That is not how we conduct ourselves. That is not the culture we claim to represent. He stood and everyone else rose with him, except Tariq.
Who seemed incapable of movement. Martinez Global Consulting will be filing a civil lawsuit against Al Mansoor Holdings for damages resulting from corporate espionage. The amount will be substantial.
We estimate somewhere in the range of 200 million dollars based on lost contracts and damaged business relationships. Whether criminal charges are filed will depend on Mr. Al Mansoor’s cooperation with authorities. I’ll cooperate.
Tariq said quickly. Whatever you need, please, I’ll do anything. You’ll start, my father said, by providing a complete accounting of every piece of information you obtained from Richard Torres and from Sophie.
Every document, every strategy discussion, every client detail. You’ll identify every person at Blackstone Consulting who was involved in this scheme and you’ll testify under oath about all of it. I will.
I swear. And you’ll stay away from my daughter, my father continued. No contact, no messages, no attempts to explain or apologize.
If you come near her, if you try to reach out to her, I will personally ensure that criminal charges are filed immediately. Are we clear? Yes, perfectly clear. I looked at Tariq, this man I’d almost married, seeing him clearly for the first time.
Without the charm, without the carefully constructed image, he was just a small man who’d thought he could cheat his way to success. You asked me once why I worked so hard, I said quietly. Why I cared so much about my career.
You said it like it was a character flaw, something that made me less desirable as a wife. But this is why, Tariq, because I never wanted to be dependent on someone like you, someone who sees people as tools to be used and discarded. He had nothing to say to that.
Sheikh Abdullah walked to the door, the ministry officials following. Mr. Martinez, Miss Martinez, my car is waiting to take you back to your office. Mr. Almanzor will remain here to provide his initial statement to these officials.
I believe we are finished with the pleasant part of this conversation. As we left, I took one last look at Tariq, sitting alone at that massive conference table, surrounded by the evidence of his betrayal. He looked smaller somehow, diminished.
The doors closed behind us with a quiet click that sounded like finality. The ride back to the office was quiet. Sheikh Abdullah had departed for the airport, but not before embracing my father warmly and promising continued partnership.
Trust is everything in our business, he’d said. You protected that trust. We will remember.
My father glanced at me from the driver’s seat. How are you holding up? Better than I expected, I admitted. I thought I’d feel something, anger, satisfaction, maybe even sadness.
But mostly I just feel relieved, like I’ve been holding my breath for months and can finally exhale. That’s normal. You’ve been living a double life, pretending to be someone you’re not.
That takes a toll. My phone had been buzzing constantly since we left the hotel. I finally looked at it.
17 missed calls from Tariq’s mother. 12 from Amira, 8 from Omar. A flood of text messages, progressively more frantic.
The most recent was from Leila, sent 10 minutes ago. What have you done to my son? What lies have you told? Call me immediately. I showed it to my father.
He read it and shook his head. They still don’t understand. They think you’re the villain in this story.
Should I respond? That’s entirely up to you. Legally, there’s no reason you can’t. But emotionally? Sophie, you don’t owe them anything.
I thought about it for a moment, then typed out a response in Arabic. I told no lies. Your son’s actions spoke for themselves.
Everything that happened today was a consequence of his choices, not mine. Do not contact me again. I sent it and immediately blocked all of their numbers.
What did you say? My father asked. I told her the truth. In Arabic.
Let her choke on that, he smiled grimly. That’s my girl. Back at the office, Patricia was waiting with updates.
The lawsuit is filed. Almanzor Holdings will be served within the hour. I’ve also prepared a cease and desist letter for Blackstone Consulting.
They’re trying to distance themselves from the whole affair, claiming they had no knowledge of the stolen information. Do we believe that? I asked. Not for a second.
But proving their direct involvement will take time. For now, we’ve made it clear that any attempt to use the information Tariq provided will result in immediate legal action. What about Richard? He’s cooperating fully.
Provided us with copies of everything he sent to Tariq, along with detailed timelines. It’s more than enough to build our case. As agreed, we won’t pursue criminal charges, but his career in this industry is over.
I nodded, feeling a complex mix of emotions about Richard. He’d betrayed us, yes, but at least he’d owned it in the end. Unlike Tariq, who’d tried to deflect and minimize until confronted with overwhelming evidence.
There’s one more thing, James said, entering the office. We’ve been monitoring communications from the Almanzor family. Hassan, Tariq’s father, tried to call Sheikh Abdullah about an hour ago.
The Sheikh didn’t take the call, but his office released a statement to several business networks in the Gulf. He handed me a printout. I read it aloud.
Sheikh Abdullah Al-Thani’s investment group wishes to clarify that we have no business relationship with Almanzor Holdings, nor will we consider any future dealings with this entity. Recent events have demonstrated a fundamental lack of integrity that is incompatible with our business standards. We encourage all partners in the region to conduct their own due diligence.
That’s a death sentence, my father said quietly. In that community, a statement like that from someone of the Sheikh’s standing? Almanzor Holdings will be radioactive. They earned it, Patricia said simply.
