Just be yourself. They’ll love you. What he’d meant was, just be the naive American girl who doesn’t understand what we’re saying about you.
The first family dinner had been two months ago, shortly after Tariq proposed. I’d accepted his proposal not out of love. I’d learned long ago to be pragmatic about relationships, but because it made strategic sense.
A merger of families and businesses, his connections in the contracts. My father had been skeptical. You don’t love him, Sophie.
Love is a luxury. I’d replied. This is business.
Business shouldn’t require you to marry someone. Then think of it as an extended negotiation. I’ll know within six months if he’s genuine or if he’s using me for access to our company.
Either way, I’ll get what I need. What I’d gotten was an education in just how wrong I’d been about Tariq. That first dinner, I’d sat quietly as his family had discussed me in Arabic as if I were a piece of furniture.
His mother had criticized everything from my hair to my clothes to my career. His father had questioned whether I could bear strong sons. His siblings had made jokes about white women being too independent, too opinionated, too American.
And Tariq had joined in, laughing, adding his own observations about how I was so focused on my career that I barely cooked, about how I’d need to learn my place in a proper household, about how he was doing me a favor by offering marriage. Because at 29, I was already approaching the age where my options would dwindle. I’d smiled through all of it, asking occasionally what everyone was saying, accepting Tariq’s translated lies with apparent gratitude.
Then I’d gone home and made a list. The bathroom door opened, and I heard Amira’s voice speaking rapid Arabic to someone on her phone. I waited, letting her finish her call, listening as she complained about having to sit through dinner with that American woman who can’t even hold a proper conversation.
When I emerged from the stall, she was touching up her makeup at the mirror. She glanced at me, her expression shifting to polite disinterest. The food is wonderful, I said in English, my accent carefully maintained, slightly struggling with the formal tone.
Everything is so different from what I’m used to. Yes, well, Amira replied in heavily accented English. Our cuisine is very sophisticated, not like your burgers and fries.
I laughed lightly as if she’d made a joke instead of an insult. I have so much to learn. Tariq has been very patient with me.
Something flickered in her eyes, surprise maybe, or suspicion. But it passed quickly. My brother is very kind, too kind sometimes.
I washed my hands slowly, watching her in the mirror. I hope your family will help me understand your culture better. It means so much to Tariq that I fit in.
Fitting in, she said carefully, requires more than just wanting to. It requires understanding, respect, knowing your place. I understand, I said softly, meeting her eyes.
I really do. She studied me for a long moment, then turned back to her lipstick. We should return to dinner.
It’s rude to leave the men waiting too long. We walked back together in silence. As we approached the private dining room, I could hear the men’s voices, louder now, emboldened by wine and the certainty of privacy.
She’s a means to an end, Tariq was saying. Her father’s company has connections throughout Asia and Europe that we need. Once we’re married, those doors open for us.
After a few years, if it doesn’t work out, divorce is always an option. We’ll have extracted what we need by then, Omar laughed. And she has no idea? None.
She thinks this is a love match. She actually believes I’m charmed by her ambition and her career. His voice dripped with mockery, as if I’d actually want a wife who thinks she’s my equal.
I paused just outside the doorway, letting Amira enter ahead of me. Taking one more breath, settling my expression into something soft and adoring. Then I walked back to my seat, smiling at Tariq as he pulled out my chair.
Did I miss anything interesting? I asked. Just boring business talk, he assured me, his hand finding mine under the table. You know how we are when we get together.
I love watching you with your family, I said, and meant it. I loved watching him reveal exactly who he was. You’re so different with them.
More yourself, he squeezed my hand, pleased. They bring out the real me. Yes, I thought.
They certainly do. Dessert arrived, small cups of strong coffee and dates stuffed with almonds. Hassan raised his cup in another toast, this time speaking entirely in Arabic.
To my son’s clever match, may he extract every advantage from this alliance, and may the American girl remain blissfully ignorant of her purpose. Everyone laughed. I raised my cup, smiling uncertainly, waiting for Tariq’s translation.
