Chapter 7: Breakfast Confessions
The scent of jasmine was thick on the warm Dubai morning air, mingling with the rich aroma of Arabic coffee and freshly baked manakeesh as Mariam and Saman stepped onto Princess Ameera’s palatial breakfast terrace. Below, the city glittered, a testament to impossible wealth, the Persian Gulf a dazzling blue sheet stretched to the horizon. Servants moved silently, setting out platters of dates, labneh, honey-drenched pastries, and bowls of perfect berries.
Then they saw her. The Indian actress, a vision of Bollywood glamour just yesterday, was moving with the agonizing slowness of someone carrying invisible weights. Her usually graceful stride was reduced to a stiff, mincing walk. Every step looked painful. She clutched the back of a gilded chair for support, her face pale beneath perfectly applied makeup, wincing slightly as she lowered herself onto a cushion.
"Wow," Mariam murmured under her breath, eyes wide. The sheer physical toll was unmistakable.
Saman raised an eyebrow, a flicker of dark amusement in her eyes. "Ameera didn't hold back last night, did she?"
"No kidding," Mariam breathed, watching as the actress gingerly accepted a glass of fresh pomegranate juice. "Looks like she got properly... drilled."
After a few tense minutes, sipping water and barely touching the lavish spread before her, the actress murmured something to a nearby attendant. She rose again, movements stiff and careful, and was escorted away towards the palace's spa wing, presumably seeking relief from the deep ache Ameera had undoubtedly left her with.
As she disappeared, Princess Ameera glided onto the terrace. Dressed in impeccably tailored silk trousers and a flowing tunic, her hijab a cascade of emerald green, she radiated effortless power and calm. Her smile was warm as she embraced both Mariam and Saman, kissing each on both cheeks. "Sabah al-khair, my sisters. Sleep well?"
They exchanged pleasantries as they settled around the low, mosaic-inlaid table. Plates were filled. The coffee was strong and fragrant. For a few moments, there was only the clink of cutlery and the distant hum of the city.
"So," Ameera said, her gaze sharpening as she selected a date, "tell me about last night. The desert retreat seemed... eventful?" Her tone was casual, but her eyes held an unnerving intensity.
Mariam glanced at Saman, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Here we go.
"It was... interesting," Saman began, her voice measured. She started recounting the arrival of the Greek ambassador and his daughters. The twins' polished, condescending beauty. The way they’d subtly looked down their noses at the gathering. The way their father had swaggered in, radiating entitlement.
Mariam jumped in, her voice tighter, reliving the indignity. "He just barged right up to us, Ameera. Didn't even greet anyone properly. Looked us up and down like we were... trash. Accused us of crashing! Said we didn't belong, that we were 'uninvited'."
Saman nodded, her expression hardening. "He was vile. Made a scene. Implying we were... freeloaders? Intruders? In front of everyone."
"And then," Mariam continued, leaning forward, her knuckles whitening slightly on her coffee cup, "when he realized who his daughters were actually talking to – us, the 'crashers' – and not some rich sheikhs he wanted to impress? Oh, his face." A predatory smile touched her lips. "Priceless. Pure panic. He practically dragged them away."
Ameera listened intently, sipping her tea. Her expression was unreadable, but her stillness spoke volumes. She absorbed the humiliation inflicted on her friends, the ambassador's blatant disregard. "Theodoros Alexandris," she stated, the name dropping like a stone. "Known for his arrogance. And the daughters... Eleni and Sophia. Equally entitled, from what I've heard. They move in certain circles." She paused. "So. What happened then? After he dragged them off?"
They described the retreat winding down. The quiet return to their tent. The electric tension still simmering between them after the confrontation. The unexpected arrival of the Lebanese belly dancers, their knowing smiles, the whispered instructions the girls had caught ("For the ones who stood their ground," one dancer had murmured). The sensual dance, the heated kisses, the release found in the velvet darkness of the private chambers with the strapons Rebecca had discreetly provided. Ameera’s lips quirked slightly at that detail, a flicker of dark approval in her eyes.
