The sound of laughter echoed through the Damascus Rose Restaurant’s private dining room as I sat perfectly still, my fork hovering over the untouched lamb on my plate. Around the long table, 12 members of the Almanzor family gestured animatedly, their Arabic flowing like water over stones, smooth, constant, deliberately excluding me. Before we jump back in, tell us where you’re tuning in from.
And if this story touches you, make sure you’re subscribed, because tomorrow, I’ve saved something extra special for you. My fiancé Tariq sat at the head of the table, his hand resting possessively on my shoulder as he translated absolutely nothing. His mother, Leila, watched me with those sharp falcon eyes from across the table, a slight smile playing at her lips.
She knew. They all knew. The crystal chandelier above cast dancing shadows across the white linen tablecloth as Tariq leaned toward his younger brother Omar, speaking in rapid Arabic.
The words flowed 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 prepare proper coffee, Tariq said, his voice dripping with amusement. Yesterday she used a machine.
A machine? Like we’re at some American diner, Omar snorted nearly choking on his wine. And you want to marry this one? Brother, what happened to your standards? I took a delicate sip of water, my face a careful mask of 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’d learned that sometimes the most powerful position is the one where everyone underestimates you. Tariq’s hand squeezed 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, Habibdi.
I smiled back, soft and grateful. That’s so sweet. Please tell her thank you.
What his mother had actually said, not thirty seconds ago, was that my dress was too tight and made me look cheap. But I nodded appreciatively, playing my part perfectly. The waiters brought out another course, delicate pastries drizzled with honey and pistachios.
Tariq’s father, Hassan, a distinguished man with silver threading through his dark hair, raised 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.
Everyone raised their glasses. I lifted mine, meeting his eyes across the table. He looked away first.
New Beginnings. Tariq’s sister, Amira, muttered in Arabic, just loud enough for the family 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 make? The kind who doesn’t know when she’s being insulted, Tariq replied smoothly. And the table erupted in laughter.
I laughed too. A small, uncertain sound, as if I were trying to be part of a joke I didn’t understand. Inside, I was calculating, documenting, adding every word to the growing list of transgressions I’d been compiling for months.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. I excused myself quietly, standing up from the table. Restroom, I murmured to Tariq.
He waved me away dismissively, already turning back to his cousin Khalid, 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, all marble and gold fixtures, elegant and cold. I locked myself in the furthest stall and pulled out my phone.
The message was from James Chen, my father’s company’s head of security, 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 needs to incriminate himself professionally, not just personally. Three dots appeared, then.
Understood. The surveillance team confirms he’s meeting with the Qatari investors tomorrow. We’ll have everything.
I deleted the conversation, refreshed my lipstick, and studied my reflection. The woman looking back at me wasn’t who I used to be. Eight years ago, 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 ready for anything. I wasn’t ready for what I found there. Dubai had been a revelation, not the glittering skyscrapers or the luxury cars or the seven-star hotels.
Those were just the surface. What changed me was the complexity underneath, the intricate business dealings conducted in Arabic over endless cups of gawa, the unspoken rules of negotiation, the cultural nuances that meant the difference between a successful deal and a catastrophic failure. Preparing and narrating this story took us a lot of time, so if you are enjoying it like this video, it means a lot to us.
Now back to the story. My father’s firm had been struggling in the Middle Eastern market. Too many Western executives who thought they could bulldoze through with American business tactics.
Too many lost contracts. Too many offended clients. I’d watched deal after deal collapse because no one on our team truly understood the culture, the language, the deeper currents of respect and relationship that governed everything.
So I’d learned. Not casually, not superficially, but completely. I’d hired the best tutors, immersed myself in the language, studied the culture with the intensity I’d once reserved for corporate law.
I’d spent eight years becoming fluent not just in Arabic, but in the dozens of dialects, the regional differences, the subtle distinctions that marked someone as truly knowledgeable versus merely capable. I’d lived in Dubai for six years, then two more years bouncing between Abu Dhabi, Riyadh, and Doha. I’d negotiated contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars, all while smiling politely as clients assumed I was just another pretty American girl who’d gotten lucky with a corporate job.
Let them underestimate me. Their competitors certainly did, right up until I closed deals they thought were impossible. By the time I returned to Boston three months ago to take over as COO of Martinez Global Consulting, I could discuss everything from Islamic finance to regional politics in formal Arabic that would make a scholar proud and switch to the casual dialect of the streets without missing a beat.
And then I’d met Tariq al-Mansur at a charity fundraiser. Handsome, charming, educated at Harvard Business School. He’d approached me at the bar, his accent barely noticeable, his English perfect.
He’d asked about my work, seemed genuinely interested in my opinions about international markets. He’d been attentive, funny, respectful. He’d also been very careful to mention, within the first 20 minutes, that he came from a prominent Saudi family with extensive business holdings across the Gulf region.
Real estate, construction, import, export, the kind of diversified empire that had weathered economic storms and emerged stronger. I’d been intrigued, not by his money, my father’s company had made sure I’d never need to worry about finances, but by the business opportunities. Martinez Global had been trying to break into the Saudi market for years, but the connections required, the trust that needed to be built, had always been just out of reach.
Tariq could be that bridge. Over the next month, he’d courted me with the perfect blend of Western romance and old world courtesy. Expensive restaurants, thoughtful gifts, long conversations about everything from literature to politics.
He’d told me about his family, about growing up between Riyadh and Boston, about the challenges of straddling two cultures. He’d never once spoken to me in Arabic. My family is traditional.
He’d explained during 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, understanding.
I appreciate you warning me. I’ll do my best to make a good impression. He’d smiled, kissed my forehead.
