The Kuwaiti Art Collector

جامعة الفن الكويتية

I acquire beauty for Kuwait.

Islamic manuscripts, Abbasid ceramics, Ottoman textiles. The national museum is my canvas.

Oliver has what I need.

I'm Dalal.

Forty-eight, Kuwaiti, PhD in Islamic art history. I've built the finest collection in the Gulf.

Oliver deals in rare pieces.

He's fifty-three.

British, from a family of art dealers. He has a 12th-century Quran manuscript. Priceless.

"Name your price."

"It's not about price."

"Everything has a price."

"Not everything."

"Then what do you want?"

"To know it's going somewhere worthy."

"I'm building Kuwait's heritage. What's worthier?"

"Show me."

I give him the tour.

Every piece, every story. My life's work displayed.

"This is extraordinary."

"This is necessary. We must preserve what we created."

"Who created?"

"Muslims. Arabs. Our ancestors."

"Why does this matter to you?"

"Because the world forgets our contributions. I make them remember."

"Through art."

"Art is memory. Memory is power."

"The manuscript is yours."

"Thank you."

"On one condition."

"What condition?"

"Dinner. Tomorrow. Let me hear more of your philosophy."

The first kiss is in the museum.

After hours, surrounded by centuries of beauty.

"This feels historic," he says.

"Everything here is. Why not us?"

"I could stay in Kuwait longer."

"How long?"

"Long enough to see what we're building."

"We?"

"If you'll have me."

He undresses me in my apartment.

Islamic art adorning every wall, watching.

"Beautiful."

"Oliver—"

"Let me admire you like the pieces you collect."

We make love while history watches.

Ancient beauty witnessing new love.

"Ya hayati—Oliver—"

"Right there?"

"Aiwa—priceless—"

Three years later

He never left.

We build the collection together now. Partners in art and life.

"Happy?" he asks.

"We acquired something rare."

"What?"

"Each other."

Alhamdulillah.

For art that connects.

For dealers who stay.

For collections that become love.

The End.