As they finished recounting the night's climax, a different kind of tension settled over the table. The story was out. The insult. The retaliation. But the next plan... that was the minefield.
Mariam fiddled with a spoon. Saman took a deliberate sip of tea. The unspoken question hung heavy in the fragrant air.
"We... talked afterward," Saman finally said, her voice dropping slightly, her gaze fixed on a point beyond the terrace railing. "About Eleni and Sophia."
Ameera didn't react, just waited. Her silence was unnerving.
Mariam blurted it out. "We want them, Ameera. We want to fuck them."
"After their father humiliated us," Saman clarified, her tone hardening. "Make them feel it. Make him feel it, even if he never knows it was us."
Silence stretched. The hum of the city seemed louder. Ameera’s expression remained impassive, but her eyes were fixed on Saman, then Mariam, then back. Calculating.
"We argued," Mariam admitted, her voice losing some of its earlier bravado. "About whether to even tell you."
Saman picked up the thread, her words careful, each one weighted. "It's a big risk. For you. If it got out? That your close friends deliberately targeted the Greek ambassador's daughters for sex, right after a public clash with him? The diplomatic fallout… it could be a disaster for your family. Serious trouble." She met Ameera's gaze directly. "You've told us stories. About your past. How you used seduction as a weapon. Made powerful enemies. That’s why you have," she gestured subtly towards the discreet security detail near the terrace entrance, "all this."
Ameera’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She remembered her own reckless youth, the dangerous thrill of taking a man’s wife, his daughter, purely to see the power drain from his face, the humiliation burning in his eyes. The consequences that followed – threats whispered in dark corridors, the ever-present need for bodyguards, the careful curation of her public life. She knew the cost of that kind of vengeance intimately.
"And Alexandros is not insignificant," Saman pressed. "He is powerful. Messing with his daughters, for this reason? You wouldn't want us walking that path. You've warned us before about motives getting tangled." She paused, choosing her next words. "If it was just desire… if they were just hot women we wanted… you'd probably shrug. Maybe even help. But this? The revenge angle? You might think it’s… reckless. Dangerous. Stupid."
Mariam jumped in, her voice earnest now, pleading their case. "But not telling you? That felt wrong. Like we were hiding something huge. Like we were betraying your trust. Planning this with someone who, okay, isn't your best friend, but is part of your world. Your social orbit. We couldn't do it behind your back." She looked at Saman, then back at Ameera. "So we're telling you. We haven't decided if we'll do it. But we want to know what you think."
They fell silent. The clatter of dishes from a distant part of the terrace sounded unnaturally loud. The scent of jasmine felt suddenly cloying. Mariam’s heart hammered against her ribs. Saman sat perfectly still, her training kicking in – breathe, assess, wait.
Ameera placed her teacup down on the saucer with a soft clink. She leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. Her gaze swept over both of them, lingering, penetrating. The protective older sister, the veteran of dangerous games, the princess whose word could grant permission or slam a door shut. The city sprawled below her, a kingdom she navigated with ruthless precision. The air crackled with unspoken consequences.
She didn’t speak. Not yet. She just looked at them, her expression inscrutable, the weight of her silence pressing down on the sun-drenched terrace.
The silence stretched, thick as the Dubai humidity pressing against the terrace’s shaded coolness. Jasmine scent coiled in the air, suddenly sharp. Ameera’s gaze, fixed on Mariam and Saman, wasn’t cold. It was molten. A simmering fury radiating from her stillness. The glittering city below seemed to hold its breath.
"You think I wouldn't understand?" Ameera’s voice finally cut through the tension, low and dangerous, like velvet wrapped around steel. Her knuckles were white where they rested on the mosaic table. "That bastard." The word, sharp and unexpected, hung in the air. "He humiliated my sisters." Her eyes flickered between them, the protective ferocity unmistakable. "In my city. At my retreat."
