Prologue

 

Abigail Laurent had built her career on being fearless. The kind of journalist who asked the questions no one else dared to, who smirked in the face of power, who believed the truth was a weapon best wielded without apology. That was why, when Sheik Mohamad al-Qasimi agreed to an interview, his first with Western press in years, her producers had handed her the assignment with a mix of excitement and unease. "Don't piss him off," they warned. "He's not one of your corrupt senators or CEOs. This man owns governments."

But she hadn't listened. She seldom listened because she knew best.

The interview was staged in the grand hall of his Dubai penthouse, cameras rolling, his aides watching like silent sentinels. At first, it was civil. She questioned him about his oil empire, his influence over foreign policy, the rumours of disappeared dissidents. He answered with the smooth, condescending patience of a man who had spent a lifetime outmanoeuvring his enemies.

Then she brought up Leyla.

The girl's name was barely a whisper in the West, a minor footnote in human rights reports. A nineteen-year-old maid who had worked in the Sheik's household, only to be found dead in a ditch outside Riyadh, her body bearing marks that suggested things Abigail wouldn't say on air. But she didn't have to. The implication was enough. Sheik Mohamad's smile didn't falter.

"A tragic accident," he said. "But then, your own country has its share of unfortunate women, does it not? The ones who vanish into alleyways, into the trunks of cars? Or do they not matter because they are not useful to your narrative?"

Abigail leaned forward, her voice sharp. "Are you suggesting Leyla's death was justified?"

"I am suggesting," he said, his tone glacial, "that you know nothing of my culture, my laws, or my responsibilities. You come here with your arrogance, your certainty, and you think your microphone makes you powerful." He chuckled. "It makes you predictable."

That was when she did it.

Later, she would tell herself it was righteous fury. That it was for Leyla, for all the women whose names were buried under his wealth and influence. But in truth it was the way he looked at her, like she was a buzzing insect, amusing but ultimately inconsequential. Her palm cracked across his face with a sound like a gunshot and the room froze. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then his guards moved, but the Sheik raised a hand, stopping them. He touched his cheek, his fingers coming away unharmed, his smile never slipping.

"Ah," he said softly. "There it is. The real Abigail Laurent."

The cameras were still rolling. The world would see it. Her producers would panic, her network would issue apologies, but none of that would matter. Because Sheik Mohamad did not forgive. And now, as she stood in his palace months later, the weight of her mistake settled over her like a burial shroud. He hadn't wanted an apology. Apologies were hollow, meaningless. They were for people who had been caught out and who wanted to regain their former popularity or status.

He had wanted her. And as Miss Abigail Laurent was going to find out only too rapidly, Sheik Mohamad always, always got what he wanted.