MANNYANNAH

The chairs were never supposed to face the door. Manny had arranged them herself three years ago, the week after their mother died. The funeral had been in Tehran, closed casket, no tears allowed. When they flew back to Dubai, Manny walked into their empty 42nd-floor office in Dubai Marina and dragged the two black leather chairs to the center of the room. Back to back. Touching. When clients walked in, they didn't know who to look at first. That was the point. Manny in white. Annah in black. That was the rule they never broke. Manny was typing. Straight black hair, parted perfectly in the middle, so sleek and dark it looked like ink poured over her shoulders. No makeup except her eyebrows, which she never touched, never shaped. They were thick, straight, severe. White suit, tailored so sharp it could cut, white silk shirt buttoned to the throat, pearl drop earrings that barely moved when she moved. She was the legal one. The fixer. The cold one. If you needed a murder to become a suicide on paper, if you needed a tape to disappear, if you needed a sheikh's son to walk free, you called Manny. Behind her, back pressed against hers, so close Manny could feel the heat of her, Annah was on the phone, laughing. That laugh was a weapon. Wavy hair, big, black, thrown over one shoulder like she didn't care. Red lipstick that never smudged, never faded, even after kissing. Black suit with gold threads crawling up the lapel like vines, like something alive. Gold pearl statement earrings that caught the light and threw it everywhere. She was the seduction one. The wild one. If you needed a man to confess on tape while thinking he was falling in love, if you needed a wife to believe her husband was faithful while he cried on your chest, you called Annah. The Reputation House didn't have a sign outside. No logo. No website. If you knew, you knew. Billionaires, sheikhs, ministers, politicians' wives with bruised knuckles and perfect diamonds — they all came to the 42nd floor to make something disappear. Ten million dirhams minimum. No questions asked. The intercom buzzed. Layla, their receptionist, who was paid to forget every face. "Your 3 p.m. He says he doesn't have an appointment. He says it's about his wife trying to kill him." Manny didn't look up. Her fingers never stopped on the keyboard. "We don't take attempted murder before coffee. Tell him to come back with a police report or a body." Annah spun her chair just enough to kick Manny's chair with her heel. It was a game they played. A warning. "We take everything if he can pay," she said into the phone, then hung up, sweet. "Manny, stop being a nun. We have rent." "We own the floor, Annah." "We own the floor because I flirt with the landlord. Take the man." Manny was about to argue when the door opened before they could buzz him in. He was Persian. That was Manny's first thought, and it hit her like a cold hand. Tall, early thirties, black suit that cost more than her entire white one, not because of the label but because of how it fit. Shoulders like a wall. Beard trimmed close, black as night. Eyes that looked like he'd already decided how this meeting would end and was just waiting for them to catch up. He smelled like winter in Tehran — cold, expensive, familiar. Like snow on stone and oud. And he was staring only at Manny. Not at Annah, who was the one men usually stared at. Not at both chairs. Only at the woman in white. "I was told you fix reputations," he said. His English was perfect, British school perfect, but underneath it was a Persian accent, low and thick. "I need you to fix my wife." Manny finally looked at him. Really looked. From his shoes — polished, no dust — to his watch — Patek, no shine — to his hands — no ring. "We don't fix wives," she said. "We erase problems. Wives are not problems. Husbands who think they are, are." "She is the problem." He sat down without being invited, across from both chairs, his knees wide, taking space. He placed a black file on the glass table between them. It made no sound. "Her name is Annah." Silence. The air conditioning in the office was set to 18 degrees, always, because Manny liked to be cold. But Manny's neck went hot. So hot her pearl earrings burned. Behind her, Annah's back, which had been soft and warm against Manny's, stiffened. Turned to stone. Annah laughed, too loud, too fast. It was her defense laugh. "Every Annah is a problem, darling. You need to be more specific. Annah what? There are four Annahs in this building. One of them is my sister, unfortunately." He opened the