understand there are things you want to do"and people you want to do them with" that you know damned well I wouldn't approve of. That's why you want to go to a big university and live on campus! What appeals to you most, Zoya? Is it the opportunity to live in co-ed dorms with boys swarming through the halls and crawling into your bed? Or is it""

"You are sick!"

"And you are just like your mother! You've had the best of everything and all you want is the chance to crawl into bed with the scum of the world""

"Damn you!" Zoya had blazed, stunned by the force of her own uncontrollable rage. "I'll never forgive you for that. Never." Pivoting on her heel, she had headed for the door.

Behind her, his voice boomed like a thunderclap. "Where do you think you're going!"

"Out!" she had flung over her shoulder. "And another thing, I won't be home by midnight. I'm through with curfews!"

...

The Palms Country Club sprawled across acres of majestic lawns dotted with flowering shrubs and flower beds. A long, curving drive lit by ornamental gas lamps meandered through stately oak and maple trees to the front door of the club, then curved back again to the main road. The club itself, a rambling three-story white-brick structure with wide pillars marching across its stately facade, was surrounded by two championship golf courses and rows of tennis courts off to the side. At the back, French doors opened onto wide terraces covered with umbrella tables and potted trees. Flagstone steps descended from the lowest terrace to the two Olympic-size pools below. The pools were closed to swimmers tonight, but thick, bright yellow cushions had been left on the chaise lounges for those members who might desire to watch the fireworks display from a prone position, or recline between dances when the orchestra came outside to play after that.

On special nights like this the club's lifeguards did double duty as parking attendants. One of them hurried up the front steps to hold the door open for her. "Good evening, Miss Siddiqui," he said, flashing a killer smile. He was muscular and good-looking. "Hello," she said absently.

As she walked down the hallway, she nodded and smiled automatically at those people she knew, while she looked into the various rooms for the people she was supposed to meet. One of the dining rooms had been turned into a mock casino for the evening; the other two had been set up for a lavish buffet. All of them were crowded. Below, on the ground floor, an orchestra was tuning up in the club's main banquet room and, judging from the volume of noise coming up the stairwell as she passed it; Zoya assumed there was a crowd down there as well. As she passed the card room, she glanced warily in it. Her father was an inveterate card player, as were most of the other people in the room, but he wasn't there and neither was Mubashir's group. Having checked out all the rooms on this floor except the club's main lounge, Zoya went there next.

Despite its large size, the decor of the lounge had been intended to create an atmosphere of coziness. Overstuffed sofas and wing chairs were grouped around low tables, and the brass wall sconces were always dimmed so that they cast a warm glow against the mellow oak paneling. Normally the heavy velvet draperies were drawn across the French doors at the back of the lounge; tonight they'd been opened so that guests could stroll out onto the narrow terrace off the lounge, where a band was playing soft music. A bar stretched the entire length of the room on the left, and bartenders moved back and forth from the guests seated at the bar to the mirrored wall behind, where hundreds of liquor bottles were stacked on shelves beneath subdued spotlights.

Tonight the lounge was crowded, too, and Zoya was about to turn around and head downstairs when she spotted Sana Hayat and Sara Zahid, who'd both phoned to remind her she was expected to join them tonight. Pinning a smile on her face, Zoya walked up to them, and then froze as she noticed her father standing with another group of people just to their left. "Zoya," Mrs. Hussain-Mubashir's aunt said when Zoya had said hello to everyone, "I love your dress. Where on earth did you find that?"

Zoya had to glance down to see what she was wearing. "It came from Siddiqui's."

"Where else!" Sara Ackerman teased.

Mr. and Mrs. Hussain turned aside to speak to other friends, and Zoya kept one eye on her father, hoping he would stay completely away from her.

Beside her, Sana said it was probably time to go into the dining room or else risk losing their reserved table, and Zoya gave herself a mental shake, belatedly remembering her vow to have a good time tonight. "Mubashir said he'd join us in here before dinner," Sara added. "Has anybody seen him?" Craning her neck, Sana looked around the thinning crowd in the lounge, many of whom were also starting to proceed to the dining rooms. "My God!" she burst out, staring at the entrance of the lounge. "Who is that? He's absolutely gorgeous!" That remark, made in a louder tone than she'd intended, caused a ripple of interest, not only among the entire group Zoya was with, but with several other people who'd overheard her exclamation and were turning around.

"Who are you talking about?" Sana asked, peering about the room. Zoya, who was facing the entrance, glanced up and knew instantly exactly who had caused that awed, avaricious expression on Sana's face! Standing in the doorway, with his right hand thrust into his pants pocket, was a man who was at least six feet two, with hair almost as dark as the tuxedo that clung to his wide shoulders and long legs. His face was sun-bronzed, his eyes Dark, and as he stood there, idly studying the elegantly dressed members of Palms, Zoya wondered how Sara could ever have described him as "gorgeous." His features looked as if they had been chiseled out of granite by some sculptor who had been intent on portraying brute strength and raw virility"not male beauty. His chin was firm, his nose straight, his jaw hard with iron determination. All in all, Zoya thought he looked arrogant, proud, and tough. But then, she'd never been very attracted to dark, overly macho men.

