My eyes widened. “Thank you very much, sir…”
Mehmet turned to the painting, waving his hand. “Your use of color and space is highly commendable; you are creating a physical fantasy for the viewer to exist within. You pull me into this moment, into this light. And when I am there, all I feel is warmth, and love.” He turned back toward us. “I can feel the love you have for my son in this painting. That is the work of a true artist.”
The blood drained from my face, and I stopped breathing. I felt naked and vulnerable, standing there in front of the Al-Zayns. My instinct was to protest against Mehmet’s accusations about my feelings behind the portrait. I didn’t love Rafiq; this was all business. No, he was seeing something wrong in the painting. He had to be.
Despite every part of me being terrified to do it, I looked over at Rafiq. His expression was something I hadn’t seen on his face before; it was true astonishment, almost a realization.
No matter how badly I wanted to deny his assumption, I couldn’t argue with Mehmet. I was supposed to be in love with Rafiq, after all, and it certainly wouldn’t inspire confidence if I protested.
“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know how to respond to such a compliment. I’m honored that you enjoy my work.”
“And I am honored that you are joining my family.”
I blushed and looked away, the pressure of emotions finally becoming too much for me. I turned to the cookies and steaming cup of tea Rafiq had placed before me.
Mehmet returned to his seat on the couch as Rafiq joined me on the loveseat, putting an arm around my shoulders.
“You see, father? I told you she was priceless. All this worry you’ve had for me over the years, and it was for nothing.”
“Yes, and for once you are delivering on your promises. My worry did not develop out of thin air, Rafiq. It comes from years of unfortunate experience.”
“Oh, come now,” said Rafiq. He tried to make his words light, but I could hear the pain in his voice. “Just be happy you’re going to have such a talented daughter-in-law, after so many years of ‘unfortunate experience.’”
“I hope she will help you become the man you are meant to be. Speaking of which, are you finally ready to give some serious thought to business school? My luncheon today, incidentally, is with the dean of admissions at Renault Academy.”
Tension began to creep back into the room. Discomfort squirmed in my gut, but it was obvious that this wasn’t about me.
Rafiq took a breath before he answered, as if he was trying to keep from getting upset. “This, again, father? Perhaps we could wait and talk about this alone, away from Evie.” He caressed my shoulder.
“Yes, this again, son—until the situation has been resolved to its proper conclusion,” Mehmet said sternly. He turned his attention to me. “My son needs to return to business school, to gain the education he will require to manage the empire he will one day inherit—the empire I built for the Al-Zayn family.” He turned back to his son. “Now that beautiful Evangeline is here to add creativity to the family, there is no need for you to keep up this charade any longer. Let her paint, and you, take your place at the head of the family, as you should.”
I had never heard anyone talk to their child this way. My parents didn’t fully understand my artistic life, but they had certainly never tried to tell me what my life should be. And what was Mehmet referring to—what creative charade was Rafiq living? He had admitted that he didn’t want to be a businessman, sure. But what did art have to do with it?
“Father,” said Rafiq, shaking his head. “Please. Can we discuss this later?” He made a nod in my direction, and whatever message was passing between father and son seemed to be received.
Mehmet didn’t look pleased, but he finally seemed to give into his son’s request.
As he fixed up his tea, Mehmet gave Rafiq a stern gaze and changed the subject. “You don’t look well today, son. You seem pale. Have you been sleeping well?”
Mehmet couldn’t know that Rafiq was terribly hungover, so I quickly chimed in. “Rafiq hasn’t been feeling very well the last few days.” I turned to him with a sympathetic look, and he blinked slowly at me as he smiled. “I think he caught the cold that’s been going around the building. I’ve been trying to get him to lie down and rest, but he was insistent that everything be perfect for your arrival.”
Mehmet made a gruff noise but didn’t reply. The good cheer I had cultivated earlier had apparently evaporated into the atmosphere. He took a few sips of tea, and then with a sly voice said, “I don’t remember some of those tattoos.”
Rafiq stiffened next to me. “What?” he said. He had carefully dressed to hide them, as he always did, under an expensive button-up shirt.
Mehmet nodded at my painting of Rafiq. “You said this was her newest masterpiece—last night, was it? I can smell the paint on the canvas. Some of the tattoos on the portrait are new to me.” He cleared his throat. “I was certain, the last time we discussed this issue, that it was the final time.”
The mood in the room suddenly dropped below freezing. Even the bodyguards, who had long ago taken up posts at either end of the hallway, seemed to tense up at the overheard change of tone.
Mehmet seemed intent on drawing emotional blood from his son, even on what was supposed to be a lighthearted visit to meet his daughter-in-law. Sympathy for Rafiq filled my heart as I experienced first-hand the kind of pressure he had to deal with on a daily basis.
“That’s my fault,” I said, the words to defend him coming out of my mouth in a tumble
“Your fault?” said Mehmet, surprised.
Rafiq was squeezing his nails into my side secretly, as if trying to warn me against whatever it was I was doing.
I ignored him. “Yes, you see, I uh, I drew some designs one day, and Rafiq…” I turned to him in what felt like a dramatic manner, but which probably looked exactly right to his father. “Your son is so endlessly supportive of my work. When he saw the designs, he said he had to have them as a part of him forever. So he took them to his old tattoo artist and had them done.”
Mehmet made a single gruff sound, looking from me to Rafiq. “Is that a fact?”
“He told me about your displeasure with the tattoos he already had… I know I should have tried harder to talk him out of it,” I said, taking Rafiq’s hand in mine and holding it in my lap. “But I’m sure you know better than me how he is when he decides he wants something. He was certainly as persistent in pursuing me.” Not technically a lie, but it felt odd to admit out loud that Rafiq had been pursuing me just like a legitimate romantic conquest.
After a few seconds of tense silence, Mehmet grinned and gave out a belly l
augh. “Yes, my son is nothing if not stubborn. I suppose even the love of his life would not be immune from it.”
I laughed with Mehmet as the tension in the room cleared. Rafiq squeezed my hand tightly, like he was thanking me.
“I am truly excited by this union,” said Mehmet as he put down his tea on the table. “Rafiq, you have found a lovely woman, and nothing makes me happier than to see you hold onto her as you should. Your mother will be thrilled at the prospect of planning the wedding.”
“Oh, let’s not get into all that already,” groaned Rafiq good-naturedly. “This creative beauty has had me running around looking at venues and flower arrangements already.”
We looked at each other, Rafiq smiling down at me and rubbing my hand in his, and at that moment, nothing about this felt fake. Something about the look in his eyes told me Rafiq was feeling the same.
Mehmet ended the moment when he cleared his throat and checked the Rolex that looked a lot like the one Rafiq wore. “I would love to continue this further, but I do have some business appointments to make while I am in the city.”
The three of us rose to our feet, as Rafiq said, “Do you still have time for a nice dinner with us before you leave town? I would hate for this to be your only time with your new daughter-in-law.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mehmet. He leaned forward and clasped both of my hands in his, then brought them to his lips for a gentle peck. “I would not dream of leaving without seeing this angel again. I’ll be in touch.”
I blushed. “I look forward to it, father.”
Mehmet shook his son’s hand and gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder before turning toward the elevator, followed closely by his silent bodyguards. With his arm around my shoulder, Rafiq and I followed and stood at the end of the hallway, waving, until the doors closed and Mehmet and his bodyguards were gone.