She took her time before answering. “If you’re married in name only, abandoned and humiliated by your husband in the prime of your life, without a legitimate means to support your family and yourself in any meaningful way in this materialist culture that spits in your face if you’re not driving the right car, then you are just like me.”

She stared until I turned to look at her. I didn’t know what to say. I thought about the contents of the safe at home, the stranger on top of me at the beach, glass pushing into my back. The knot in my stomach I’d had since that night tightened its grip. I wanted to vomit. Was she right? Was this my fate?

“What do you want from me?” I asked, concentrating fire in my eyes, but actually feeling defeated.

“I want us to be friends. We can help each other, and I believe in time you will see things differently. I know your brother is one of the top students in the country and has been every year.”

I went cold. My anger was suddenly real and powerful. “Listen to me. I will gouge out your eyes if you mention my family again. Do you understand?”

But she continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “Your brother deserves to get a good education. I know your family cannot afford to send him to university. But I can help.”

It’s true I wanted Jehad to become the surgeon he dreamed of being. And I wanted to be the person to make it happen. To be my family’s savior and protector. But the reality of what she was offering made my stomach churn again. “I need to go back to work,” I said, stiffening, trying to hold my gut together.

The waiter walked by our car and took Um Buraq’s empty glass. I motioned for him to take mine. “Was something wrong with the juice?” he asked, seeing it nearly untouched.

“She’s not feeling well,” Um Buraq answered for me, reaching over to tip him. After he left, she said, “I am offering you a chance to make a month’s salary in one hour.”

“And if I say no?”

She shifted in her seat, stretching her body to open the glove compartment. It was full of junk and papers. “Open that,” she ordered, pointing to another blue envelope.

“I don’t want your money.”

“It’s not money. Open it.”

I did. And there I was, in that tight little red dress, a glass of liquor in my hand, dancing between three men ogling my body, showering me with money, money all around my bare feet on the floor. “You took these pictures? You planned this?”

I opened the car door, retching. If those photos ever got out, I would never be able to show my face anywhere. I could also be imprisoned for prostitution. Prostitution!

“Take some time,” she said grimly, and started the car.

Two months later, I went to another party with her, Susu, and Fifi. Again, married men without their wives, showing off photos of their kids.