First Night as a Fake Habibi
1667 Words
The press conference was held in a ballroom that made my old apartment look like a shoebox.
I’d been transformed in twenty minutes by Colette, a stylist who treated my Emirates uniform like a personal insult. She’d zipped me into a gold silk dress that matched the coins on your cover and cost more than my entire education.
“You represent the Al-Futtaim brand now,” she said, applying concealer to my slapped cheek. “The public expects perfection.”
“I represent $4.32 and poor choices,” I muttered. “But sure, let’s call it branding.”
Zayed stood by the curtain, scrolling on a tablet. He’d changed into a tailored black suit that made him look less like a Sheikh and more like a problem. He hadn’t said a word to me since we left the airport.
“Nervous?” I asked. My voice squeaked.
“No.” He didn’t look up. “You?”
“I once passed out during a safety demonstration. So, yes. Extremely.”
That earned me a glance. Not a smile. But his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary. I’d take it.
“Rules,” he said, shutting off the tablet. “Smile. Touch my arm. Look at me like I’m your favorite person and not your new boss.”
“Clause 7: Lie convincingly in public.”
“There is no Clause 7.”
“There should be.” I took his arm. “Ready, _Habibi_?”
His jaw twitched. He hated the word when I said it. Good. At least we were even.
The curtain opened.
The flashes were blinding. The noise was a wall. Three hundred journalists shouted questions in five languages. Rashid was at the podium, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“Here they are! Sheikh Zayed and his courageous fiancée, Miss Amira Hassan! The woman who defended his honor!”
Zayed walked forward like he owned the room. I just tried not to fall in heels designed by Satan. His hand on my back was steady, warm, and completely fake. I kept reminding myself of that.
First question came from Gulf News. “Sheikh Zayed, you’re notoriously private. How did you meet Miss Hassan?”
Zayed didn’t blink. “She saved my life.”
I nearly choked. He was good. Too good.
“Elaborate, please,” the reporter pushed.
“She saw a threat and acted. No hesitation. No thought for herself. Loyalty like that…” He looked at me then, and his expression was so sincere that my heart forgot this was a transaction. “Loyalty like that is priceless.”
The crowd sighed. Someone in the back said “aww.” I felt dizzy.
Next question: “Amira! You were cabin crew yesterday. Today you’re engaged to Dubai’s most eligible bachelor. How are you adjusting?”
Every camera turned to me. Time to perform.
I squeezed Zayed’s arm and smiled for the bloodthirsty audience. “Honestly? I’m still waiting for someone to tell me this is a prank. Yesterday I was demonstrating oxygen masks. Today I’m…” I looked up at Zayed and forced my face to soften. “Today I’m the luckiest woman alive.”
His thumb brushed my back once. _Good_. That was his version of applause.
“Final question!” Rashid called. A man from Bloomberg stood.
“Miss Hassan, the Al-Noor merger depends on Sheikh Zayed’s marital status. Critics are calling this engagement ‘strategically timed.’ Is this a business deal?”
The room went silent. Zayed’s fingers pressed into my back. Warning.
I had two seconds to save a $4.7 billion merger.
So I did the only thing I could.
I went up on my toes and kissed his cheek.
The flashes went nuclear. Rashid whooped. The Bloomberg reporter looked like he’d been slapped.
I pulled back, heart pounding, and said into the mic, “Does that answer your question?”
Zayed stared at me. For one second, his mask cracked. He looked genuinely shocked. Then it was gone, replaced by cold CEO again.
“It does,” he said, voice low. “We’re done here.”
We walked off stage to thunderous applause. The second the curtain closed, he dropped his hand from my back like I’d burned him.
“Clause 1 did not authorize kissing,” he said, ice in every word.
“Clause 1 said ‘look in love.’ I improved. You’re welcome.” My face was on fire. “That guy was about to nuke your merger. I gave him a headline instead.”
“You don’t make tactical decisions without me.”
“You don’t glare at me after I save you $4.7 billion. We all have flaws.”
Rashid burst through the curtain. “Magnificent! The kiss! The chemistry! _#HabibiKiss_ is already trending! You two are naturals!”
