Chapter 2
When the taxi that brought me from my small flat—which I just learned I’ll have to leave soon, after having barely set foot in London—parks in front of the building on Canary Wharf, the city’s financial hub, I am mesmerized by the grandeur and luxury of it.
I’ve looked up both Sheikh Kamal and the place where I will possibly start working.
Given the wealth of the Emirate of Sintarah, I expected nothing less than an imposing property.
Up close, it’s even more beautiful than in the pictures.
In fact, from what I’d gathered, the project, designed by a famous Boston architect named Lucas Ward, won the “boldest designer” award.
I get out of the charming and classic-in-an-English-style vehicle, but just as I enter the building, I start to get anxious.
From the pictures I saw of my future boss over the internet—yes, I’m considering my signing as a sure thing; I’m optimistic—mostly taken at official ceremonies in his country, his face always looked downright intimidating.
However, I trust that he won’t be too mean to me, as he’s friends with Christos, my cousin Zoe’s husband.
Not that I’m expecting any special treatment. If he is just a little patient with me until I learn the job, it’ll be a big help.
It’s been three months since Zoe told me she might have gotten me a job. I was dying to run away from my mother in Boston, and now, with the family’s newly declared bankruptcy, things have been more difficult than ever, so I accepted without thinking twice.
I would be lying if I didn’t say I’m scared to death. I have never lived in another country, and my experience away from my family and my state’s high society is very limited. The only thing that puts me at ease is knowing that the Sheikh is aware that this will be my first job.
According to Zoe , the most important thing, however, is not my professional capability but my social knowledge.
It seems my future boss isn’t a fan of high society’s rules, and his behavior can sometimes be considered rude.
In a nutshell, my job is to cut the diamond in the rough and turn him into a lord, in terms of Western culture.
According to the gossip magazines, my boss is six point five feet tall and weighs more than two hundred pounds.
In other words, a diamond lord.
Also, very handsome. Not in a “okay, he’s cute” kind of way. More like a “wow, what a man!” type.
However, none of that matters to me. I just need to focus on the fact that this job means freedom from my family.
It takes me some time to explain to one of the security guards by the entrance who I am.
I have yet to get used to the British accent, because in addition to the accent, which makes some words sound different from in the United States, I’m dyslexic[5], and what I think and what I say don’t always correspond.
The man isn’t rude—I think he’s just going by the book—but it still takes a good five minutes before I can explain that I don’t have a badge to get in as it’s my first day on the job.
And then I’m finally released.
As the elevator climbs up the building’s tower, I make a promise not to check myself in the mirror for the fifth time since I left home, but it’s in vain.
What if I have lipstick on my teeth?
I can’t believe I’m really here. It’s my first job, and it’s with a Sheikh, traveling all over the world just to help him get acquainted with Western culture. It doesn’t sound like a serious job; it sounds like a dream. I will finally live.
When Zoe told me that Sheikh Kamal wanted to interview me in person, even after he had been given the go-ahead for the hire by two of his secretaries, I couldn’t believe it.
I mean, why? I went through a thorough questionnaire. Except for my favorite fruit, they know everything.
Maybe he’s a bit controlling and likes to always have the last word. I won’t argue with that, as long as the last word is not backing out of my contract.
I can’t resist looking in the mirror one last time before the elevator reaches its destination.
Wow! I feel like an executive.
I smile as I check out the pantsuit Zoe picked out for me.
“Elegant and professional. Not sexy,” she told me.
I blow away a strand of hair that falls over my eyes. The long bob my Mom always insisted I get is pissing me off, so I’ve decided I’m going to let my hair grow out.
It’ll be my second act of rebellion. The first was to let it go back to its natural color: golden blonde.
Since I was twelve, my mother had a hairdresser dye it a chocolate shade, because she said being blonde was vulgar.
However, I’m starting a new life and I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not, not even with the color of my hair.
The elevator comes to a stop at the floor where I’m supposed to get off, and the doors open, but I don’t move because my insecurity is back in full force.
A woman, whom I believe is one of the secretaries, waits for me to step out. When I stay paralyzed, she looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Good morning, Miss Turner. We were waiting for you.”
I think security must have called her to say I was coming up.
“Good morning,” I say carefully. I’ve been honest about my dyslexia, but speaking slowly is a habit I picked up to escape my mother’s criticism. “I’m here for the interview with Mr. Kamal.”
She looks me up and down and corrects: “Sheikh Kamal.”
I dislike the woman right away, but seconds later, I remember what Zoe told me:
Don’t let them intimidate you.
Okay, come on, world. I’m ready.
I nod in agreement and nervously step out of the elevator, not paying attention to where I’m going. Apparently, I take a wrong turn because I bump into a muscular chest.
I let out a high-pitched scream, and it’s not because I’m scared, it’s because the hot cup of coffee the person was holding has splattered down the front of my shirt.
With my skin on fire, I act on impulse and rip my blazer and shirt off. My breasts ache from the boiling liquid, and it’s only when I hear laughter that I realize they’ve all stopped to stare at my unintentional striptease.
There is someone, however, who glares at me.
I know who he is.
Sheikh Kamal Hafeez Shariq Najjar Shadid, whose name took me hours to memorize.
My employer.
Or maybe ex-employer would be the correct term.