Strings and Schemes

Chapter 17

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

My mother's assistant appeared instead, handing me a bouquet of lilies—my mother's favorite, not mine.

"He sends his apologies," the assistant said, a little too practiced in these moments. "A matter came up at the Embassy."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forced a smile, and nodded. I handed the bouquet to my mother without a word.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I crept into the kitchen, pulled my sculpture out of the car, and set it on the counter. Then I grabbed a knife from the drawer and tried to cut it apart, mostly stabbing in jagged lines.

It wasn't an act of rebellion. It was just the realization that I had made something for someone who would never look long enough to understand it.

By the time I was sixteen, I knew exactly who I was supposed to be. The polished diplomat's daughter, the perfect guest, the girl who knew which fork to use and when to smile.

I was bored to death.

So when Louis caught my eye from across the gala, waggling his eyebrows toward the back door, I didn't hesitate.

"You coming or what?" he whispered as he slipped past the security stationed near the gardens.

I didn't even hesitate.

The Baghdad air was warm and thick, but outside, it smelled like spices and street food, not imported perfume and stale politics. We darted through the side streets, laughing as we dodged past market stalls and music-filled courtyards. I had never felt more alive than I did right then—eating kebabs from a street vendor, my formal gown billowing around me like I didn't belong in it.

"You look ridiculous," Louis snorted, gesturing to my high heels.

"Shut up," I grinned, shoving him. "This is the best night of my life."

And it was. Until I walked back into the house and found my mother waiting. She didn't yell. She didn't scold. She just shook her head and sighed, looking over me as if I were some fragile, misguided thing. "You can run," she said softly, smoothing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. "But you'll never escape who you are."

And just like that, the weight of my family name came crashing back onto my shoulders.

I blink, shaking the memories from my mind.

Standing in my new apartment, alone, I take a deep breath. Staring at the piece of art that has shown up on my doorstep, there's a note attached -

"What could possibly go wrong? xx Z"

I carefully unwrap the piece of art, and gasp - it's a scene like I've seen in his house before. A woman is standing in traditional desi clothes, in the middle of a landscape, with animals around her, and men running wild, attacking one another, ignoring the power of her presence.

Another note falls out from the wrapping, "I bought this for you the night you showed up at my door in your Lengha - it couldn't have been timed more perfectly."

My heart leaps at this kind action, no one has ever bought me art before. No one has ever noticed what art makes me tick, or feel, or bleed. For the first time, this is something for me - not my parents, not some part of my political life that I've curated so well. It's for my afflicted soul, in an attempt to comfort it.

I walk over to the counter, pick up my phone, and scroll through my messages. My fingers hover over my father's unread text from earlier. I don't open it. Instead, I tap on another name.