Chapter One: The Sixteenth Floor Ahmed's POV The shisha smoke curls lazy through the air, sweet and heavy with something that makes the edges blur just right. I draw another pull from grandfather's white marble piece—the one he smuggled out of Riyadh in '82, back when smoking wasn't haram if you were rich enough. The water bubbles, and I taste cardamom and something chemical that Ali mixed in earlier without asking. Not that I care. Fifth night in Dubai and we've finally escaped the sterile bullshit of Jumeirah clubs where even the cocaine feels sanitized. This is better. Rawer. The sixteenth floor of this half-dead building project is perfect—exposed rebar jutting from concrete like broken teeth, dust coating everything, the kind of place where you can see all of Dubai's glittering skyline and remember it's built on sand and lies. Omar's sprawled on a bean bag to my left, joint between his lips, eyes half-mast. Ryan's next to him, same energy, that slow-motion laugh he does when he's properly gone. Mishal's on his back staring at the ceiling, needle still dangling from his arm because he likes the aesthetic of it, the whole tortured prince thing. And Ali. Ali's sitting upright on a torn sofa that probably cost someone their life savings before the developer went bankrupt. Back straight. One leg crossed over the other. Black designer hoodie, black shorts, expensive watch catching the ambient light from the city below. Even in loungewear, everything about him screams money—the kind you don't have to announce. His great-grandfather's shisha—the black marble one with gold Arabic calligraphy and those insane carved hunting scenes—rests beside him. He's not smoking anymore. Just watching the city like he's calculating its net worth. That's the thing about my cousin. Ali doesn't relax. He just... pauses between calculations. "This was a good call," I say, more to fill the silence than anything. "Better than another night watching Russian models pretend to enjoy themselves." Ali doesn't look at me. "The clubs are theater. This is honest." "Honest." I laugh, but it's not mean. "We're five Saudis getting high in an illegal construction site in Dubai. That's not honest, that's just different theater." "It's theater we control." He takes a drag now, slow and measured. Even the way he smokes is deliberate. "No one here to perform for." Omar snorts from his bean bag. "Speak for yourself. I'm performing for God right now. He's not impressed." Ryan giggles—actually giggles—and I'm about to say something when I hear it. Voices. Laughing. English, but not the clipped British-international-school kind. Looser. Younger. I sit up straighter, and I see Ali's posture shift—just slightly, but I know him well enough to catch it. Omar and Ryan haven't noticed yet, still floating in their own clouds. Mishal's eyes are closed. Then they appear at the top of the stairwell, and I have to blink because this feels like a scene change in a movie I wasn't ready for. A guy and a girl first. His arm around her shoulders, her hand tucked into his back pocket. They're kissing while walking—the kind of easy intimacy that comes from doing it a thousand times before. Both Indian, maybe seventeen or eighteen. The girl's in jeans and an oversized band t-shirt. The guy's tall, athletic build, wearing a school football jacket. They stop dead when they see us. "Shit," the guy says. Not scared, just surprised. Behind them, another boy comes up—on his phone, not looking, nearly walks into them. He's lean, wearing glasses, a lanyard around his neck with what looks like a student ID. He looks up, sees us, and his eyes go wide. "Oh. Um—" And then behind them , three more. A girl on the left—tall, sharp features, wearing all black like she's going to a funeral or a nightclub, I can't tell which. A guy in the middle. And on his other side— I stop thinking in complete sentences for a second. The girl is small. Like, tiny. Maybe five-two if she's lucky. Her hair is the first thing you see—this massive cloud of dark, unruly curls that fall past her waist, completely untamed, catching the light in a way that makes it look almost alive. She's wearing a pink hoodie with some cartoon character I don't recognize, pajama pants covered in more cartoons, and grey furry boots with two little pom-poms dangling from each one. Her hand is looped through the arm of the guy in the middle. The guy—Xander, I'll learn later—is taller, maybe nineteen, with that carefully disheveled look rich kids in Dubai perfect. His other arm is around the tall girl on his left, but his eyes are on the small one. The small one is looking at us with this wide-eyed expression that would be innocent if it wasn't for the fact that she's practically sitting on this guy's hip while walking. They all freeze. For a moment, nobody speaks. I can feel Ali's attention sharpen