I barely slept after Ji-Ah's door slammed shut in my mind.
His birthday dawned gray and indifferent, the Las Vegas sun filtering through my curtains like a reluctant guest. I woke with the gift box still clutched in my hands, the silk tie inside untouched. Today I would stop running. Today I would apologize, wear the choker openly, and beg for a second chance — slow, careful, almost halal.
But first, Fajr.
I made wudu with trembling fingers, cold water shocking my skin awake. On my prayer mat, forehead to the rug, I begged for forgiveness one more time. Ya Allah, if this desire is haram, take it from me. But if it's meant to be… give me strength. Tears soaked the weave, but no answer came. Only the ache between my thighs, persistent as ever.
The office felt heavier that morning.
I arrived early, the Suamsungu file already open on my desk for final tweaks. Ji-Ah's presence loomed like a shadow — her meeting with Lucifer scheduled for noon. Marie caught me in the break room, her eyes sharp behind her glasses.
"Habibti, you look like you haven't slept. What happened last night?"
I hesitated, then whispered the truth — the robe, the wine, the cruel invitation to join. Marie's face hardened. "I added her to the hot list like you asked. Security protocols engaged. She won't get direct access again."
Relief flickered, but it died quickly.
An hour later, during the team huddle, Lucifer overrode it without a second thought.
"Suamsungu stays on full access for now. Park Ji-Ah will be put no the same position." he said, voice flat, eyes watching straight to the board members while they appreciate with claps.
I couldn't understand why he let her even have the chance to breach his personal space.
"The Suamsungu deal is worth $300 million. No restrictions until it closes. Daily updates through Aafreen and Marie."
My stomach dropped. He didn't even glance my way when he said my name. Ji-Ah was immune — free to prowl, to smile, to take what I'd pushed away. The jealousy burned hotter, twisting into something desperate. If I didn't act soon, she would.
I retreated to my desk, fingers absently tracing the outline of the choker box in my bag. It sat there like a secret sin, titanium cool and unyielding. To wear it openly… I'd have to show my neck. My hair. Everything the hijab hid.
Haram, my mind whispered. The Quran commanded modesty. But if I didn't claim him, some one like Ji-Ah will.
I waited until lunch, when the floor emptied. On my work laptop — incognito mode, heart pounding at the thought of IT logs — I searched.
First, modern scholars. Leila Ahmed's words appeared in articles: the hijab wasn't always mandatory, she argued. It evolved culturally after the Quran, a symbol of status in pre-Islamic times, later a mark of tension between Islam and the West. In her book A Quiet Revolution, she traced how it re-emerged not as oppression, but as empowerment for some — a personal choice, a statement of faith or resistance.
Then Amina Wadud: a feminist interpreter who emphasized justice over literalism. She rejected rigid readings, focusing on social equality. "The Quran calls for equity," one site quoted her. "Interpretations that oppress women do injustice to the text." Her work on gender in Islam argued that veiling was contextual — not a one-size-fits-all command, but tied to conscience and intent.
I scrolled deeper, heart racing. Reddit threads from Muslim women: r/Hijabis, r/MuslimLounge. Stories poured out. One woman removed her hijab for a corporate job in finance: "I felt naked at first, guilty every salah. But Allah knows my heart — I did it to provide for my family. Now I feel free." Another: "Took it off for love. My husband (non-Muslim) never asked, but I wanted to feel desired without barriers. Astaghfirullah every day, but it brought us closer." A third: "Faced family wrath, but Reddit sisters supported me. It's your journey with Allah — not the fabric."
The words blurred through tears. It's my conscience before Allah, not the fabric. I whispered it like a mantra, but guilt clawed deeper. This was rationalization. Sin disguised as scholarship.
In my apartment that evening, I stood before the mirror.
Hands shaking, I unpinned my hijab. My hair tumbled down — dark waves to my shoulders, soft and unfamiliar after years hidden. My neck felt exposed, vulnerable. I lifted the choker from its box, the titanium cool against my skin. It clicked into place like a collar — his collar. A declaration.
My fingers traced my throat, following the metal's edge. Imagining his mouth there instead — hot, possessive, teeth grazing where the choker pressed. Heat bloomed low in my belly. My nipples hardened under the silk blouse, visible now without the hijab's cover. I gasped, thighs pressing together as wetness gathered. Haram… so haram. But the thrill was electric, exciting in a way prayer never was.
For a test run, I slipped on my abaya over a low-neck blouse — modest from afar, but up close, the choker gleamed like a secret. I walked around the apartment, feeling the sway of my hair, the air on my skin. Exposed. Empowered. Aroused.