My father wishes us happiness and prosperity, Tariq said smoothly. That’s beautiful, I murmured. Please thank him for me.
As the family continued their conversation, weaving between English and Arabic depending on whether they wanted me to understand, I thought about the recordings James’s team had been making. Every family dinner for the past two months, captured on the custom jewelry I wore. The necklace Tariq had given me, which I’d had modified by our security team.
The earrings I’d purchased myself, fitted with surveillance technology so sophisticated it could pick up conversations from 20 feet away in a crowded room. Every word, every insult, every revelation of their true intentions, documented and translated by our team of linguists. But I needed more than personal grievances.
I needed business documentation. Because this wasn’t just about Tariq’s betrayal. It was about the bigger picture I’d uncovered three weeks ago.
Tariq’s company, Al Mansoor Holdings, had been in secret negotiations with one of my father’s biggest competitors, the Blackstone Consulting Group. They were planning a joint venture that would specifically target Martinez Global’s Middle Eastern clients, using information that Tariq had been gathering from casual conversations with me about our business strategies. I’d discovered it by accident, finding an email on his laptop when he’d left it open in my apartment.
He’d been careless, confident in his assumption that I wouldn’t understand the Arabic portions of the correspondence. The email had laid out the entire plan. Use the engagement to get closer to Martinez Global.
Extract client lists and strategic plans. Then launch a competitive venture that would undercut our pricing and poach our major accounts. It was brilliant, actually.
And it would have worked perfectly if I’d been who he thought I was. Instead, I’d copied the files, brought them to my father and our legal team, and we’d begun planning our response. Not a defensive one.
We didn’t play defense at Martinez Global. An offensive one. A complete dismantling of Al Mansoor Holdings’ business operations, using every legal mechanism available.
But we needed concrete proof of the espionage. The emails alone weren’t enough. They could claim they were preliminary discussions.
Nothing actionable. We needed recordings of the actual business meetings. Evidence of Tariq actively sharing proprietary information.
That’s where tomorrow’s meeting with the Qatari investors came in. Tariq had told me he had a conference call scheduled. Nothing important.
What he actually had was an in-person meeting with Sheikh Abdullah Al Thani and his investment team, where he planned to present detailed analysis of Martinez Global’s Middle Eastern operations, analysis based entirely on confidential information I’d supposedly shared with him in intimate conversations. What Tariq didn’t know was that Sheikh Abdullah was actually a longtime friend of my father’s. They’d worked together for 15 years, built a relationship based on trust and mutual respect.
When my father had reached out to explain the situation, the Sheikh had been outraged at the disrespect shown to both our family and to the business relationships he valued. He’d agreed to take the meeting, to let Tariq incriminate himself thoroughly, while recording every moment. Sophie? Tariq’s voice broke through my thoughts.
Where did you go? You looked so far away? I blinked, refocusing on his face. Sorry, I was just thinking about how lucky I am. Your family is wonderful.
Layla, his mother, said something in Arabic that made the entire table laugh. Tariq translated. She says you’re very sweet.
What she’d actually said was that I looked like a cow staring at a new gate, stupid and confused. Your mother is so kind, I replied, smiling warmly at Layla. I hope someday I can communicate with her better.
Maybe I should take some Arabic lessons? The suggestion landed like a stone in still water. The conversation paused. Tariq’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his fork.
That’s not necessary, he said quickly. You’re so busy with work and Arabic is very difficult for Americans to learn. The grammar alone would take years to master.
Your fiancé should focus on learning to be a good wife, Hassan said in English, his voice carrying the weight of pronouncement. Language skills are less important than understanding proper duties. I nodded obediently, but I’d seen what I needed to see, the flash of concern in Tariq’s eyes, the quick glance he’d exchanged with his mother.
They didn’t want me to learn Arabic. They needed me ignorant. The dinner wound down slowly, multiple rounds of tea and coffee, more desserts I didn’t touch.
The men moved to one end of the table, discussing business in lowered voices. The women gathered at the other end, and for the first time that evening, Layla addressed me directly in English. My son tells me you work very hard, she said, her accent thick, but her words carefully chosen.
