My first video call with Khabib’s parents came a few days later. His father, Ra’id, looked almost exactly like Khabib, only older, sterner. As our call connected, he paused for a minute, taking me in.

“You are Lucy Morrison?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are aware of the details of our arrangement?”

I nodded and he smiled Mahir’s same unconvincing, lips-together smile.

“I understand you are not overly excited about these added responsibilities, but I cannot stress enough how important this is to me and Khabib’s mother. These past few years we’ve watched with helpless fear as he gallivanted about your city with reckless abandon. All our pleas and advice have gone unheeded; Khabib has left us no choice. I trust you understand that a parent’s love for their child can sometimes know no bounds.”

Another nod, which was probably as feeble as my first. But Ra’id wasn’t here to convince me; he was here to tell me what my responsibilities were.

“My son, as you’ve probably already seen, is an immoderately busy man. He does keep us abreast of many of his activities, particularly those in relation to the business, and yet—” Ra’id paused to tug on his thin mustache, “I fear he is not entirely forthcoming. In fact, as story after tabloid story has proved, my son has been tight-lipped about his…extracurricular activities, in particular.”

I gave my expected nod, and he continued.

“These are the activities his mother and I would like reported to us. If Khabib is engaging in anything he shouldn’t be, we want to be first to know about it. Of course, Khabib will never be informed of this facet of your job as personal assistant to him, nor can you ever at any point reveal what I’ve told you today without risking being immediately fired from your position at Samara Motors. My company needs people they can trust, not someone who shamelessly follows their own interests.”

Now, he was the one who nodded, tugging on his mustache once again.

“Most importantly, however, will be your role in influencing Khabib towards more appropriate activities for a man of his age and position. We aren’t against him having fun—on the contrary, his mother and I want Khabib to be as happy as possible. The only thing is, we know Khabib, and we know this life he lives with rash abandon has not been making him happy. So, it’s up to you to steer him towards things that will be for his better good, things he may one day even come to be grateful to you for.”

As I began to say “And how…” Ra’id continued, not waiting for me to finish.

“Any excuse will do to steer him in the right direction, especially if you can steer him towards the idea of finding himself a suitable, virtuous Arab woman to court…”

At my blank stare, his eyes slightly widened.

“Ah, of course—the wife business. I didn’t mention it yet.”

Another blank stare, but Ra’id was deep in his explanation already.

“We’d like you to find a respectable wife for Khabib. He is already several years older than I was when I married his mother. And I think a nice Arab girl would be good for my son. She would be the stabilizing influence he needs, and add happiness and joy to our whole family. I know such a woman may be harder to find in such a westernized city as Los Angeles, but it is a big city; I’m sure there must be some, somewhere.”

Ra’id paused, finally glancing at me.

“Any questions? Concerns?”

I had no questions and enough concerns to fill a 500-page textbook, but I said nothing, only shook my head.

“Good. So, your added responsibilities start as of now. My family is counting on you, Miss Morrison. Good day.”

And then the call was over, and I was late to work. Though it hardly mattered—as of now, being late was the least of my worries. Yes, my life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.

The next few weeks passed in an anxiety-filled, party-filled blur. Khabib took me everywhere with him: to car shows, Hollywood shoots, meetings.

At first, I accompanied him with shy reticence, trying to casually steer him to the tamer parts of each event, as I had been instructed. We lingered by the food table, avoided the drinks as long as possible. I tried roping him into conversation with any female who looked remotely Middle Eastern and unmarried.

Yet, soon enough, I found myself irresistibly gravitating to the wilder parts along with Khabib too: the exploding spectacles of opening champagne bottles, the blaring dance floors, the delicious masterpieces of cocktails. We went to wrap parties on the weekends, spending the night dancing and drinking until we collapsed into a limo that took us to the next car show. We gulped down coffee and popped sleeping pills like they were going out of style.

And yet, still, every Monday at 7 p.m., I sat down on my rickety kitchen chair and told Ra’id everything. That is, everything, minus a few particular details, such as the drinking and late-night partying. If Khabib’s parents had wanted a good spy, they should have searched for someone with credentials, not some born-and-raised California girl whose closest experience to spying was following her crush home as a pigtailed six-year-old.

Even so, even as I tirelessly detailed every car show, meeting, and wrap party that Khabib and I attended, even with my failed attempts at matchmaking, Ra’id was still unsatisfied.

“There must be something more—you did not see my son disappear with any women? Go into any back room or anything like that?”

To my “No, I’m sorry”, the clean-cut man only frowned.

“Just make sure to be on the lookout for any suitable wives at these functions you go to. Some nice, upstanding woman—there must be some nice Arab women around at these events, no?”

“Maybe,” I said, though mentally I was doing the biggest eye-roll of the century.