beside me, the way it does when he's assessing a situation. Omar and Ryan have noticed now, sitting up slowly. Mishal still hasn't opened his eyes. The couple—the kissing couple—start to turn around. "Wait, wait," Omar says, his voice lazy and amused. He takes another drag. "Don't go. We don't bite." Ryan laughs. "We might bite." "We definitely don't bite," I correct, shooting Ryan a look. "Unless you're into that." The small girl with the massive hair makes a sound—not quite a laugh, more like a startled exhale. The tall boy—Xander—tightens his grip on her slightly. "Come on," I say, gesturing with the mouthpiece of my shisha. "You came all the way up here. At least stay for a bit." The tall girl in black speaks first, her voice flat and unimpressed. "We come here every night. We didn't know anyone else knew about this place." "Well, now you do." Omar pats the ground next to him. "Plenty of room. We're friendly." "Are you?" the boy with the glasses says, but he's smiling slightly, like he can't help himself. They exchange looks—some silent communication I can't read—and then, slowly, they start to move closer. The kissing couple—the girl sits down first, pulling her boyfriend with her. He settles with his back against a concrete pillar, and she immediately drapes herself across him, like it's the most natural thing in the world. They're close to Omar and Ryan, who nod at them like they're all old friends. The boy with the glasses hesitates, then sits near Mishal, who's finally opened his eyes and is watching everyone with that sleepy, drugged curiosity. The tall girl in black, Xander, and the small one move to the other side. There's another torn sofa there, a couple of scattered cushions. The tall girl—Irene, I'll learn—sits down first, poised and perfect. Xander sits next to her, but the small one— The small one doesn't sit next to him. She sits on him. Not in his lap, exactly, but close enough. Her back against his side, her legs curled up, his arm around her waist, her head near his chest. It's the kind of casual intimacy that should mean something, but she's smiling at us so sweetly, so shyly, that it's disarming. Ali's still watching from his sofa. I can't see his face, but I know that look. He's cataloging everything. "So," Ryan says, leaning forward with that friendly-predator energy he has when he's high. "Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here at—" he checks his watch, "—one in the morning?" The boy with glasses answers, his voice careful but not scared. "We come here every night. To... chill." "Chill," Omar repeats, like he's tasting the word. "In an abandoned construction site." "Better than our apartments," the kissing guy says. He's got his hand on his girlfriend's thigh, thumb moving in absent circles. "No parents. No rules." "Ah." I nod, understanding. "British school kids. Private school. You live in the complexes nearby?" "Yeah," the boy with glasses says. "How did you—" "Lucky guess." I take another pull from the shisha, then gesture to it. "You guys smoke?" They exchange looks again. The kissing guy speaks first. "Sometimes." "Sometimes." Ryan's already reaching into his pocket, pulling out a pre-rolled joint. "Want to make it 'right now'?" He holds it out to the kissing guy—Arjun, I'll learn. Everyone's watching. The girlfriend—Michelle—is watching him too, but she's smiling, like this is a test she already knows he'll pass. Arjun looks at the joint for a long moment. Then he reaches out, takes it, and brings it to his lips. Ryan lights it for him with this theatrical flourish, and Arjun inhales—smooth, easy, like he's done this before. Not his first time. Michelle leans in immediately, and he exhales into her mouth. She takes the smoke, holds it, then breathes it out slowly, her eyes half-closed. Omar whistles low. "Okay, I like you two." Ryan's already rolling another joint, holding it out to the boy with glasses. "What about you, man?" "Jacob," the boy says, taking it. "And yeah, sure." Two down. Ryan looks at Xander and the small girl. They're still tangled together, her head now resting fully against his chest. His hand is on her waist, fingers spread wide. The other hand is in her hair—well, trying to be in her hair. It's too thick, too wild. His fingers keep getting caught. "What about you two?" Ryan asks, that edge of challenge in his voice. Xander doesn't even blink. His voice is cold, flat, final. "No." "You haven't smoked before?" Ryan's grinning now, like he smells weakness. "No. I haven't." Xander's stare could cut glass. There's no defensiveness in it, no embarrassment. Just a statement of fact delivered with the kind of confidence that makes you believe him when he says he doesn't need to prove anything. I like him immediately. "What about you, princess?" Omar's looking at the small girl now, his voice gentler, more coaxing. "You