As I returned to the table, the laughter subsided, and the conversation shifted to business affairs, another topic I was supposedly too ignorant to grasp. The Almanzor family prided themselves on their extensive business empire, deeply woven into international markets. Their arrogance knew no bounds, and they reveled in the belief that I was just an accessory to their son’s success.
Tariq turned to his father, speaking in Arabic with an air of self-assuredness. “The American company’s proposal is on the table. Our position is strong; they will never suspect our true intentions.”
Hassan nodded, a sly smile playing on his lips, oblivious to my comprehension. “We will squeeze them dry, use their resources to bolster our own before discarding them.”
The conversation was a strategic dance of deceit and manipulation. Little did they know the trap was already set, with every detail meticulously recorded and translated. My father, a shrewd businessman himself, had trained me well. The Almanzors saw only what they wanted: a feeble American girl, naive and easily exploited.
As dinner progressed, Tariq turned his attention back to me, his voice laced with faux affection. “You should try the baklava, darling. It’s made the traditional way, not like the sugary versions you find in America.”
I smiled, nodding, playing my part. Inside, I was boiling, but my resolve remained unshaken. I was determined to see this through, to expose their duplicity not just for my own sake, but for every person they had underestimated and manipulated.
Amira leaned closer, her voice dripping with condescension. “Have you picked up any Arabic words yet, dear? It must be so confusing for you.”
I met her gaze, my expression unflinching. “Just a few,” I replied demurely. “But I’m a quick learner.”
The night wore on with a blend of casual insults and thinly veiled plans spoken in Arabic, all of which I stored away like precious ammunition. Tariq and his family had no idea that every time they mocked my heritage or my supposed ignorance, they were fortifying my resolve.
As we finally rose to leave, Tariq’s mother gave me a perfunctory goodbye, her eyes colder than the night air outside. “Good night, dear. I trust you’ll find your way home?”
I nodded, thanking her politely as Tariq escorted me to the car. Once inside, the facade dropped, exhaustion creeping in. But beneath the fatigue was a simmering determination, a fierce readiness for the storm that was about to break.
In the privacy of the car, Tariq was more relaxed, less guarded. “You were quiet tonight,” he commented, his tone light. “I hope you weren’t too bored.”