file. Inside was a marriage certificate. Not a copy. Original. Stamped. Istanbul, 2022. A photo paper-clipped to it of a woman with wavy hair and red lipstick on a boat on the Bosphorus, kissing a man's cheek, eyes closed. The gold earrings were the same ones Annah was wearing today. The same vines. The same pearls. Manny's eyes dropped to the certificate. Husband: KIAN JAFARI. Wife: ANNAH TAHERI. Taheri was their mother's maiden name. Annah used it when she didn't want to be found. When she went to clubs. When she went to hotels. When she went to Istanbul. Manny's hand, under the table, where Kian couldn't see, found Annah's hand behind their chairs. Their secret signal. Annah's fingers were ice cold and shaking. This was the first time in three years Annah had shaken. Kian kept talking, voice low, like he was telling them a secret they should already know, like he was bored of it. "My wife married me for my money. Then she tried to poison me on our honeymoon. Cyanide in my tea. She missed. I need you to make her disappear from my life. Legally. Completely. No divorce. No alimony. No record. I want it like we never met. I will pay ten million. Dollars, not dirhams." Manny couldn't breathe. The white suit was suddenly too tight around her ribs. She wanted to turn around and look at Annah's face, but if she turned, Kian would know. He would see everything. Annah, instead, did what Annah does best. She leaned forward, her chair creaking, her back leaving Manny's back. Cold air rushed between them. Her voice turned to pure honey, pure black suit, pure seduction. The voice she used when she was about to destroy a man and make him thank her. "Mr. Jafari," she purred, crossing her legs, letting the black suit ride up just enough. "You come to two sisters, in their office, tell them your wife is trying to kill you, and you show us a photo of a woman who looks exactly like me. That's either very stupid, or very brave. Which one are you? Because I don't like stupid men. They don't pay." Kian smiled. For the first time, his eyes left Manny and looked at Annah. Really looked at her. Slowly. From her red mouth to her gold earrings to her throat. And he said, five words that cut the room in half: "You don't remember me, do you?" Annah's red lipstick parted. No sound came out. Her eyes — for once — were not sly. They were terrified. Manny stood up. She couldn't sit anymore. The white suit felt like armor that didn't fit. She walked to the window, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Dubai Marina, the yachts like toys, so Kian couldn't see her face in the reflection. Her hands were shaking too now. Two years. Annah had been disappearing to Istanbul for two years, saying it was for "clients." Coming back with bruises on her neck she said were from rough love, from men who paid extra. Coming back with a gold ring she never wore in the office, only at night when she thought Manny was asleep, twisting it on her finger on the balcony. Manny had never asked. That was their rule. Rule number one since their mother died: Never fix for each other. Never ask about the nights. "Mr. Jafari," Manny said, her back to them, her voice ice again, her fixer voice. "You need to leave. Now. Before I call security." "I'm not done." "My sister doesn't have a husband," Manny said, louder. "She has a business. She has me. If you are lying about her, if you are trying to ruin us—" "I'm not lying about your sister," Kian cut her. He stood up. He was now right behind Manny's chair. Close enough that she could see his reflection in the glass, behind hers. Tall, dark, over her white. Close enough that she could smell his cologne again. "I'm lying about being your client." He leaned in, just for Manny to hear, his breath warm on her pearl earring, his voice a whisper that only the woman in white could hear. "Your mother sent me. She is alive. She said if I can make the sister in white fall in love with her sister's husband, I get her whole empire. The Reputation House, the Tehran accounts, everything. You were never supposed to be the good one, Manny." Manny's eyes widened in the reflection. The blood left her face. Behind her, Annah finally whispered, so small it didn't sound like the woman in black at all. It sounded like the little girl who used to hide in Manny's closet during their father's shouting. "Manny... I married him. Two years ago. He is my husband. And he knows you were in love with him first." And the door to their office, which Manny had locked herself that morning with two keys, slowly clicked open on its own.