"Look at those shoulders," Sara rhapsodized, "look at that face. Now, that, Kamran," she teased, turning to Kamran Ansari, "is pure, undiluted sex appeal!"

Kamran considered the man and shrugged, grinning. "He doesn't do a thing for me." Turning to one of the other men in their party whom Zoya had met for the first time tonight, he asked, "How about you, Ali? Does he turn you on?"

"I won't know until I see his legs," Ali joked. "I'm a leg man, which is why Zoya turns me on."

At that moment, Mubashir appeared in the doorway, looking a little unsteady on his feet, and looped his arm around the newcomer's shoulders while glancing about the room. Zoya saw the triumphant little smile he fired at his friends when he spotted all of them at the end of the bar, and she realized instantly that he appeared to be semi-drunk, but she was completely baffled by the groaning laugh that issued from both Sara and Sana. "Oh, no!" Sara said, looking from Sana to Zoya with comic dismay. "Please don't tell me that magnificent male specimen is the laborer who Mubashir hired to work on one of their oil rigs!"

Kamran's burst of laughter had drowned out most of Sara's words, and Zoya leaned closer to Leigh. "I'm sorry"what did you say?"

Speaking quickly so that she could finish before the two men reached them, Sana explained, "The man with Mubashir is actually a steelworker from Pune! Mub's father made him hire the guy to work on their oil rig in Dubai."

Puzzled not only by the laughing looks being exchanged among Mubashir's other friends, but Sana's explanation as well, Zoya said, "Why is he bringing him here?"

"It's a joke, Zoya! Mub's angry with his father for forcing him to hire the guy, and then holding him up to Mubs as the latest example of what he ought to be. He brought the guy here to spite his father"you know, to force his father to meet him socially. And you know what's really funny about all this," she whispered just as the two men arrived. "Mub's aunt just told us that his father and mother decided at the last minute to spend the weekend at their summer place instead of coming here""

Mubashir's overloud, slurred greeting made everyone within hearing turn and stare, including his aunt and uncle and Zoya's father. "Hi, everyone," he boomed, waving an expansive arm to include all of them.

"I'd like all of you to meet my buddy, Asad Ahmad Pan"no, Kh-Khan," he hiccuped.

"What do you do?" Mr. Siddiqui demanded rudely.

"I work in a steel mill," Asad retorted, managing to look and sound just as hard and cold as her father had.

Stunned silence followed his revelation. Several middle-aged couples, who'd been hanging back, waiting for Mubashir's aunt and uncle, looked uneasily at each other and moved away. Mrs. Hussain obviously decided to make an equally hasty exit. "Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Khan," she said stiffly, and headed off to the dining rooms beside her husband.

Suddenly everyone was in motion. "Well!" Sara said brightly, looking around at all the people in their group except Asad, who were standing back and slightly to the side. "Let's go eat!" She tucked her hand in Mub's arm and turned him toward the door as she pointedly added, "I reserved a table for nine people."

Zoya did a fast count; there were nine people in their group"excluding Asad. Paralyzed with disgust for Mubashir and all his friends, she remained where she was for the moment. Her father saw her standing in the general proximity of Asad and stopped on his way to the dining room with his own friends, his hand clamping her elbow. "Get rid of him!" he spat out loudly enough for him to hear, and then he stalked off. In a state of angry, defiant rebellion, Meredith watched him leave, then she glanced at Asad, not certain what to do next. He'd turned toward the French doors and was gazing out at the people on the terrace with the aloof indifference of someone who knows he is an unwanted outsider, and who therefore intends to look as if he prefers it that way.

Even if he hadn't said he was a steelworker from Pune, Zoya would have known within moments of meeting him that he didn't belong. For one thing, his tuxedo didn't fit his broad shoulders as if it had been custom made for him, which meant it was probably rented, nor did he speak with the ingrained assurance of a socialite who fully expects to be welcomed and liked wherever he is. Moreover, there was an indefinable lack of polish to his mannerisms"a subtle harshness and roughness that intrigued and repelled her at one and the same time.

Given all of that, it was astonishing that he should suddenly remind Zoya of herself. But he did. She looked at him standing completely alone, as if he didn't care about being ostracized"and she saw herself when she was at school, spending every recess with a book in her lap, trying to pretend she didn't care either. "Mr. Khan," she asked as casually as she could, "would you like something to drink?"

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

ok guys here is Asad's most awainting entry 😉 hope u like it

and thank u every one for your lovely comments especially 😉KSGsmitten❤️ and Pinky❤️

wow..wonderful update dear..read all d parts in one go..do continue soon n pm me

is ur story inspired from Paradise by judith mcnaught?😉

Originally posted by: -KSGsmitten-

Ohhh Mr Khan is finally here!! ❤️

I can totally picture Asad!

Zoya can relate to him and they're already attracted to each other already.

Can't wait for the next part!

Originally posted by: akaswan

Great part continue soon i really liked this part 😃

Asad and Zoya finally meet each other 😊😊

Originally posted by: pinky06

wow awwwsome update👏

Finallly my asad has come😳

Wat an entry...haaai😳😉

I loooved his description...😃

Looking forward for more of asya 😉

I looved his attitude...and talll,handsome n arrogant...totally my types😆..

Thanku for the pm 😃

Update

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