ever tried it?" She shifts slightly against Xander, and I see her face more clearly now. Big eyes. Soft features. The kind of face that belongs on a girl who still watches Disney movies and believes in happily ever after. She's smiling—shy, sweet, a little nervous. "No," she says, so quietly I almost miss it. "I haven't either." "You should try it," Ryan says, but he's already lost interest, passing the joint to Jacob instead. Xander's hand tightens on her waist—subtle, protective. She doesn't pull away, just settles deeper into him. I lean back, watching the group settle. Arjun and Michelle are in their own world now, passing the joint back and forth, whispering things that make them both smile. Jacob's talking to Mishal about something—school, maybe, or music, I can't hear. Irene's sitting perfectly still, watching everything with this calculating expression that reminds me a little of Ali. And Xander and the small girl are just... there. Tangled together. His fingers in her hair, her hand on his chest. "So," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Names. School. Grades. The basics." They go around. "Arjun. Nineteen. Grade 12." "Michelle. Same. Nineteen. Grade 12." "Jacob. Nineteen. Grade 12 too." "Irene. Nineteen. Grade 12." "Xander. Nineteen. Grade 12." And then the small girl. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic for taking up space. "Clara. Nineteen. Grade 12." I nod, taking another pull from the shisha. "What track? Science? Commerce?" Arjun answers first. "Science. Me, Michelle, Jacob, Xander—we're all science stream." "And you two?" I look at Irene and Clara. "Finance," Irene says, her voice cool and confident. Not cold, just certain. I raise my eyebrows. "Finance. That's specific for high school." She shrugs one shoulder. "We like to plan ahead." "What do you want to do?" I ask, genuinely curious now. "After school?" "Investment banking," Irene says without hesitation. Omar whistles. Ryan lets out a whoop. Even Mishal perks up slightly. "Smart," Omar says, nodding approval. "Brutal industry, but smart." I look at Clara, who's still tucked against Xander, his hand in her hair. "What about you, princess?" She shifts slightly, and when she speaks, her voice is still soft, still sweet, but there's something underneath it—something focused. "Macro hedge fund." The words land like a stone in water. I sit up straighter. Omar's grin widens. Ryan looks impressed. Ali still hasn't spoken, but I see his head tilt. Just slightly. Just enough. "Macro hedge fund," I repeat, and I can't help the edge of respect that creeps into my voice. "That's... very specific." Clara smiles that shy smile, ducking her head a little. "I like economics." "She's obsessed with economics," Irene adds, and there's affection in her voice. "Ask her anything about global markets and she'll talk for hours." I glance at Ali, then back at Clara. "He has a macro hedge fund," I say, nodding toward my cousin. "Triple-figure billion. Manages individual portfolios too. Family money, legacy stuff." Clara's eyes flick to Ali for the first time since they sat down. Really look at him. And he's looking back. "Really?" she asks, and her voice has lost some of that soft edge. Now she just sounds interested. Genuinely interested. "You like economics?" Ali speaks for the first time since they arrived. His voice is low, measured, that slight accent underneath the perfect English. Clara nods. "Yeah. I do." "What specifically?" Ali asks. Not aggressive, not testing. Just... curious. "Macro trends," Clara says, and she's sitting up a little straighter now, though Xander's hand is still in her hair. "Currency movements, geopolitical impacts on markets, commodity cycles. How everything connects." Ali studies her for a long moment. Then, the corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile. Just acknowledgment. "Interesting," he says. And that's it. He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't ask more questions. Just goes back to watching the city. But I know him. I know that tone. He's filed her away. Cataloged her. Marked her as something worth remembering. I glance at Ali. He's still watching, still silent. His eyes are on Clara, but I can't read his expression. It's the same face he makes when he's looking at a stock chart or a company prospectus. Analytical. Detached. Curious. "So," Ryan says, leaning back with this shit-eating grin. "Michelle and Arjun are dating." He gestures at them, still wrapped around each other. "What about you two?" He's looking at Clara and Xander. Xander doesn't respond. Doesn't even acknowledge the question. His hand is literally on her waist, her back pressed against him, her head on his chest, and he just stares at Ryan like he didn't speak. Clara, though—Clara smiles. That shy, sweet smile that makes her look even younger than nineteen. "No," she