Mariam felt a shiver run down her spine, part relief, part awe at the raw anger radiating from the princess. Saman remained poised, but her shoulders relaxed a fraction. They hadn’t misjudged her loyalty.
"Diplomatic channels?" Ameera scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound. "Meaningless paperwork. A slap on the wrist. He’d spin it, play the victim, emerge unscathed." She leaned forward, the intensity in her dark eyes almost physical. "The insult demands a response he feels. Deeply. Personally." A slow, predatory smile touched her lips. "Fucking his precious daughters? Making them scream for you? Knowing he caused it? That… resonates."
She paused, letting the implication sink in. The distant hum of traffic was the only sound. "You have my blessing." The words were absolute. Final. "But." Her gaze sharpened, pinning them both. "Listen carefully."
"First," Ameera stated, her voice dropping to a commanding whisper. "The daughters. Eleni. Sophia. They are tools, not targets. Your anger is for him. Not them." Her eyes locked onto Mariam’s, then Saman’s. "You know domination. You know consent. You know the line between exquisite surrender and unnecessary suffering. Walk it. Their pain should be the delicious ache of submission, the sting of pleasure pushed hard. Not cruelty born of his sins. Calibrate. Always." Her stare was uncompromising. "You understand?"
Mariam nodded instantly, the MMA fighter recognizing the precision demanded. "Yes, Ameera. Dominance, not degradation. For them." Saman’s response was equally firm. "Understood. The aggression serves the act, not our anger towards him. We know the difference."
"Good." Ameera’s nod was curt. "Second. Discretion is your armor. Your shield. Your only protection." She swept a hand towards the sprawling metropolis. "This city thrives on whispers. Let no one whisper this. Not a servant. Not a driver. Not a stray cat." Her tone brooked no argument. "The only person who ever learns his daughters were taken apart by two hijabis… is Theodoros Alexandris himself. He needs to choke on that knowledge alone. The humiliation is worthless if it’s public."
Saman absorbed this, her mind already working logistics. "Understood, Ameera." She met the princess’s fierce gaze. "And we add a condition. Ours." She paused, ensuring full attention. "We use nothing traceable back to you. No palace cars. No palace apartments. No palace funds. Not a single thread connecting this to you or the Royal Family."
Ameera’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise and profound appreciation crossing her features. Saman continued, her voice steady. "You need absolute plausible deniability. If this detonates… the blast radius stops with us. You were never involved. You never knew."
A slow, genuine warmth replaced the fury in Ameera’s eyes. Admiration shone through. "Saman," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. In one fluid movement, she rose and stepped around the low table. She pulled Saman into a fierce, enveloping hug. "My clever, protective sister." She held her tightly for a long moment, the scent of her expensive perfume mingling with jasmine. "Thank you."
Ameera released Saman, her eyes glistening, then pulled Mariam into an equally fierce embrace. The scent of oud and jasmine clung to her silk tunic. "My brave warriors," she murmured against Mariam's hijab. "Never doubt my loyalty." She stepped back, her expression shifting back to intense focus. "Now. Practicalities."
She gestured towards the untouched plates. "Eat. We plan."
As Mariam picked up a date, the sticky sweetness sharp on her tongue, Saman leaned forward. "We agreed on the core principle. His daughters. In their own home. In their own beds." She paused, letting the deliberate violation sink in. "That’s the deepest cut."
"Exactly," Ameera confirmed, stirring her coffee slowly. "Public humiliation is fleeting. Private violation? That festers. He'll feel it every time he looks at them, wondering what happened behind closed doors." Her gaze was analytical, detached. "How will you get them to invite you? They won’t just open the door."
Mariam swallowed the date. "We saw them at the retreat, before their prick of a dad showed up. They weren’t hostile. Just… aloof. Rich girls surveying the scene." She tapped her temple. "We need common ground. Something they value."
