After Khalid left, Lucia stood at the window for five full minutes, processing. The Gulf stretched below, dark water reflecting city lights. Somewhere down there, Khalid was leaving the hotel, probably debriefing with his security team the same way she was about to debrief with her father.
The encrypted call connected on the second ring.
"Well?" Victor's voice was demanding and impatient. "How did it go?"
"He's intelligent. Educated. More pragmatic than I expected."
"That's not what I asked. Is he stupid, Lucia? Can we control him?"
She thought about Khalid's careful questions, the way he'd tested her knowledge, and how quickly he'd recognized her Arabic wasn't casual tourist phrases. "No one who survives the Al-Saud family is stupid, Papa. But yes, I think we can manage him."
It was a lie. Khalid wasn't manageable. He was calculating and careful, performing charm while running assessments. He was dangerous precisely because he didn't seem dangerous.
But her father needed to hear confidence, not complications.
"Good. Marco wanted to fly to Dubai himself and handle negotiations directly. I told him you were better suited." Victor's tone shifted slightly. "Don't make me regret that decision."
There it is, Lucia thought. Marco's resentment wasn't just wounded pride—he was actively undermining her with their father.
"I won't. We discussed terms. Separate residences, autonomy in business, public appearances as needed. Standard arrangement."
"He agreed to that?"
"He proposed it."
Victor was quiet for a moment. "Smart. Removes emotional complications. You can work with that?"
"Of course."
"Then proceed. But Lucia—we need their oil connections, their government access. That's non-negotiable. Whatever it takes."
"I understand."
After hanging up, Lucia poured herself vodka from the suite's bar. Her hands were steady. They were always steady. She'd trained herself years ago not to show reaction, not to let emotion interfere with calculation.
But Khalid had gotten under her skin somehow. The way he'd looked at her—not dismissively, not lecherously, but with genuine evaluation. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle and respected the complexity of it.
Dangerous. Absolutely dangerous.
Her phone buzzed. Director Chen.
"Well?" His voice was sharp with expectation.
"The meeting went well. He's interested in proceeding."
"What did you discuss?"
"Terms of the arrangement. Residences, autonomy, public expectations." Lucia kept her voice professionally neutral. "The prince is exactly what he seems—a pragmatic businessman in royal clothing. No threat."
Another lie. Chen would want to know about Khalid's intelligence, his assessment capabilities, and how he'd tested her knowledge. But that information was Lucia's leverage, not the CIA's.
"His security detail?"
"Standard. Head of security named Yusuf, a former intelligence operative. Discreet team, professional."
"I want a full debrief when you return to Los Angeles."
"Of course, Director."
She hung up before he could demand more.
Lucia pulled up her tablet, accessing security footage from hotel cameras she'd hacked earlier. She'd learned long ago that information was power, and power meant seeing things before others knew they were visible.
The footage showed Khalid leaving the hotel, Yusuf at his side. They walked like soldiers—aware of surroundings, scanning for threats, never relaxing. As they reached their car, Yusuf's hand moved to his waist, an unconscious gesture toward where a weapon would be.
Lucia froze the frame and zoomed in on Yusuf's face. Ran it through facial recognition connected to CIA databases she wasn't supposed to have access to.
The file that came back was heavily redacted, but enough details remained: Yusuf Al-Mazroui, forty-five, was Saudi intelligence for twenty years before joining Khalid's personal security. Classified operations across three continents. Confirmed kills: at least twelve.
At least.
She studied his face in the frozen image. This wasn't just a bodyguard. This was an assassin who'd chosen to protect one specific prince. Why? Loyalty Strategy? Or was Khalid more valuable—more dangerous—than his fifth-in-line status suggested?
Questions. Always questions.
Lucia closed the tablet and returned to the window. The city glittered below, oblivious to the calculations happening in expensive hotel rooms.
She hated that she'd been attracted to Khalid. She hated that when he smiled, something in her chest tightened. Hated that his intelligence had impressed her, that his directness had felt like relief after years of performing for men who wanted her decorative and silent.
"Attraction is a weakness I can't afford," Lucia thought, finishing her vodka. But denying it won't make it disappear. So I'll do what I always do—acknowledge it, weaponize it, and make sure he never knows the knife is there until it's already between his ribs.
The suite phone rang. Hotel staff.
"Ms. Marchetti, a delivery has arrived for you."
"Send it up."
Five minutes later, she signed for a massive arrangement of white roses—expensive, elegant, and completely inappropriate. The card was in Arabic, in formal script.
Lucia translated mentally, "Two scorpions in a bottle will fight until one remains. Unless they're both clever enough to break the glass together." - Ancient Persian proverb
She read it twice, then laughed—a dark, genuine sound that surprised her.
"He knows this is war," she said to the empty suite. "Good."
She sat at the desk, pulled out hotel stationery, and wrote her reply in careful Arabic: "Breaking glass requires trust. Trust requires proof. Neither of us has offered proof yet. But perhaps we're both clever enough to try."
She called the concierge. "I need these flowers delivered to Prince Khalid bin Rashid Al-Saud. He's staying at the Armani Hotel."
"Of course, Ms. Marchetti. Shall I include your note?"
"Yes. And make sure it's delivered personally tonight."
After arranging the delivery, Lucia changed into comfortable clothes and opened her laptop. She had work to do—real work, not the performance she'd just given three different audiences.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her father: Marco wants to discuss the Saudi situation when you return. Handle him carefully.
Translation: Her brother was planning something, and even Victor was concerned.
Another text, this one from Sophia: How'd it go with the prince? Is he as hot as his photos?
Lucia almost smiled. Her cousin was one of the few people who could ask questions like that without ulterior motive.
She typed back, "He's intelligent." That's more dangerous than attractive.
Sophia's reply came immediately: So he's hot. Got it. Try not to kill each other before the wedding.
"No promises," Lucia responded.
She set down the phone and stared at the roses Khalid had sent. White roses meant secrecy in Victorian flower language. And the scorpion metaphor—acknowledging they were both dangerous, both trapped, and both capable of mutual destruction.
He was playing the same game she was. Performing, calculating, and planning. The question was whether they'd end up as allies or adversaries.
Or both, Lucia thought.
In her world, those categories weren't mutually exclusive.
She opened a secure file on her laptop and began typing notes from the evening. Not for her father, not for Chen—for herself. Everything Khalid had revealed through careful questions and calculated responses. Every micro-expression she'd caught, every hesitation, every moment of genuine reaction beneath the diplomatic mask.
Information was power. And she was going to need all the power she could gather.
Because Victor was wrong. Khalid wasn't manageable. He was brilliant and careful and far more dangerous than his public persona suggested.
Which meant this marriage—if it happened—would be either the best strategic alliance she'd ever negotiated or the worst mistake of her life.
Possibly both.
She finished her notes and closed the laptop. Outside, Dubai continued its glittering indifference. Somewhere in the city, Khalid was probably doing the exact same analysis, writing the same kind of notes, and preparing for the same game.
Two scorpions in a bottle, she thought again, looking at the white roses.
The question wasn't whether they'd fight. The question was whether they'd fight each other or fight together against everyone trying to control them.
Time would tell.
But Lucia was betting on the second option.
Because she'd never met anyone who understood the performance quite like Khalid seemed to. And that understanding, dangerous as it was, felt like something worth protecting. Even if it killed her.