says, soft and gentle and so earnest. "We're just friends." I almost laugh. Just friends. She's practically in his lap. His hand is in her hair. Her hand is on his chest. They're breathing in sync. But sure. Just friends. I catch Omar's eye, and he's biting back a grin. Ryan's smirking. Even Mishal looks amused. But Ali— Ali's still watching her. His expression hasn't changed. But something in his posture has shifted. He's leaning forward now, just slightly. Just enough. I know that look. I've seen it before, when he's found something interesting. Something worth his attention. And I think, just for a second, that this night just got a lot more complicated. Clara shifts against Xander, adjusting her position, and her hair falls forward—that massive, chaotic waterfall of curls—and she tucks it behind her ear with this absent, practiced gesture. Xander's hand follows the movement, fingers catching in the strands. And Ali is still watching. Yeah. Definitely more complicated. End of Chapter One Chapter Three: The Aftermath Ali's POV The sound of their footsteps fades down the stairwell—laughter and voices echoing off concrete, getting quieter, then gone. Silence settles back over the sixteenth floor like dust. I don't move. I'm still in my position on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, hands resting on my knees. The shisha sits beside me, smoke long since dissipated. The city sprawls below us through the gaps in the unfinished walls—a million lights pretending they matter. For a long moment, nobody speaks. Ahmed's the first to break. He lets out this long, slow exhale and leans back against the concrete pillar he's been sitting against. "What the fuck." It's not a question. Just a statement of fact. Omar's still on his bean bag, joint burned down to nothing in his hand. He's staring at the spot where Clara was sitting—where she'd been tucked into Xander like she belonged there, where she'd said those words with that soft, sweet voice. We're second cousins. Just for the thrill of it. "What the actual fuck," Omar echoes. Ryan's sitting forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He's got that look he gets when he's trying to work out a problem, when something doesn't compute. "Did that just happen?" "That just happened," Mishal confirms. He's sitting up now—actually sitting up, not lying on his back in a drug haze. His eyes are clearer than they've been all night. "That absolutely just happened." Ahmed shakes his head slowly. "We've done some sick shit. We've seen some sick shit. But that—" "That was different," Ryan finishes. "Second cousins," Omar says, testing the words. "All three of them. And the twin sister joins them." "Joins them," Ahmed repeats. "Like it's a fucking book club." I'm listening to all of this, cataloging their reactions, but I'm not contributing. Not yet. I'm still processing. Still replaying. The way she smiled. The way she spoke. The way she looked at Xander with those big eyes, soft and trusting, while admitting to things that should shatter that image of innocence. But they don't. That's what's interesting. She told us she fucks her second cousin. That his twin sister joins them. That he only wants her for the thrill. And somehow, she still seemed... sweet. Shy. Gentle. How does someone do that? "Ali." Ahmed's looking at me now. "You've been quiet." "I'm thinking," I say. "About what?" "Everything." Omar snorts. "Real specific, man." I glance at him. He shuts up. Ryan's shaking his head, running his hands through his hair. "Okay, let's break this down. Because my brain is—" he makes an exploding gesture with his hands. "—yeah." "Break it down," Ahmed agrees, sitting up straighter. "Let's actually talk about this." Mishal reaches for another joint, lights it with hands that are steadier now. "Start with the obvious. They're all fucking each other." "Not all of them," Ahmed corrects. "Just Clara, Xander, and Irene. The others seem normal." "'Normal,'" Ryan repeats with a laugh. "Yeah, Michelle and Arjun are so normal with their public make-out sessions and the way she inhales his smoke like she's dying for it." "That's different," Omar says. "That's just teenagers being horny. What Clara described is—" "Coordinated," I say quietly. Everyone looks at me. I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees, fingers steepled together. "It's not spontaneous. It's not just hormones. It's deliberate. Organized. They have a system." "A system," Ahmed repeats slowly. "She said Irene joins them sometimes ," I continue, my voice measured. "Not always. Not randomly. Sometimes. Which means there are rules. Boundaries. Structure." Omar's eyes widen. "Holy shit. You're right." Ryan's nodding now, following the logic. "So it's not just chaos. It's... what? Planned?" "Controlled," I say. "By someone." "By who?" Mishal asks. We all