Laughter echoed through the private dining room of the Damascus Rose Restaurant as I sat perfectly still, my fork suspended above the untouched lamb on my plate. Around the long table, twelve members of the Almanzor family spoke animatedly, their Arabic flowing like water over stones—smooth, constant, and deliberately leaving me out. Before we continue, tell us where you’re watching from.
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My fiancé, Tariq, sat at the head of the table, his hand resting possessively on my shoulder while he translated absolutely nothing. Across from me, his mother, Leila, observed me with sharp, falcon-like eyes, a faint smile curving her lips.
She knew. They all knew.
The crystal chandelier overhead cast shifting shadows across the white linen tablecloth as Tariq leaned toward his younger brother, Omar, speaking quickly in Arabic.
The words came easily, casually, as if I weren’t sitting right there—as if I couldn’t understand every single syllable.
“She doesn’t even know how to make proper coffee,” Tariq said, amusement dripping from his voice. “Yesterday she used a machine.”
“A machine?” Omar snorted, nearly choking on his wine. “Like we’re in some American diner? And you want to marry this one? Brother, what happened to your standards?”
I took a small sip of water, my expression carefully arranged into polite confusion. The same expression I’d worn for the past six months, ever since Tariq proposed.
The same expression I’d perfected during my eight years in Dubai, where I learned that sometimes the most powerful position is being underestimated.
Tariq’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and he turned to me with that practiced smile—the one he used when he wanted something.
“My mother was just saying how beautiful you look tonight, Habibti.”
I smiled softly in return. “That’s so sweet. Please tell her thank you.”
What his mother had actually said less than thirty seconds earlier was that my dress was too tight and made me look cheap. But I nodded gratefully, playing my role to perfection.
The waiters arrived with another course—delicate pastries drizzled with honey and pistachios.
Tariq’s father, Hassan, a dignified man with silver threaded through his dark hair, lifted his glass.
“To family,” he announced in English, one of the few phrases he’d spoken in my language all evening. “And to new beginnings.”
Glasses were raised around the table. I lifted mine and met his eyes. He looked away first.
“New beginnings,” Tariq’s sister Amira muttered in Arabic, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “More like new problems.”
“She can’t even speak our language, can’t cook our food, knows nothing about our culture. What kind of wife will she be?”
“The kind who doesn’t realize she’s being insulted,” Tariq replied smoothly, and the table burst into laughter.
I laughed too—a small, uncertain sound, like someone trying to join a joke she didn’t understand. Inside, I was calculating, recording, adding each word to the growing list of transgressions I’d been compiling for months.
My phone vibrated inside my clutch. I rose quietly from my chair.
“Restroom,” I murmured to Tariq.
He waved me off dismissively, already turning back to his cousin Khalid and launching into another story in Arabic. As I walked away, I heard him clearly.
“She’s so eager to please, it’s almost pathetic.”
“But her father’s company will be worth the inconvenience.”
The restroom was empty—marble and gold fixtures, elegant and cold. I locked myself into the farthest stall and pulled out my phone.
The message was from James Chen, head of security at my father’s company and one of the few people who knew what I was really doing.
“Documentation uploaded. Audio from the last three family dinners successfully transcribed and translated. Your father wants to know if you’re ready to proceed.”
I typed back quickly.
“Not yet. Need the business meeting recordings first. He has to incriminate himself professionally, not just personally.”
Three dots appeared, then disappeared.
“Understood. Surveillance confirms he’s meeting with the Qatari investors tomorrow. We’ll have everything.”
I deleted the conversation, reapplied my lipstick, and studied my reflection. The woman staring back at me wasn’t who I used to be.
Eight years earlier, I’d been Sophie Martinez—fresh out of business school, idealistic and naive—accepting a position at my father’s international consulting firm in Dubai. I thought I was prepared for anything.
I wasn’t prepared for what I found there.
Dubai wasn’t about glittering skyscrapers, luxury cars, or seven-star hotels. Those were just the surface. What truly changed me was what lay beneath—the complex business negotiations conducted in Arabic over endless cups of gahwa, the unspoken rules, the cultural subtleties that could determine whether a deal succeeded or collapsed.
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My father’s firm had been struggling in the Middle Eastern market. Too many Western executives believed they could force their way through with American-style tactics. Too many lost contracts. Too many offended partners.
I watched deal after deal fall apart because no one on our team truly understood the culture, the language, the deeper currents of respect and relationship that governed everything.
So I learned. Not casually. Not superficially. Completely. I hired the best tutors, immersed myself in the language, and studied the culture with the same intensity I once reserved for corporate law.
I’d spent eight years mastering not only Arabic itself, but its many dialects—the regional variations, the subtle cues that separate someone truly fluent from someone merely functional. I’d lived in Dubai for six years, then spent another two years moving between Abu Dhabi, Riyadh, and Doha. I’d negotiated contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars, all while maintaining a pleasant smile as clients assumed I was just another attractive American woman who’d stumbled into a corporate role by chance.
Let them underestimate me. Their competitors certainly had, right up until I finalized deals they believed couldn’t be done. By the time I returned to Boston three months ago to step into the role of COO at Martinez Global Consulting, I could speak about everything from Islamic finance to regional politics in formal Arabic that would impress a scholar, then seamlessly shift into everyday street dialects without hesitation.
That was before I met Tariq al-Mansur at a charity fundraiser. He was handsome, charismatic, and a Harvard Business School graduate. He approached me at the bar, his accent faint, his English flawless.
He asked about my work and seemed genuinely engaged with my views on international markets. He was attentive, witty, and respectful. He was also very deliberate about mentioning—within the first twenty minutes—that he came from a well-known Saudi family with vast business interests throughout the Gulf.
Real estate, construction, import, export—the kind of diversified empire that had survived economic turbulence and come out stronger. I wasn’t drawn to his wealth—my father’s company had ensured money was never a concern—but to the potential business connections. Martinez Global had spent years trying to enter the Saudi market, yet the necessary relationships, the trust required, had always remained just beyond reach.
Tariq could be that link. Over the next month, he courted me with a careful mix of Western romance and old-world politeness. Elegant dinners, meaningful gifts, long discussions about everything from literature to politics.
He talked about his family, about growing up between Riyadh and Boston, about the difficulty of balancing two cultures. He never once spoke to me in Arabic. My family is traditional.
He’d explained on our sixth date, as we walked along the harbor. They’ll want to get to know you, but it might be overwhelming at first. They’ll speak mostly in Arabic among themselves.
Don’t take it personally. It’s just comfortable for them. I’d nodded, fully understanding.
I appreciate you warning me. I’ll do my best to make a good impression. He’d smiled and kissed my forehead.