"Fashion?" Saman suggested, her tone considering. "Art? They moved like they appreciated aesthetics."
Ameera's lips curved. "Sophia collects rare first editions. Eleni is obsessed with contemporary Emirati designers. Small, exclusive boutiques." She pulled a sleek device from her pocket, fingers flying over the screen. "Hala Al-Mansoori’s new collection launches tomorrow. Invite only. Eleni will be there. Guaranteed." She looked up. "Sophia frequents 'The Silent Page', that antiquarian bookstore in the old quarter. She spends hours there."
Mariam’s eyes lit up. "Perfect. Divide and conquer, subtly. Saman, you’d slay the bookstore vibe. Sophisticated, quiet intensity." She grinned, the fighter’s confidence surfacing. "I’ll handle the fashion launch. Less talking, more observing."
Saman nodded slowly, formulating. "Rapport first. Casual conversation. Shared appreciation. No hint of… intention. Build over a couple of days. Shared coffee. Maybe mention a mutual… acquaintance?" She arched an eyebrow at Ameera. "Anonymous, of course. Just enough to pique interest, suggest connections."
Ameera waved a dismissive hand. "Easily arranged. A discreet word. An introduction that feels organic." She leaned back, surveying them. "The timeline is tight. You have maybe three days before their social calendar moves them elsewhere. Can you build the necessary… trust? The invitation hinges on it."
Mariam cracked her knuckles, a sharp sound on the quiet terrace. "We made two belly dancers melt in minutes. These spoiled princesses won’t know what hit them." Her voice held a predatory edge.
Saman placed a calming hand on Mariam’s arm. "Patience, habibti. This isn't the desert tent. This requires finesse. Layers." She turned back to Ameera. "We’ll mirror their energy. Find their wavelength. Gradually lower their guard. Make them suggest meeting privately. Study. Residence."
"Good," Ameera said. The sun climbed higher, warming the marble floor beneath their feet. "But." She leaned forward again, the intensity returning, sharper this time. Her voice dropped, low and utterly serious. "Hear me. If anything feels wrong. A suspicious glance. A sudden coldness. A hint they’ve spoken to their father. Anything that makes you feel unsafe?" She locked eyes with each of them in turn. "You call me. Immediately. No hesitation."
She held their gaze, the weight of her position and power radiating from her. "I will mobilize every resource. Every guard. Every armored car. Every discreet extraction route at my disposal." Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the table. "I don’t care if it causes a diplomatic shitstorm. I don’t care if my uncle has to make awkward phone calls. I don’t care about the fallout for me or my family’s precious image."
The air crackled with the ferocity of her promise. "I will not leave you stranded. Ever." She let the vow hang, absolute and undeniable. "Understood?"
Mariam swallowed, the reality of the potential danger suddenly stark against the opulent backdrop. "Understood, Ameera."
Saman’s voice was steady, a rock. "We understand. Absolutely." Relief warred with renewed focus in her eyes. The safety net was there, but the walk on the wire was theirs alone.
Ameera relaxed minutely, the fierce protectiveness subsiding into steely resolve. "Right." She pushed back her chair. "First stop: Hala’s atelier details for you, Mariam. Saman, I’ll have the bookstore owner subtly informed to expect a discerning Canadian collector tomorrow afternoon." She rose, a queen deploying her agents. "Move carefully. Play the long game. Make them want you in their sanctuary."
She paused at the terrace entrance, silhouetted against the brilliant cityscape. "And when you’re finally alone in their space?" A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips. "Make them remember why they invited the wolves inside."
Her heels clicked on the marble as she left, leaving Mariam and Saman amidst the remnants of breakfast, the plan coalescing, the city’s hum suddenly sounding like an invitation to hunt. Mariam picked up her phone, already searching for Hala Al-Mansoori. Saman stared out at the skyline, mentally mapping routes to the old quarter bookstore. The game had begun.