know the answer. "Xander," Ahmed says. I nod once. "He's the center. The anchor. Both girls orbit him. He decides when. How. With who." "And they just... go along with it?" Omar sounds genuinely confused. "Clara does," I say. "Irene seems less invested. But Clara—" I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Clara is completely focused on him. Did you see how she looked at him? How she moved when he moved? She's not there for the twin. She's there for him." "And she thinks he only wants her for the thrill," Ryan says quietly. That statement sits heavy in the air. Ahmed picks at a loose thread on his jeans. "Do you think she's right? That he only wants her for the thrill?" I think about this. About the way Xander's hand never left her—her waist, her hair, her body. About the way he positioned himself between her and us, subtle but deliberate. About the way he didn't smile when she talked about economics, but his fingers tightened in her curls. "No," I say finally. "He wants her. Really wants her. But he's too young and too stupid to know what to do with that want besides turn it into a game." "And she knows it's a game," Omar adds. "She knows it's a game," I confirm. "And she's playing anyway." Mishal takes a long drag, then exhales slowly. "Why?" "Because she loves him," Ahmed says simply. "Obviously." "Obviously," Ryan agrees. "But does he love her back?" I think about this too. About body language and micro-expressions and the thousand small signals people give when they think no one's watching. "He's obsessed with her," I say. "But obsession isn't love. It's possession. He likes that she's his. He likes that she's soft and sweet and looks at him like he hung the stars. He likes having that power." "Jesus," Omar mutters. "That's dark." "It's honest," I correct. Ahmed's studying me now. I can feel his attention, sharp and focused. "You've thought about this a lot in the last ten minutes." "I observe," I say simply. "You do more than observe," he counters. "You're analyzing her like a stock portfolio." He's not wrong. I lean back again, resuming my original position. One leg crossed. Hands on my knees. Neutral expression. But my mind is anything but neutral. I'm thinking about the way she took that joint. How she said she'd only smoked "once or twice" while clearly having smoked dozens of times. The casual lie delivered with such sweetness that you almost believe it anyway. I'm thinking about how she insulted us— I can see that —with such gentle delivery that it took two seconds for the barb to land. I'm thinking about how she admitted to the most taboo shit I've heard in months while still managing to seem innocent. How does someone do that? "She's interesting," I say out loud. The guys all look at me. "Interesting," Omar repeats flatly. "Ali, she just told us she's in a throuple with her second cousins. That's not interesting. That's insane." "It's both," I say. Ryan's grinning now, that troublemaker energy back. "Oh shit. Ali's interested." "I didn't say that." "You didn't have to," Ahmed says. "I know that look. You get it when you find a company that's undervalued. When you see potential everyone else missed." "She's not a company," I say evenly. "No," Ahmed agrees. "She's more complicated than a company." He's right about that. Mishal shifts, getting more comfortable against the wall. "Okay, but real talk—what the fuck are we doing here?" "What do you mean?" Ryan asks. "I mean, we came to Dubai to party. To do shit we can't do in Riyadh. To blow off steam before we all go back to real life and family obligations and business bullshit." Mishal gestures around at the construction site. "Instead, we're hanging out with teenagers on a roof, getting invested in their fucked-up relationship dynamics, and apparently waiting for them to come back tomorrow like we don't have better things to do." Silence. Because he's right. We do have better things to do. We have clubs we're supposed to be at. Parties we're invited to. Women who are older, more experienced, who know the rules of engagement. But we're here. "They're not boring," Omar says finally. "No," Ahmed agrees. "They're definitely not boring." Ryan's nodding. "And that little crew—they're tight. You can tell they've been friends forever. There's history there." "There's something there," Mishal corrects. "Did you see how they all laughed when Clara said she and Xander can't fuck? Like they know something we don't?" "They know a lot we don't," I say. Ahmed looks at me. "And you want to know it too." It's not a question. I don't answer. Omar sits up, suddenly animated. "Okay, but can we talk about the fact that she's nineteen and wants to run a macro hedge fund? Like, specifically a macro hedge fund?" "That caught your attention too?" Ryan asks. "It's specific," Omar says. "Most kids her age don't even know what a hedge