The Royal Palace conference room was cold despite Riyadh's heat. Khalid sat across from Uncle Faisal, who reviewed notes from intelligence operatives who'd watched the Dubai meeting.
"She agreed to your terms?" Faisal asked, not looking up.
"We established a preliminary framework. Separate residences, autonomy in business, public unity."
"Smart. Removes emotional complications." Faisal finally met Khalid's eyes. "But we need to accelerate the timeline. I want engagement announced within two weeks, marriage within three months."
"That's extremely fast."
"That's strategic." Faisal's expression hardened. "Regional dynamics are shifting. Iran is increasing pressure in Yemen. The Americans are reassessing their Middle East commitments. We need California access operational before circumstances change."
He's planning something, Khalid realized. Something bigger than this marriage.
"Three months doesn't allow proper preparation."
"Three months is generous. I could arrange it in three weeks." Faisal stood, signaling the meeting was ending. "The girl agreed. Her family is eager. Don't complicate this with Western sentimentality."
After Faisal left, Khalid remained in the conference room, processing. Acceleration meant urgency. Urgency meant vulnerability. Whatever Faisal was planning, this marriage was a component, not the objective.
His phone buzzed. Text from King Abdullah's private secretary: His Majesty requests your presence. Private majlis. Now.
King Abdullah's private majlis was smaller and more intimate than the formal receiving rooms. The king sat on cushions, seventy-three years old but sharp-eyed. Khalid's uncle by blood, but unlike Faisal, Abdullah had always treated him with cautious affection.
"Khalid." The king gestured for him to sit. "Tea?"
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
They observed rituals—tea poured, pleasantries exchanged. Then Abdullah's expression shifted.
"Faisal tells me you're proceeding with the American marriage."
"Yes, Your Majesty, if you approve."
"My approval was secured before you ever went to Dubai." Abdullah sipped his tea. "But I wanted to speak with you privately. Faisal wants this marriage for his own reasons, nephew. Make sure your reasons are stronger."
Khalid set down his cup carefully. "What reasons does Faisal have?"
"Power. Always power." The King's voice was tired. "He sees opportunity in chaos. Yemen destabilization, Iranian expansion, and American withdrawal—these create vacuums. Faisal intends to fill them."
"And the marriage?"
"Gives him access to American political infrastructure and intelligence networks. The Marchetti family has connections Faisal finds useful. " Abdullah leaned forward. "But those connections come with complications. The Americans protect the Marchettis because they're valuable. Make sure you understand why they're valuable before you marry into that family."
"Your Majesty, if you have concerns—"
"I have concerns about everything, nephew. That's why I'm still alive." The king's expression softened slightly. "But I also see how you navigate impossible situations with intelligence and care. If anyone can turn this arrangement into something worthwhile, it's you."
"I'll try not to disappoint."
"You rarely do. But Khalid—watch Faisal. He's ambitious, and ambitious men make dangerous allies."
Khalid returned to his estate to find his sister Amira waiting in his study, feet curled under her on his favorite chair.
"How did you get in?" Khalid asked.
"I'm your sister. I have keys." Amira smiled, but it faded quickly. "So you're actually doing this—marrying a stranger."
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting. I'm continuing a conversation we should've had before Dubai." She pulled out her tablet. "I've been researching the Marchettis. There are inconsistencies."
"Such as?"
"Their operations are too sophisticated. Five years ago, they were standard organized crime—violent, territorial, and predictable. Then something changed. Their expansion became strategic and coordinated. They started moving into tech, pharmaceuticals, and international distribution. Someone's running that family who isn't Victor Marchetti."
Khalid felt something cold settle in his chest. "You think Lucia—"
"I think someone in that family is much smarter than they appear." Amira met his eyes. "You like her. Actually like her. I can tell."
"It's an arrangement, Amira."
"Those are the most dangerous kind. Because you'll tell yourself feelings don't matter, and then they'll matter more than anything." She stood. "Just be careful, brother. People who hide that well usually have good reasons."
After Amira left, Khalid sat alone in his study. The white roses Lucia had sent sat on his desk, her note propped against them.
He'd read it a dozen times. "Two scorpions in a bottle? How dramatic. I prefer to think of us as two foxes circling the same henhouse."
The metaphor was clever—scorpions destroyed each other, but foxes could cooperate. And the Persian poet she'd quoted in response was lesser-known, suggesting deep study rather than casual knowledge.
At the bottom of her note, handwritten in elegant Arabic: Trust requires proof. Call me yourself, not through handlers. And a phone number.
"I've been trained since childhood to see through deception, to trust no one, to always maintain control," Khalid thought, staring at the number. And yet this woman I've known for three hours has already gotten under my skin. My father would call it weakness. I'm starting to think it might be the only honest thing about this entire arrangement.
He picked up his phone. Debate d. Every instinct trained into him screamed caution—don't call personally, maintain distance, use intermediaries.
But Lucia had offered direct contact. A challenge. Proof of trust, however small.
Khalid dialed.
The phone rang once. Twice. His heart rate increased, which irritated him. He didn't get nervous. He negotiated with warlords without breaking composure.
Three rings.
Then her voice, amused and knowing: "Took you long enough."
Khalid found himself smiling despite everything. "Ms. Marchetti."
"Lucia. If we're calling each other directly, we should probably use first names."
"Khalid, then."
"I know." He could hear the smile in her voice. "I've read your complete biography three times. Cambridge, Saudi intelligence, diplomatic corps. You speak five languages and have a weakness for Persian poetry. See? I do my homework."
"As do I. Stanford Economics, Oxford International Relations. You chair two charity foundations and serve on three corporate boards. Publicly, you're the acceptable face of a crime family."
"And privately?"
"That's what I'm trying to determine."
Lucia laughed, the sound genuine. "At least you're honest about it. Most men pretend they're not investigating me."
"I find pretense exhausting."
"So do I." Her tone shifted slightly. "Is your uncle listening to this call?"
"No. You?"
"My father doesn't know this number exists. Neither does the CIA."
Khalid felt something shift in his chest. She was offering real privacy, real conversation. No handlers, no family pressure.
"Why did you give me this number?" he asked.
"Because everyone else is making decisions for us. I thought we should have at least one conversation that's actually ours."
"That's..." Khalid paused, searching for the right word. "Unexpectedly honest."
"I'm full of surprises, Your Highness."
"Khalid
"Khalid," she repeated, and somehow his name in her voice sounded different. "So. Do we do this? Actually proceed with this arrangement?"
"Do you want to?"
"That's not the question. The question is whether we're smart enough to make it work for us instead of them."
Khalid looked at the white roses, at Riyadh's lights through his window, and at the life he'd built within boundaries set by others.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I think we're exactly that smart."
"Good." He could hear relief in Lucia's voice. "Because I'm tired of being underestimated, and you're the first person who doesn't seem stupid enough to do it."
"Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"Both. Definitely both."
They talked for another hour—about everything and nothing. Books they'd read, places they'd traveled, and the weight of family expectations. No negotiation, no strategy, just two people who'd been performing their entire lives finding brief respite in honesty.
When they finally hung up, Khalid sat in darkness, the phone still warm in his hand.
Dangerous, he thought. This is absolutely dangerous.
But for the first time in years, he felt something other than careful calculation.
He felt hope.
And in his world, hope was the most dangerous thing of all.