Unless Ra’id considered car models or actresses who had posed nude to be “nice Arab women”, then he was sadly out of luck. Still, I promised to do my best, which wasn’t entirely a lie. After all, there were no suitable women for me to foist on Khabib. Though, truthfully, even if there were, I wouldn’t venture to do such a thing, not anymore.

Khabib was different than I had expected, kinder. Now, in my kitchen after my latest “spy video chat” with Ra’id, I sat back and thought of the latest extravagant wrap party we’d gone to, just a few days ago. I’d shown up in the nicest dress I had, a stunning royal blue satin gown.

“I do love that dress,” Khabib had joked, his eyes lingering on me approvingly, “But it seems like I’ve seen it several times these last few weeks—is it the only one you have?”

To my faltering “Yes”, he had almost looked embarrassed, before instead joking, “I guess I don’t pay you enough for a proper Hollywood-ready wardrobe, eh?”

My embarrassed, strangled laugh had been so unconvincing that I’d had no choice but to explain, “My mom, she’s sick. The drugs are expensive.”

At this, Khabib had looked like he was the one who wanted to disappear into the soft velvet carpet underfoot (when I was the one who actually wanted to disappear). He had put his hand on my shoulder.

“Lucy, I…I had no idea. I’m so sorry. Do you…need anything? Is there anything I can do?”

His touch had been warm, gentle, gentler than I’d have thought. That had been the first time he hadn’t spoken to me with his usual smoothness, and his awkwardness had been endearing. I had shaken my head.

“No, I’m fine. Really, it’s…it’s just been a bad month. But thank you.”

I’d put my hand on his, and our gazes had met. For a second, I’d felt the warmth of his hand shoot down the rest of my body with an excited tremble. Sliding his hand away, his gaze still on mine, Khabib had smiled.

“Your concern for your family, I really respect that. Your country is a wonder in many ways. And yet—” a shadow had crossed his face, “In other ways, not so much. The value placed on family, for instance. It seems like most people here do not have it to the same extent as you, and are lonelier. It is refreshing to find that is not universally the case.”

At the admiration in his dark eyes, I had been momentarily speechless. When I’d shifted my gaze away to my hands, I’d found the words.

“Thank you, I…well. My mom’s always been there for me, always been my greatest supporter, my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Feeling tears forming in my eyes, I had moved my hand to brush them away. But it was too late; when my hand had been inches away from my face, Khabib had grabbed it. Catching my surprised, nervous look, he’d put my hand down and patted it.

“Don’t be ashamed of your devotion to your mother. Or anything else, for that matter. Your authenticity is one of the things I like best about you. Lucy, these past few weeks…”

He had fallen silent, then his gaze had flicked to the dance floor. Grabbing my hand, he had grinned.

“What do you say we dance the night away?”

And dance it away we had. We’d moved and grooved until we’d been completely out of breath and our faces had hurt from smiling so much. It had been an unbelievable experience—me in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by gorgeous Hollywood stars and a whole bunch of strangers and yet, despite that, dancing as if I was alone in my room. Dancing as if I was the type of person who went out dancing, who had wild, irreverent fun.

That had been the best night of my life. The best night of my life, just a few days ago. The best night of my life, scattered amidst all the other incredible recent experiences of my life, all of which involved Khabib. There were countless numbers of these: a gala where I’d seen my favorite actress from my favorite sitcom, a car show where I’d had the best pâté I’d ever tasted, a meeting where Khabib had, out of the blue, declared to a roomful of top business executives and high-class investors that to him I was the most valuable person in the room.

Ah yes, Khabib. Who would’ve thought I would’ve been so lucky to work for such a kind man? Although he could sometimes be abrupt, there was no denying how compassionate he could be other times.

Like yesterday, when I’d received an envelope filled with a grand in cash, and the handwritten message: For your future party outfits. When I’d tried to return it, Khabib had pleaded ignorance and refused to take it, despite my insistent requests.

Leaning back further in my kitchen chair, I almost toppled the thing over. At the clattering and re-steadying that followed, Oscar gave a belligerent bark. I sighed, sat on the floor, and started petting him, my whole body still shaking like it had fallen on the floor after all.

Oscar was right. I had to be more careful. Whatever was happening with Khabib, whatever exciting events we were going to, whatever intimate moments we were sharing—he was my boss. My boss, who I was spying on. My boss, who was a notorious womanizer, who apparently had a new girl in his bed every month, if not week. I’d seen myself the way women reacted after he’d spoken to them, or when he’d even just looked at them.

Falling for him, letting my crush develop into anything more, would be nothing short of emotional suicide. If I did end up giving in to my attraction, then I could say goodbye to my job, Khabib’s respect—everything.

I stood up, took my gym membership card off the fridge, and turned it around in my hand. It had been over a month and I still hadn’t used it. Still, it was never too late to try.

So, I threw on my never-before-worn purple leggings and moisture-wicking black shirt. Yes, today I would go to the gym, and tomorrow, I would keep doing my job: helping Khabib in business-related matters. That, and only that. Nothing more.