fund is. She's talking about macro trends, geopolitical impacts, commodity cycles. That's not normal." "Nothing about her is normal," Ahmed mutters. I think about the way her eyes focused when she talked about economics. The way her voice lost some of that soft edge and gained certainty. The way she looked at me—really looked—when Ahmed mentioned my fund. She wasn't impressed by the money. She was interested in the mechanism. The strategy. The game. "She's smart," I say. "Clearly," Omar agrees. "But is she smart enough to see what she's doing with Xander is going to destroy her?" The question hangs in the air. "She knows," I say quietly. "She knows exactly what she's doing. She said it herself—it's just for the thrill. She's aware he doesn't love her the way she loves him. She's aware it's temporary. She's aware it's going to hurt." "And she's doing it anyway," Ryan says. "And she's doing it anyway," I confirm. Ahmed shakes his head slowly. "That's either brave or stupid." "It's both," Mishal says. "It's always both." Omar's joint has gone out. He stares at it for a moment, then tosses it aside. "You know what the wildest part is? She looked so fucking sweet saying all of it. Like she was confessing to eating an extra cookie, not admitting to a taboo sexual relationship." "That's her survival mechanism," I say. Everyone looks at me again. I elaborate. "She knows how she looks. Small. Young. Sweet. Innocent. She uses it. The softness is armor." "Armor against what?" Ahmed asks. "Against being seen for what she is." "Which is?" Ryan prompts. I pause. Think about how to phrase this. "Complicated. More complicated than she appears. She's got that whole friend group fooled into thinking she's some shy little thing who needs protecting. Even Xander treats her like she's fragile." "Maybe she is fragile," Mishal offers. "Maybe," I concede. "Or maybe she's just very good at making people think she is." Ahmed's watching me closely now. "You think she's manipulative." "I think she's aware," I correct. "There's a difference. Manipulation implies intent to harm. Awareness is just... strategy." "Strategy," Omar repeats. "Like you." "Like me," I agree. Ryan laughs, but it's not mean. "So you're saying you recognize a kindred spirit?" "I'm saying I recognize someone who understands how to use what they have to get what they want." "And what does she want?" Ahmed asks. I think about the way she looked at Xander. The sadness under the sweetness when she said just for the thrill of it "Him," I say simply. "She wants him to want her the way she wants him." "And he won't," Mishal says. "He can't," I correct. "He's nineteen and stupid and thinks everything is a game. By the time he figures out what he had, she'll be gone." "You sound certain," Ahmed observes. "I am certain," I say. "I've seen it before. Different context, same pattern. People like Xander don't realize what they have until it's too late." "And people like Clara?" Ryan asks. "People like Clara know exactly what they're losing in real time. And they let it happen anyway because at least they had it for a moment." The words come out more bitter than I intended. The guys notice. I can see it in the way they exchange glances. But nobody comments. Omar breaks the tension by standing up, stretching. "Well, this got philosophical as fuck. I need another drink." "Agreed," Ryan says, reaching for the bottle of expensive whiskey we brought up earlier. Mishal's lying back down, eyes closing. "Tomorrow night. You think they'll really come back?" "Yes," I say. No hesitation. No doubt. Ahmed looks at me. "How do you know?" "Because we're not boring," I say, echoing Omar's words from earlier. "And neither are they. And people like us—like them—we're drawn to things that aren't boring." "Even if it's dangerous," Ryan adds. "Especially if it's dangerous," I correct. We fall back into silence. This time, it's more comfortable. The weight of processing what just happened has lifted slightly, replaced by acceptance. They're coming back tomorrow. We know it. They know it. And that's just how it is. I'm staring out at the city again—all those lights, all that false brightness pretending the darkness underneath doesn't exist. I'm thinking about Clara. About the way she moves. The way she speaks. The way she contradicts herself with every breath—innocent but experienced, soft but sharp, sweet but dangerous. I'm thinking about how her hair looked like it had a life of its own, curling and coiling past her waist, refusing to be tamed. I'm thinking about how she named macro hedge funds specifically. How her eyes lit up when she talked about economics. How she looked at me like she was trying to figure something out. I'm thinking about the fact that she's nineteen and already knows exactly what kind of pain she's walking into with Xander, and she's choosing it