The Gold Souk's Daughter | بنت سوق الذهب
"She inherits her father's gold shop in Dubai. He's the appraiser who tells her the inventory is worthless. The truth he discovers changes everything."
The Gold Souk's Daughter
بنت سوق الذهب
My father's shop has been in the Gold Souk since 1975.
He died last month. Left me the inventory.
Hassan says none of it is real.
I'm Yasmin.
Thirty-eight, lawyer, never interested in gold. My father's shop was his life, not mine.
Now I have to deal with it.
Hassan is the appraiser.
Fifty, Iraqi, came to Dubai after the invasion. He's known for brutal honesty.
"Ninety percent of this is fake. Your father was selling replicas."
"That's impossible."
"It's fact. I'm sorry."
"My father wasn't a fraud."
"Then someone fooled him." He hesitates. "Or there's something else here."
"What else?"
"Let me look deeper."
He spends days.
Testing, researching, tracing. I watch, fascinated despite myself.
"You're very thorough," I observe.
"The truth deserves thoroughness."
"Find anything?"
"I found this." He holds up a ring. Simple, old. "This is worth more than the rest combined."
"That's my grandmother's wedding ring."
"It's also fourteenth century. Mamluk dynasty. Museum quality."
"How did my grandmother have a Mamluk ring?"
"That's what I want to find out." He pauses. "With your permission."
"Why do you care?"
"Because mysteries deserve solutions. And because..." He stops.
"Because what?"
"Because you deserve to know your family."
We research together.
Late nights, archives, connections forming. About the ring. About each other.
"You're not what I expected," I admit.
"What did you expect?"
"A boring appraiser."
"I'm devastated."
The first kiss is in the shop.
Surrounded by fake gold and one priceless ring. He tastes like discovery.
"This is unprofessional," I say.
"The appraisal's done. I'm just a man now."
"What do you want from this?"
"The truth. About the ring. About you."
"Those aren't the same."
"Aren't they? You're as mysterious as any artifact."
We trace the ring.
Through history, through my family. My grandmother was descended from Mamluk nobility. The ring was her birthright.
"Your family has stories you never knew," Hassan says.
"You've given me more than an appraisal."
"I've given you context."
He undresses me in my father's office.
The same room where I learned the business I thought I didn't want.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not—"
"You're treasure. Better than any gold."
He worships me like something precious.
Appraising every curve, testing every response.
"Ya hayati—Hassan—"
"Right there?"
"Aiwa—exactly—"
One year later
I run the shop now.
Hassan verified the rest of the inventory. The fakes are gone. The real pieces—and the ring—remain.
"Happy?" he asks.
"I found my heritage. And you."
"Which matters more?"
"Yes."
We married in the Gold Souk.
The ring on my finger—my grandmother's, my inheritance, our beginning.
"Best appraisal?" I ask.
"You. Priceless."
Alhamdulillah.
For mysteries that reveal.
For appraisers who dig deeper.
For gold that leads to love.
The End.