Diriyah Discovery
"Museum curator Dalal protects Diriyah's heritage. When restoration expert Marc challenges her methods, their debates become something more heated. 'Al athar tiwassal al qulub' (الآثار توصل القلوب) - Artifacts connect hearts."
"Absolutely not."
Marc Dupont blinked at the force of her refusal. "Madame Al-Rashid, modern restoration techniques—"
"Would destroy the authenticity you claim to preserve." Dalal crossed her arms. "Next suggestion."
UNESCO had sent him—the renowned French restorer who'd saved Notre Dame's artifacts, who'd preserved Angkor Wat's carvings. He wasn't accustomed to rejection.
"Perhaps if you saw my portfolio—"
"I've seen it." Her dark eyes flashed. "Impressive European work. But this isn't Europe."
"Cultural chauvinism, Madame?"
"Cultural protection, Monsieur."
The Diriyah project demanded collaboration despite their conflicts. Marc learned to present ideas, Dalal learned to consider them. Battle lines blurred over months of shared work.
"Your stubbornness is infuriating," he told her.
"Your arrogance is exhausting."
"Then we're perfectly matched."
Late nights in the restoration lab revealed softer edges. Marc spoke of the isolation of his work, the failed marriage he barely mourned. Dalal shared stories of building her career in a field that doubted her at every turn.
"How did you persist?" he asked.
"By proving them wrong." She smiled slightly. "Repeatedly."
"I can relate."
"You're different from when you arrived," she observed one evening.
"I learned from a good teacher." His eyes held hers. "I came to 'fix' Saudi heritage. I didn't realize it was already whole."
"And now?"
"Now I want to understand it." He stepped closer. "All of it."
The first kiss happened over a 300-year-old pottery shard, both their careful hands on the same artifact.
"Al athar tiwassal al qulub," she breathed. Artifacts connect hearts.
"I don't need translation for that."
They made love in the conservation lab—carefully, like handling precious objects. Marc worshipped her curves with restorer's precision.
"Magnifique," he murmured against her skin. "Every centimeter."
"This is highly unprofessional."
"The best discoveries often are."
He explored her with the patience his work demanded—each curve documented, each response catalogued. When his mouth found her center, Dalal gripped the examination table.
"Aktar," she demanded. "Marc, aktar!"
"Patience, mon coeur." His tongue worked magic. "Art cannot be rushed."
She came with his name a cry, then again before he rose, eyes blazing.
"I need you," he confessed.
"Then take me." She pulled him close. "Restorer's hands, remember?"
"Steady and sure."
He filled her surrounded by ancient artifacts, groaning at the sensation.
"You're magnificent," he gasped. "Inside and out."
"Save the poetry—" She wrapped her legs around him. "Wa harrak."
They moved together among the history they'd debated—passionate and precise, fierce and tender. Marc drove them both toward oblivion with skilled strokes.
"Je t'aime," he gasped.
"Bahebik."
"Together."
"Sawa."
They crested as one, pleasure crashing through them like centuries colliding. Marc held her through the aftermath, laughing breathlessly.
"We just made love in a UNESCO preservation site."
"Adding to its history." She kissed him deeply. "That's what curators do."
The Diriyah restoration won international acclaim. Marc stayed—not for the project, but for the woman who'd taught him that preservation wasn't about imposing methods, but understanding stories.
"Marry me," he said simply.
"Is that a French proposal or Saudi one?"
"Both." He knelt. "Twice the commitment."
Their wedding featured artifacts from every period of Diriyah's history—a curator's dream celebration.
"Al athar tiwassal al qulub," she repeated in her vows.
"And ours," Marc added, "will be preserved forever."
Some discoveries, they'd learned, couldn't be found in the ground. They waited in plain sight, for hearts wise enough to recognize them.