anyway. About the fact that she can smoke without coughing but pretends she's only done it "once or twice." About the fact that she can insult us with a smile and make it sound like a compliment. About the fact that nothing—absolutely nothing—about her makes sense. And I want to understand it. I want to take her apart like a puzzle and see how the pieces fit. Want to understand the mechanism behind the sweetness. Want to know what she's hiding under all that softness. Because she's hiding something. I know she is. People who are genuinely that innocent don't end up in situations like hers. Don't navigate complex sexual dynamics with the ease she displayed. Don't talk about being used "for the thrill" with such casual acceptance. There's more. I just have to find it. "Ali." I turn. Ahmed's looking at me with that expression he gets when he knows I'm going somewhere in my head that might be problematic. "What?" I ask. "Just... be careful." "I'm always careful." "No," he corrects. "You're always calculated. That's different. Careful implies caution. You don't do caution." "I do risk assessment," I counter. "Same thing." "Not even close." He sighs, leaning back. "Just remember she's nineteen. Still in school. Not part of our world." "I know how old she is," I say evenly. "Do you care?" I think about this. About the fact that in Saudi, she'd be considered prime marriage age. About the fact that nineteen is technically adult everywhere that matters. About the fact that age is just a number and maturity is measured in other ways. About the fact that I don't actually care about any of that because she interests me and that's rare enough to be worth pursuing. "No," I say honestly. "I don't care." Ahmed nods slowly, like he expected that answer. "Alright then." "Alright then," I repeat. Omar and Ryan are talking about something else now—clubs, maybe, or women they met last week. Mishal's fallen asleep, or close to it. The night is winding down naturally. But I'm still sitting here. Still thinking. Still replaying the image of Clara's face when she took that joint. When she smiled at us with pink lip gloss and said she'd only smoked once or twice. When she looked at Xander like he was the sun and she was the planet caught in his orbit. When she said, so softly, so sweetly: Just for the thrill of it. And I think: I could give her more than thrills. I could give her everything she doesn't even know she wants yet. I could take her apart and put her back together and make sure every piece fits perfectly because I don't do things halfway and I don't leave projects unfinished. I could— "Ali," Ahmed says again. "Stop." "Stop what?" "Whatever you're planning in that terrifying brain of yours." "I'm not planning anything," I lie. "Yes, you are. You always are." He's right. I'm always planning. Always calculating. Always three moves ahead. And right now, I'm thinking about the next time I see Clara. About what I'll say. How I'll position myself. What information I'll extract. About how I'll get her to look at me the way she looks at Xander—like I matter, like I'm the center of something important. About how I'll make her understand that whatever she thinks she has with him is nothing compared to what she could have with someone who actually knows what to do with her. But I don't say any of this. I just stand up, stretch, and say: "We should head back. It's late." The guys agree. We start gathering our things—the shisha, the bottles, the cards. We leave the joint remnants and the dust and the evidence of the night behind. As we head down the stairs, Ahmed falls into step beside me. "Tomorrow night," he says quietly. "You're going to talk to her." "Maybe." "Definitely." I don't respond. Because he's right. Tomorrow night, I'm going to talk to her. And I'm going to find out exactly what Clara Abraham is hiding under all that sweetness. Because I don't believe in coincidences. I don't believe in innocence that survives what she's been through. And I don't believe that someone with her intelligence, her awareness, her calculated softness is just some naive little girl caught up in a bad situation. She's something else. Something interesting. Something dangerous. And I want to know what. End of Chapter Three Chapter Four: A Change of Seat (Continued) Ali's POV The conversation has settled into easier rhythms now. Omar and Clara are still rolling together, still smoking. The others have fallen back into their own bubbles—Michelle and Arjun inseparable as always, Jacob and Mishal talking about something that makes them both laugh, Irene silent and observant. Xander's still on his phone, legs still spread in that empty space where Clara used to sit. I reach for my shisha, pull the tube toward me. The water bubbles, smoke rising through the glass, that familiar sweet-sharp smell filling the air around us. "Clara."