# The Public Name

Author: Nouf Hamad Dosari
Site: ReadNovelHub
Canonical: https://readnovelhub.com/novel/the-public-name
Genre: Mafia-Dark-Romance

## World
She speaks his name. He writes hers on the witness roll.

## Tropes
- Forced Proximity
- Dark Romance
- Billionaire Romance
- Public Name
- Contract Marriage
- Marriage of Convenience
- Family Ledger
- Majlis
- Witness Roll
- Gulf Romance
- Contract Alliance

## FAQ
### What is The Public Name about?
She speaks his name. He writes hers on the witness roll.

### Who is the author of The Public Name?
The Public Name is written by Nadia Vale. Read Chapter 1 free on ReadNovelHub.

### Is The Public Name a Forced Proximity story?
Yes. The Public Name is tagged for Forced Proximity, Dark Romance, Billionaire Romance readers looking for North American romance-fantasy tropes.

### Can I read The Public Name Chapter 1 for free?
Yes. Chapter 1-2 Free. Weekly VIP trial from Chapter 3. Start The Public Name on ReadNovelHub.

### What happens at the start of The Public Name?
The Grand Majlis smells of Oud, and of the coffee that has been poured three times without anyone drinking it.

## Chapter 1 teaser
### Untitled Chapter

The Grand Majlis smells of Oud, and of the coffee that has been poured three times without anyone drinking it. I keep my hands folded inside my Abaya and my eyes on the Sadr, where my uncle has taken the seat that should have been my father's, and where Faris Al-Khatib has not taken a seat at all. He stands. He does not need the cushion. That is the whole of his Heba—a man in a hard white Thobe, a Misbaha turning slow between his fingers, and every cousin in the room already looking at the carpet instead of at him. The witness roll lies open on the low table between us, its edge weighted with a silver Dallah that has gone cold. Names in a clerk's careful hand. A column for hers. A column for his. And a space beneath, wide and white, for the name of the woman who binds herself to it. My uncle cites Yuba's debt in the tone men use when they want a thing repeated. I do not repeat it. I say what I came to say, and I say it in one line, because I have learned in three months that a woman who explains herself in this room is a woman who has already lost it. "Faris Al-Khatib." My name for him, spoken aloud, in front of the men who watched me be emptied of everything but my mother's ring. The clerk's pen stops. Someone near the door lets out a breath. Faris does not look at my uncle. He looks at me—Misbaha still, thumb at the third bead—and there is something behind his stillness that is not anger and is not kindness, and I understand, too late and too exactly, that I have just been written down. Ammi laughs, and it is the driest sound in the room. "Three months in your mother's house and this is what she brings back to us. A woman who says a man's name into a Majlis as though she were calling a servant for water." He does not raise his voice. He turns his cup a quarter turn on

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