My phone rang again, this time from an unknown number with a Boston area code. Against my better judgment, I answered. Sophie Martinez.
Leila’s voice was ice and fury. You will meet with me today. We need to discuss this situation like adults.
I switched to Arabic, my tone matching hers. Mrs. Almanzor, there is nothing to discuss. Your son committed corporate espionage.
He used our engagement to steal from my family’s company. These are facts, not opinions open for debate. There was a sharp intake of breath.
You speak Arabic? All this time? All this time. Every dinner, every conversation, every cruel joke. I understood all of it, a long pause.
When she spoke again, her voice had changed. Less imperious, more calculating. Then you understand this was just business.
Nothing personal. In our world, we do what we must to protect our families, our interests. In my world, Mrs. Almanzor, we call that fraud.
And we prosecute it. You’re making a mistake. My family has connections, resources.
We can make this very difficult for you. Your family had connections, I corrected. Past tense.
Sheikh Abdullah’s statement has already circulated. By tomorrow, every major player in the Gulf will know exactly what your son attempted. Your threats are empty.
You vindictive? She started, but I disconnected. My father raised an eyebrow. Threats already? Hollow ones.
She’s panicking. Their reputation is destroyed. And she’s trying to salvage something.
But there’s nothing left to salvage. Over the next three days, the situation unfolded with devastating efficiency. The lawsuit proceeded.
With Almanzor Holdings unable to mount any credible defense against the mountain of evidence we’d compiled. Their lawyers contacted ours about settlement discussions. But Patricia held firm.
Full damages plus legal fees. Nothing less. Blackstone Consulting, facing their own potential legal exposure, terminated their relationship with the Almanzors and offered to cooperate with our investigation in exchange for limited immunity.
Patricia accepted, extracting even more documentation of Tariq’s scheme. The story, while not made public in detail, rippled through the international business community. Quietly, efficiently, the Almanzor family found themselves isolated.
Contracts were canceled. Partners withdrew. Investors backed away.
Hassan tried to reach my father twice, looking for some way to negotiate. My father refused both calls. On the fourth day, I received a letter.
Not an email. Not a text. But an actual handwritten letter, delivered by courier to my apartment.
It was from Tariq. I almost threw it away without reading. But curiosity won.
I opened it standing by my kitchen counter, coffee growing cold beside me. Sophie, it began. I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness.
Or even for you to read this. But I need to say these things, even if only for myself. You were right about everything.
I did use you. I did mock you. I did view our relationship as a transaction.
I told myself it was just business. That everyone operates this way in international dealings. I convinced myself that because you came from privilege, because your father’s company was successful, somehow that made it acceptable to steal from you.
I was wrong. Not just strategically wrong, but morally wrong. You didn’t deserve what I did, what my family did.
You showed up to our dinners with an open heart, trying to build connections with my family. And we repaid you with cruelty and contempt. The worst part is that I started to actually care about you, somewhere along the way.
Not at first. At first, you were exactly what I told my family, a means to an end. But as months went by, I saw your intelligence, your dedication, your strength.
I started to admire you, even as I was betraying you. I could have stopped. I should have stopped.
But I was too proud, too committed to the plan, too convinced that I could have it both ways. The business advantages and the relationship. My family has lost everything.
My father won’t speak to me. My mother blames me for destroying our reputation. Omar and Amira have been disinvited from social events because of their association with me.
Hassan’s construction company lost three major contracts in one week. I’m not telling you this to gain sympathy. I’m telling you because you should know that there were consequences.
Real ones. The kind that will follow my family for years. I’m leaving Boston.
Going back to Saudi Arabia. Though I don’t know what kind of life awaits me there now. Sheikh Abdullah’s statement has made me persona non grata in business circles.
And my father’s anger has made me unwelcome in my own family. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.
But I want you to know that I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry. Not just for getting caught, but for doing it in the first place.
You deserved someone who valued you for who you are, not for what you could provide. I hope someday you find that person. I hope you continue to succeed in business.
Continue to prove that underestimating you is the worst mistake anyone can make. And I hope, years from now, when you think of me at all, it’s with the satisfaction of knowing you beat me at my own game. You were always smarter than I gave you credit for.
That might be the truest thing I ever say about you, Tariq. I read it twice, then set it down on the counter. It was a good apology as apologies went.
Sincere, accepting responsibility, not making excuses. The kind of apology that might have meant something if it had come earlier. If it had come before, the betrayal was exposed.
But it hadn’t. This was the apology of someone who’d been caught, not someone who’d genuinely changed. The timing revealed its limitations.
I took a photo of the letter. Documentation. Always documentation.
Then shredded it. My father called that afternoon. Settlement offer just came through.
They’re offering the full 200 million plus legal fees. They want this over before it goes to trial and becomes public record. What do you think? I think we’ve already won what matters.
The money is important. But the real victory is the message we sent. You don’t steal from your partners.
You don’t use people. And you certainly don’t assume that someone’s silence means ignorance. Accept the settlement, I said.
Let’s close this chapter. Agreed. Three weeks later, I stood in the same Damascus Rose restaurant where it had all started, but this time in a different private room.