Yes, I love my job. I’m very fortunate to work for my father’s company. And after marriage, you will continue this work? It was a test.
I could feel all the women watching me, waiting for my answer. Tariq and I have discussed it, I said carefully. We want to make decisions together, as partners, Amira snorted softly.
Layla’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes grew colder. A wife’s first duty is to her husband and family, she said. Career is for men.
Women should support, not compete. Of course, I murmured. Family is most important.
You agree then? After marriage, you will leave your job? This was the moment. I could see Tariq watching from across the table, pretending not to listen. This was what he wanted.
Confirmation that I would give up my position at Global, making it easier for him to access our business from the inside while I played housewife. I want whatever Tariq wants, I said softly. His happiness is my priority.
Layla smiled, satisfied. Tariq relaxed visibly. I’d passed the test, confirmed their assumptions about my malleability.
What they didn’t know was that my father had already promoted me to COO last month, with a guaranteed 10-year contract and equity stake. I wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, mercifully, dinner ended.
We said our goodbyes in the restaurant’s elegant foyer, air kisses and promises to see each other again soon. Hassan gripped Tariq’s shoulder, saying something in Arabic about sealing the deal quickly, before I got any ideas. In the car, Tariq was effusive.
You were perfect tonight, Habibti. My family absolutely loves you. Really? I was so nervous.
I felt like I couldn’t understand half of what was happening. That’s exactly right, he said, then caught himself. I mean, that’s natural.
It takes time to feel comfortable with a new family, especially when there’s a language barrier. Tell me honestly, I said turning to face him. Did they like me? Your mother seemed… I don’t know… distant? She’s always like that at first.
It’s her way. But trust me, she was very impressed. She told me… he paused, choosing his words carefully.
She told me you seem very sweet and respectful. Those are qualities she values highly. I smiled, relieved.
That means so much. I really want your family’s approval. You have it, he assured me, his hand finding my knee.
Now stop worrying. Let’s go back to your place. I’ve barely seen you all week.
I let him take me home, let him kiss me at the door, let him assume that everything was going according to his plan. When he left around midnight, claiming an early morning meeting, I immediately went to my laptop. The files James had sent were waiting, encrypted and secure.
I downloaded them, poured myself a glass of wine, and began reading through the transcripts from tonight’s dinner. Every insult, every joke at my expense, every strategic discussion about how to best exploit my father’s company, all of it documented in perfect detail, translated by our team’s Arabic specialists, time stamped and verified. But it was the conversation from the men’s end of the table, during the last half hour of dinner, that made me set down my wine glass, the Martinez contract in Abu Dhabi.
Hassan had said to Tariq, You’re certain you can acquire the details? Absolutely. Sophie tells me everything. She thinks she’s impressing me with her business acumen.
She doesn’t realize she’s giving me exactly what we need to undercut their bid. And the Qatar expansion? They’re planning something with Sheikh Abdullah’s group. I know.
I’ll have the full proposal by next week. Sophie’s been working on it constantly. She’ll share it with me.
She always does. She trusts me completely. Good.
Once we have that information, we can present our own version to the Sheikh. Blackstone is ready to move as soon as we give them the data. My father’s Qatar expansion.
The project I’d been developing for eight months, involving potential contracts worth over $200 million. The proposal I’d been careful to keep completely confidential, even from my own team, until we were ready to present. Tariq thought I’d shared it with him.
He thought I’d been talking about it during our intimate moments, pillow talk and casual conversation. I hadn’t told him anything about Qatar. I’d been testing him for the last month, mentioning a fake project in Kuwait instead, sharing just enough false details to seem genuine.
And I’d watched as those exact details appeared in intercepted communications between Tariq and his Blackstone contacts. He was taking information I wasn’t even giving him and running with it. Which meant he had other sources.
Someone inside my father’s company was feeding him real intelligence. We had a mole. I opened a secure chat with James.
We have a bigger problem than we thought. There’s someone inside feeding Tariq real information. He knows about Qatar, and I never mentioned it to him.