I wanted to crawl under a chair.
Zayed ignored him. “Car’s downstairs. We’re going home.”
Home. The word felt illegal.
---
Burj Al-Arab at night looks like a spaceship that got dressed for a gala. The 27th floor penthouse required a retina scan, a keycard, and probably a blood oath.
“The east suite is yours,” Zayed said as the elevator opened. “West wing is mine. Do not enter without permission.”
“Got it. Avoid the lair of the dragon. Check.”
He paused. “You say strange things when you’re nervous.”
“I say strange things always. Nervous just makes it worse.”
The penthouse was ridiculous. Marble, gold, windows that showed the entire Gulf. The living room alone was bigger than my flat in London. It smelled like oud and wealth.
“Your belongings will be delivered,” he said. “Colette is sending a wardrobe. Your new phone is on the table. Your old one has been destroyed.”
“What?” I spun around. “My mom—”
“Will receive the first payment tomorrow morning. My assistant is contacting her doctor. She’ll be told you accepted a private consulting role. High pay. Confidential.”
He’d thought of everything. Except how it would feel to have my life erased in an afternoon.
“Thank you,” I said, because what else could I say?
He nodded. “Dinner is at 8. Don’t be late.” Then he disappeared into the west wing.
---
My suite was the size of a house. The bed had twelve pillows. The bathroom overlooked the sea. The closet was full of clothes with tags still on: silk pajamas, dresses, jeans that cost more than my car.
I picked the pajamas and sat on the bed, holding the new phone. No contacts. No photos. No texts from my mom. I was Amira Hassan 2.0, and I had no manual.
Dinner at 8 was exactly that. Exact. Zayed was already there, in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a man. That was somehow worse.
“You’re on time,” he said.
“I’m terrified of you. Punctuality is a survival tactic.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
We ate in silence. The food was incredible. Lamb, saffron rice, things I couldn’t pronounce. I ate like someone who remembered $4.32.
“You can slow down,” he said. “The contract includes food.”
“I’m not used to food not being a math problem.”
He set his fork down. “Why did you step in today? At the airport.”
I shrugged. “You looked like you were about to get slapped by a woman wearing three carats per finger. It seemed unfair.”
“Most people would have filmed it.”
“I’m not most people. I’m the i***t who gets involved.”
He studied me. “Fatima is not a woman you want as an enemy.”
“Too late. I think she’s already started a Pinterest board called _Ways to Destroy Amira_.”
For the first time, he huffed a laugh. It was short. It was real. It did dangerous things to my stomach.
“Why don’t you want to marry her?” I asked. “Besides the obvious personality issues.”
“My father arranged it when we were children. I ended it three years ago. She disagreed.”
“Because she loves you?”
“Because she loves my last name.” He met my eyes. “Trust is a currency, Amira. Fatima spent all of hers.”
“And me? Do I have any trust currency?”
“You have a contract. It’s better. Contracts don’t lie.”
Before I could answer, the lights went out.
The penthouse plunged into darkness. Red emergency lights flickered on. A voice said, “Security breach. Lockdown initiated.”
My door flew open. Zayed stood there. With a gun.
“Down,” he said.
I dropped my fork. “Is this standard new-fiancée procedure?”
“Fatima’s family tried to access the elevator. We’re moving to the safe room.” He checked the hallway, then locked my door. “You’re with me tonight.”
“Clause 1: Separate bedrooms!”
“Clause 0: You don’t die in my house.” He grabbed my wrist. “Move.”
He led me to a panel in my closet that opened into a hidden hallway. As we walked, his phone buzzed. He checked it and went still.
“What?” I whispered.
He turned the screen to me.
It was a photo of my mother. In her hospital bed in London.
The text from an unknown number: _Pretty mother. Be a shame if her treatment stopped. End the engagement._
Zayed’s face went blank. Then cold. Then lethal.
He put the phone away.
“Change of plans,” he said, his voice quiet. “We’re not hiding.”
He looked at me, and Sheikh Zayed Al-Futtaim didn’t look like a CEO anymore.
He looked like a war.
“We’re ending this.”
*To be continued...*
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- Writer
