The suite was designed to intimidate—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Gulf, furniture that cost more than cars, and the kind of luxury that reminded you who had power and who didn't. Khalid barely noticed. He was focused entirely on the woman offering him tea.
Lucia Marchetti was more beautiful than her photographs. Not conventionally perfect—her features were too sharp for that, with intelligence written in every line of her face. She moved with careful precision, like someone who'd learned to occupy space without claiming it.
Interesting, Khalid thought.
"Please, sit." She gestured to the seating area, her English American-accented but formal. "Tea? Coffee?"
"Tea would be lovely, thank you."
She poured from a service that was probably solid silver and handed him a cup with steady hands. No nervousness. No obvious calculation. Just smooth, practiced hospitality.
They sat across from each other, and Khalid felt the weight of evaluation. She was studying him the way he studied negotiating opponents—looking for tells, weaknesses, and leverage points.
"Your flight was comfortable?" Lucia asked.
"Very. And yours?"
"Long, but uneventful." She smiled, the expression pleasant and empty. "I appreciate you meeting on neutral ground. Dubai seems appropriately neutral."
"For two people negotiating a business arrangement?"
"Is that what we're doing?"
Khalid set down his tea. "Let's dispense with pretense, Ms. Marchetti. We both know why we're here. Our families want an alliance. We're the mechanism for that alliance."
Something shifted in her expression—not quite relief, but recognition. "I appreciate directness, Your Highness."
"Then let me be direct. I have no interest in games or false romance. If we proceed, it will be a partnership built on mutual benefit and clear terms."
"Al-'ilm qabla al-'amal," Lucia said quietly. Knowledge before action.
Khalid felt surprise cut through his diplomatic mask. Her Arabic was perfect—not the casual phrases tourists learned, but formal classical Arabic with proper grammar.
"Your Arabic is excellent," he said, switching to Arabic himself. "Where did you study?"
"I find it useful," she replied in the same language, "to understand what people are saying when they think I can't."
Clever. Khalid switched back to English. "Most Americans don't bother learning Arabic. Especially not to that level."
"Most Americans don't marry into Saudi royal families."
"We haven't agreed to anything yet."
"No," Lucia said. "But we will. The question is on what terms."
For the next hour, they circled each other verbally. Khalid mentioned art; Lucia responded with detailed knowledge of Islamic calligraphy and its influence on modern Middle Eastern artists. He tested her on regional politics; she knew the difference between Shia and Sunni power structures, could name the major tribal alliances, and understood the delicate balance between religious authority and royal power.
She's done her homework, Khalid thought. More than homework. She's studied like she's preparing for war.
"You seem well-informed about Saudi Arabia," he said carefully. "For someone whose family primarily operates in California."
"Information is currency, Your Highness. I believe in being well-capitalized."
They discussed philosophy—Khalid mentioned Al-Farabi, and Lucia countered with a quote from Ibn Khaldun. They talked about power structures in organized crime versus political dynasties, finding uncomfortable parallels. And slowly, the performance started to crack.
"We're both being used, Ms. Marchetti," Khalid said finally. "The question is whether we're clever enough to use this situation for ourselves."
"And how would we do that?"
"By setting our own terms. Separate residences initially—I maintain my home in Riyadh, and you keep your base in Los Angeles. We appear together for family obligations and public events. But we maintain autonomy in our business affairs."
Lucia considered this. "And personal lives?"
"Discretion. Neither of us embarrasses the other publicly. What we do privately is our own concern, as long as it doesn't compromise the alliance."
"That's remarkably pragmatic."
"I've seen too many arranged marriages destroy people who went in with romantic expectations. Better to be honest from the beginning."
"I don't believe in love at first sight, Prince Khalid." Lucia's expression was unreadable. "But I do believe in recognizing a worthy opponent."
Khalid laughed, surprising himself. "Is that what we are? Opponents?"
"Aren't we?" She smiled, and for the first time it reached her eyes. "Two people from families that would gladly destroy each other, sitting in Dubai pretending to negotiate a marriage when we're really negotiating a truce."
"You have a bleak view of marriage."
"I have a realistic view of power." Lucia leaned forward slightly. "My family wants your oil money and Middle East connections. Your family wants our American infrastructure and political access. We're the transaction that makes it possible. But that doesn't mean we have to be victims of it."
Khalid studied her—really looked at her—and saw past the performance to the calculation beneath. She wasn't a princess playing at business. She was a strategist running scenarios, a general planning campaigns.
She speaks like a diplomat, moves like a dancer, and thinks like a general, he realized. Every word calculated, every gesture precise. I came here expecting a mafia princess. I'm looking at something far more dangerous.
"What happened to your mother?" Lucia asked suddenly, her tone shifting. "I read she died when you were young. I'm sorry for your loss."
The change in subject should have felt jarring. Instead, it felt calculated—she was testing his reaction to vulnerability.
"Car bombing," Khalid said, the words automatic after decades. "I was twelve. They said it was terrorists, but..."
"But palace politics are often more dangerous than external threats."
He looked at her sharply. That detail—the suspicion of internal involvement—wasn't public knowledge. "You've done extensive research."
"As I said, I believe in being well-capitalized."
They were both quiet for a moment. Then Khalid asked, "Why aren't you married? Thirty-two is... unusual in your community."
"I've been busy building other things." Lucia's expression was carefully neutral. "And most men in my world want decorative wives. I've never been particularly good at being decorative."
"No," Khalid agreed. "I don't think you are."
Another silence, but this one felt different. Less performance, more evaluation.
"If we do this," Lucia said slowly, "there need to be rules. Clear boundaries. I won't be controlled, and I won't give up what I've built."
"Agreed. Same terms from my side."
"And if our families' interests conflict?"
"Then we handle it carefully, together." Khalid met her eyes. "I'm not interested in destroying you, Ms. Marchetti. I'm interested in surviving my uncle's ambitions without losing myself completely."
"That's honest."
"You said you appreciated directness."
Lucia stood, signaling the meeting was ending. Khalid rose as well. They'd been talking for nearly two hours, and somehow it felt like both too long and not long enough.
"I need to think about this," Lucia said. "Discuss with my family."
"As do I." Khalid moved toward the door, then paused. "This was a test, wasn't it? For both of us?"
Lucia met his eyes, and for just a moment, the mask dropped completely. He saw intelligence and calculation, yes—but also exhaustion. Loneliness. The weight of being more than everyone expected while pretending to be less.
He recognized it because he wore the same weight.
"The test, Your Highness," she said quietly, "is whether we're smart enough to admit we both passed."
Khalid smiled. "Then I suppose we have our answer."
"I suppose we do."
He left the suite, and the door closed behind him with a soft click.
In the elevator, Yusuf was waiting. "Well?"
"She's not what I expected."
"Is that good or bad?"
Khalid thought about Lucia's perfect Arabic, her knowledge of regional politics, and the way she'd negotiated like someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
"I'm not sure yet," he said honestly. "But she's definitely not just a mafia princess."
"What is she, then?"
Something far more dangerous, Khalid thought. Something I might actually respect. Which makes this infinitely more complicated.
"Someone who might make this arrangement bearable," he said instead.
Or someone who could destroy him completely. Time would tell which.