Astaghfirullah, I whispered, but my core clenched in anticipation. Tomorrow, I would show him.
***
The next day, I confided in Marie over coffee at a quiet café off the Strip.
We sat in a corner booth, steam rising from our mugs. Marie eyed me over her latte. "Habibti, you're glowing… or burning. Spill."
I pulled out the choker box, showed her the gleaming metal. "It's a gift. From someone special. A… declaration."
Her eyebrow arched. "I will pretend I don't know who your someone special is, but he sure is Kinky." She laughed softly, but her eyes softened when I blushed. "I won't pry. But if it's making you this flustered… let's make you irresistible."
We spent the afternoon in boutiques — a whirlwind montage of empowerment and sin.
Marie picked outfits with expert precision: fitted silk blouses with subtle V-necks that framed the choker like a jewel, wide-leg pants that hugged my hips modestly but swayed with every step, silk scarves as accessories instead of full cover. At the salon, she supervised soft waves in my hair, subtle highlights for what she called "innocent allure." Makeup: deeper kohl around my eyes, rose-tinted balm on my lips to accent my features.
In the fitting room mirror, I stared at the woman looking back. Curves accentuated — no more hiding the fullness of my breasts, the width of my hips that I'd always called "obese." Neck bared like an invitation, choker gleaming possessively. I felt haram beautiful — thighs rubbing together under the new skirt, a flush of arousal heating my skin as I turned, imagining his eyes on me.
Marie whistled from outside the curtain. "You're a weapon now, habibti. Innocent eyes, sinful body. He'll beg."
Over a shared dessert, she shared her own story — vulnerable, raw. "My divorce… it started with something like this. A 'declaration' of desire wasn't something we had. Powerful men like him? They claim everything. Be sure you're ready to give it."
Her words sent a thrill through me — guilt and excitement tangled tight.
That night at home, I practiced.
Standing before the mirror, arching my neck so the choker caught the light. Hair loose, blouse unbuttoned just one extra notch. Flashbacks to Montreal: his mouth on my skin, the thick stretch of him almost inside me. My hand slipped lower, fingers brushing the damp cotton between my thighs. "Lucifer…" I gasped, circling slowly, pleasure building sharp and forbidden. But guilt crashed in — astaghfirullah — and I stopped, panting, unsatisfied.
The avoidance began the next day.
Three days of ghosting. Emails only: "Forward the Q3 summary." No eye contact in hallways. He used proxies for every task — Marcus for scheduling, Marie for reports. His voice on conference calls made my thighs clench under the desk, restless nights leaving me aching and empty.
I overheard him planning Miami in a side conversation with the exec team. A VC pitch at Miami Tech Week — networking on yachts, some exclusive dinners where deals got sealed over champagne. Then some private time after everything to handle some "family stuff" — something vague about estranged relatives. He sounded tired, human for once. I don't know what it could be. But one thing was clear, I couldn't stay behind.
I found Marie in her office the next morning.
"He's avoiding me completely. I need to be in Miami. I need to fix this."
Marie didn't hesitate. "I'll switch spots with you. I'll tell him I need someone with your cultural insight for the VC presentation."
I was relieved, knowing someone was there to help me back up.
She held my hand "Trust me. It's believable."
But when we approached Marcus together in the hallway, he froze.
"Ms. Khan wants to join the Miami trip?" His voice was careful, eyes flicking between us. "This isn't just about work, is it?"
My cheeks burned. He suspected. Maybe he'd suspected for weeks.
Marie stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "It's exactly about work, Marcus. Aafreen caught several cultural nuances in the pitch deck that I missed. We need her there."
Marcus looked at me — long, searching. "I can approve low-risk travel switches… but if this goes sideways, it's on both of you. Lucifer will want to know why the roster changed last-minute."
I swallowed. "Please."
He sighed, rubbed his jaw. "Fine. I'll log it as a resource reallocation. But if he asks, I'm saying Marie requested it."
Marie squeezed my arm. "Go get him, habibti."
I walked away shaking — excitement and terror braided together. Lucifer had no idea I'd be on that flight. No idea I'd be wearing his choker, hair loose, neck bared. No idea how close I was to offering myself completely.
I spent the rest of the day packing, placing the choker box carefully in my suitcase like a vow. Guilt nipped at my heels with every step. I was stepping deeper into sin. But the thought of him — alone, vulnerable, perhaps needing someone — made the surrender feel almost inevitable.
Excitement buzzed under my skin, hot and unstoppable.
Miami was coming.
And so was I.