know Hassan is right about my father. He does love me, and he is doing this because he thinks it’s best for me, and for the clan. But that’s only part of his reasoning. He owes the al-Jabiri clan. Billions of dollars ride on this alliance; centuries of violent feuding between our clans would be settled by this marriage; my life, my family’s lives…the future of everyone I care about rests on my willingness to marry Hassan al-Jabiri. But I can’t. I just can’t . The thought of signing the marriage contract and speaking the binding words makes me physically ill, to say nothing of having to have physical relations with him.
I shudder and nearly vomit just thinking about it.
But I don’t see a way out.
My father never consulted me on his business deals, obviously. He’s old school, Old World. Despite the fact that he has been in America for a long time, the ancient Arabic cultural traditions he adheres to mean my opinion doesn’t count, especially not when it comes to men and their business. By listening in on conversations and picking up the odd detail, I know Father has done many deals with Hassan’s father over the years in attempts to stop the in-fighting and ally them together against the other clans. One deal followed another, and then another, and then things started to go wrong. A deal went sour, and suddenly Father owed them money for a shipment of cocaine and firearms intercepted by the DEA. To get out of that debt, Father had to do another deal, and another, and suddenly he owed Farouk al-Jabiri hundreds of millions of dollars.
And what was my father’s grand scheme to get out from under all that debt?
Marry his one and only daughter off to the al-Jabiri family. Yes, he still believes in dowries and brideprice and all that. He is very old school. Very, very old school. He may live in a twenty-first-century mansion and drive an Aston Martin and carry an iPhone, but his beliefs and way of life are set firmly in thirteenth-century Baghdad, and that’s no exaggeration.
I don’t know what to do and I have no one to turn to. God help me. I can’t marry Hassan, I just can’t. But I also can’t sit by and watch my family get murdered on my account.
And then there’s Carson, and I can’t even begin to figure out where he fits into all of this.
Nowhere, is the correct answer. But my heart and my body don’t seem to be getting that message.
I can still taste him on my lips; feel his hand pulling me ever so subtly. All I want is to flee into his arms and pretend he can make my problems go away.
If he knew the truth about my father’s “business” dealings, would he still want me? Would he tip off the feds to my father’s illegal activities? This is a very slippery slope.
Or would he protect me from Hassan?
I have no answers, and eventually my sobs subside.
My arms are bruised from Hassan’s fingers, and my apartment is trashed from my little display of power. The first thing I do is clean the mud from my coffee table and spray Febreze in the air, trying to erase any evidence of his presence.
The next thing I do is call my father. Next to Hassan, he’s the last person on earth I want to talk to right now, but I have to make sure the family is okay.
I dial his number and hold the phone to my ear.
“You have not called in a very long time, daughter,” my father’s voice rumbles in my ear. “I worry for you, alone in that barbaric city. You must come home. We have much to discuss.”
“Father, listen—” I start, but he cuts me off, talking over me.
“I am willing to forgive your disobedience in running away from me, but you must return home. Now, more than ever, I require your obedience. Hassan will escort you.”
“There has to be another way—”
“There is not!” He raises his voice, something he never does. He’s always, always calm. Never rushed, never perturbed, never angry. “You will marry Hassan! You must. I have made this clear to you, my
I shudder and nearly vomit just thinking about it.
But I don’t see a way out.
My father never consulted me on his business deals, obviously. He’s old school, Old World. Despite the fact that he has been in America for a long time, the ancient Arabic cultural traditions he adheres to mean my opinion doesn’t count, especially not when it comes to men and their business. By listening in on conversations and picking up the odd detail, I know Father has done many deals with Hassan’s father over the years in attempts to stop the in-fighting and ally them together against the other clans. One deal followed another, and then another, and then things started to go wrong. A deal went sour, and suddenly Father owed them money for a shipment of cocaine and firearms intercepted by the DEA. To get out of that debt, Father had to do another deal, and another, and suddenly he owed Farouk al-Jabiri hundreds of millions of dollars.
And what was my father’s grand scheme to get out from under all that debt?
Marry his one and only daughter off to the al-Jabiri family. Yes, he still believes in dowries and brideprice and all that. He is very old school. Very, very old school. He may live in a twenty-first-century mansion and drive an Aston Martin and carry an iPhone, but his beliefs and way of life are set firmly in thirteenth-century Baghdad, and that’s no exaggeration.
I don’t know what to do and I have no one to turn to. God help me. I can’t marry Hassan, I just can’t. But I also can’t sit by and watch my family get murdered on my account.
And then there’s Carson, and I can’t even begin to figure out where he fits into all of this.
Nowhere, is the correct answer. But my heart and my body don’t seem to be getting that message.
I can still taste him on my lips; feel his hand pulling me ever so subtly. All I want is to flee into his arms and pretend he can make my problems go away.
If he knew the truth about my father’s “business” dealings, would he still want me? Would he tip off the feds to my father’s illegal activities? This is a very slippery slope.
Or would he protect me from Hassan?
I have no answers, and eventually my sobs subside.
My arms are bruised from Hassan’s fingers, and my apartment is trashed from my little display of power. The first thing I do is clean the mud from my coffee table and spray Febreze in the air, trying to erase any evidence of his presence.
The next thing I do is call my father. Next to Hassan, he’s the last person on earth I want to talk to right now, but I have to make sure the family is okay.
I dial his number and hold the phone to my ear.
“You have not called in a very long time, daughter,” my father’s voice rumbles in my ear. “I worry for you, alone in that barbaric city. You must come home. We have much to discuss.”
“Father, listen—” I start, but he cuts me off, talking over me.
“I am willing to forgive your disobedience in running away from me, but you must return home. Now, more than ever, I require your obedience. Hassan will escort you.”
“There has to be another way—”
“There is not!” He raises his voice, something he never does. He’s always, always calm. Never rushed, never perturbed, never angry. “You will marry Hassan! You must. I have made this clear to you, my
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