It took every ounce of self-control to maintain my façade of oblivion. I took a sip of water, projecting the same polite confusion I had perfected during my years in Dubai. There, I had learned that being underestimated was a powerful tool. My expression remained calm, even as Tariq’s mother, Leila, commented on my appearance, her words cutting like a knife disguised as a compliment.

Tariq translated, her words wrapped in a sugary lie, “My mother said you look beautiful tonight, Habibti.” I responded with a soft smile, as if I accepted the compliment without question, while the truth of Leila’s insult burned in my mind.

Amira, Tariq’s sister, joined the chorus of condescension. “She doesn’t even speak our language,” she whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. Tariq’s response, quick and polished, garnered laughter from the family, excluding me further from their circle.

As laughter echoed, I excused myself, retreating to the restroom. There, in the privacy of marble and porcelain, I received a message from James Chen, my father’s head of security. The audio files, my meticulous documentation of the family’s derogatory remarks, had been successfully transcribed. My father was eager to know if I was ready to act.

I texted back, my fingers swift on the keyboard. ‘Not yet. We need professional incrimination, not just personal.’ I deleted the conversation, refreshed my makeup, and returned to the table, where Hassan, Tariq’s father, was raising his glass in a toast.