PROLOGUE
MY PARENTS NEVER WANTEDA GIRL.
It wasn’t personal. Not really. They were simply following the long, toxic tradition of needing an army of sons to keep the Tariq family name marching through the centuries. A dynasty of men to ensure they would continue to exist, even after theystoppedexisting.
But after four blue bundles and a final, weary decision to close up shop, I arrived anyway—first as two faint lines on a urine-stained stick, then as a flicker of heartbeat on a grainy ultrasound. Even as a microscopic cluster of cells, I apparently loved a dramatic entrance. In my defense, it was the twenty-first century. Peoplehadheard of protection.
And now—thirty-two years of loud opinions, elbows-out meals, and the relentless grind of becoming one of Vancouver’s best doctors later—I was crouched behind the steering wheel of my car outside a restaurant I’d chosen, in an outfit I’d chosen, waiting to meet the man my mother had veryenthusiasticallychosen.
I peered through my binoculars, cataloguing every fatal flaw: brown curly hair in need of a better barber, wire-rimmed glasses, shoes that could start an argument in a fashion blog’s comment section, and, because the universe enjoyed adding insult to injury, he was also reading a thick hardcover novel in the middle of a five-star bistro.
A book.
At dinner.
Oh,God, what a disaster. An aggressively nerdy disaster.
“He’s shorter than me,” I groaned into the phone pressed to my ear.
“How could you possibly know that?” my best friend asked, equal parts skepticism and glee.
“Because his head barely grazes the top of the booth.” My breath hitched, heart thudding with the urgency of a very dumb emergency. “Sarah—he’sshorterthan me.”
Her laughter cracked through the speaker. “You’ve got to stop expecting your future husband to be taller than you. It’s delusional at this point.”
“I didn’t ask to be six feet.” A text pinged through. “Great. My mom wants to know why I’m late.”
“Tell her you’re spying. Better yet, tellhim. Nothing kills a first date faster than binoculars.”
“Please. I don’t need optical equipment to scare a man.” I smirked, lowering the lenses. “I’ll call when it’s over.”
I tossed the phone into my bag and swapped my heels for Mary Janes. You’d think my mother might at least pick someone vaguely my type, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He could’ve been the most beautiful six-foot-four human to walk the planet, and I’d still have said no before the appetizers because I wasn’t interested.
Not in marriage. Not in love. Not in trading my hard-won independence for the quiet erasure of becoming someone’s wife. I had no desire to melt into the shadow of a man whose approval granted me existence. I’d watched my mother do that—watched her brilliance dull to a polite shimmer—and decided early I’d rather be alone than invisible.
So I drew a deep breath, swiped on a fresh coat of lip gloss, and pushed through the restaurant’s gleaming doors with a smile that promised chaos.
“Hi, there’s a reservation under Tariq,” I told the hostess, palms slick against the counter. “I think the other party is already here, but...I’ve never actually seen him before.”
She gave me a look so knowing it could have been patented. “Blind date?”
“More like blind engagement.”
Her eyebrows jumped, but she only tilted her head toward the man I’d been not-so-subtly spying on. “That’s him.”
“Thanks.”
On my way to his table, I spotted my mother and one of my older brothers, Adam, parked in the corner like two undercover agents doing the world’s worst impression of “casual diners.” Adam was pretending to study a menuupside down, and my mother’s eyes were already narrowed over the rim of her water glass like she was grading my posture from across the restaurant.
I shot them a wink—sweet, quick, and petty enough to sting—before clearing my throat to get his attention. “Hi, sorry I’m late.” He looked up from his pretentious brick of a book and half-rose, but I waved him down. “It’s fine, you don’t have to stand.”
Dear God, please don’t ever stand beside me.
He sank back into the booth, and I slid across from him, giving him a closer inspection now that I was within judgmental range. All I knew was that he was thirty-six, a doctor, and also Lebanese. My mother refused to tell me his name to keep me from doing an online investigation beforehand—and I could see why. Not only was he not my typeheightwise, but he also wasn’t my typelookswise.
“I would’ve gotten here earlier,” I continued casually, “but I spent the last few hours with my face wedged between freshly waxed legs.”
He sputtered, choking on his water.
