A Seat at the Table

A sun-bleached port glitters through tall windows. A long table like an altar. NABIL AL-KHOURI sits at its head—linen suit, stillness as power.

LEILA and SAMI sit opposite, not looking at each other.

DALIA MANSOUR stands behind Nabil with a slim folder, watching everyone’s hands.

Across from them: MR. HADDAD, the creditor’s counsel, immaculate, smiling with teeth only.

Gentlemen. Ladies. The facility renews—

—if you accept the covenants.

He slides the term sheet forward like a blade.

MR. HADDAD (CONT’D)

Dividend freeze. Asset sales require our consent. And—

—two board seats. Immediately.

A quiet hit. Even the sea outside seems to hush.

Two seats is governance. Not a covenant.

It’s survival, Ms. Al-Khouri.

And if we refuse?

Then your letters of credit expire at close. Your ships don’t sail. Your name becomes… vapor.

Nabil doesn’t blink.

You’ll have your covenants.

Leila snaps her eyes to him—betrayal flickers.

Father—

A family does not argue in public.

He turns to Mr. Haddad with a polite, practiced smile.

NABIL (CONT’D)

You will announce that Al-Khouri stands united. You will say we welcomed your partnership.

Of course.

Dalia’s pen scratches one line on her notepad. Not a note—more like a tally.

MR. HADDAD (CONT’D)

One more item. A pledge—

—of personal guarantees from the heirs.

Leila’s jaw tightens. Sami’s fingers curl under the table.

Nabil’s voice stays gentle, lethal.

They will sign.

A beat. Leila and Sami exchange a look: not alliance—recognition of the cage.

A tiled courtyard washed in white light. Bougainvillea climbs old stone. The sound of gulls and distant cranes.

Dalia steps out with her folder, inhaling like she’s finally alone. She’s not.

Leila leans against a column, controlling her breath. Sami sits on a low fountain edge, watching the water.

Public unity. Private suffocation.

He handed them our throat.

He handed them ours. He keeps his.

Dalia opens her folder—then closes it, choosing words instead of paper.

I found something small in the accounts. Not fraud. Not yet.

A delayed premium payment on the port insurance. Three days late.

Leila frowns—calculating.

That’s… sloppy.

Or intentional. Who handles it?

That’s the harmless part. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just—

leans in, lowering her voice

—embarrassing. If Haddad knows, he’ll tighten terms. If the board knows, they’ll panic. If your father knows, he’ll… punish.

Leila’s eyes sharpen. Sami’s gaze shifts—already filing it away.

Why tell us?

Because I need to know something.

When you’re scared, who do you feed?

A silence that answers without words.

Leila straightens, mask back in place.

No one. This stays here.

Sami stands, a half-smile he doesn’t mean.

Of course.

Dalia watches them separate—each walking a different line through the same courtyard.

Her phone BUZZES.

ON SCREEN: a message preview from an UNKNOWN NUMBER.

“INSURANCE PAYMENT—THREE DAYS LATE. HADDAD ASKING QUESTIONS.”

Dalia doesn’t move. Just lets the sunlight hit her face as the realization lands.

She types one word into her notes: *FIRST.*

She looks toward the boardroom windows—where silhouettes shift behind glass.

So that’s who eats first.