1
Amy
I’VE ALWAYS HATED SHEIKH Zahir Al Adari with all my heart and that will never change, even if marrying him is inevitable. Marriage, after all, is little more than a piece of paper. My name and his side by side; our signatures etched on a certificate of marriage, for all the world to see. My family’s name is the only thing he cares about, an ancient political feud settled by our deal. His ability to undo the hurt he inflicted on my father the only price I’ve asked for in exchange for my hand in marriage.
He definitely doesn’t want me. He’s made it apparent he’d rather marry anyone but me, if he had a choice. But that’s not how this works. Fate has cast us into these roles, and we must both play our part.
Fortunately for Zahir, I have no intention of making his life difficult.
He can continue exactly as he did before, as though I weren’t even here.
I’d prefer that, to be honest.
It’s bad enough I was wrenched away from my life in the States and brought to Qabid, but we both understand why this is necessary. I want my dad to be able to come home before he dies. I want his exile to be at an end.
And Zahir wants to remove, once and for all, any likelihood that my family’s supporters will rally, demanding a change in leadership, ousting Zahir from the rule of Qabid.
Hatred runs deep in our blood. This should make for a good marriage, no?
“You must walk faster.”
Irritation flares in my blood as I angle a cool glance at my chief of staff. Her name is Aliya and she has been nothing but disapproving since I arrived in Qabid two days ago. Her job, so far as I can tell, is to make my transition easier, but she does very little except shake her head when she thinks I’m not looking, and criticise just about every choice I make.
You should try the alshari ya for breakfast, rather than this American monstrosity.
You cannot wear jeans within the palace.
Your hair must be tied back neatly, rather than wild as you prefer.
It’s become something of a running joke – one she has no idea about – so that I am beginning to enjoy frustrating her by doing the exact opposite of what she’d like. The day after she made the comment about my jeans, I made sure to wear a short denim skirt instead, my blonde hair deliberately teased and very, very wild down my back.
Aliya didn’t arrange any outings for me that day, and I seem to be largely at her whim. That will change – and soon – but for now I have bigger fish to fry. Like speaking to the man I’m supposed to marry but have never met. You would think he’d have come to see me before this, but apparently not. I’m not on his radar, which serves to reinforce that I’m simply a means to an end.
Good.
I deliberately slow down, a saccharine smile on my face as Aliya casts me a furious glance.
I would have thought palace servants might be more deferential but apparently my outsider status engenders pretty universal dislike.
“Through here.”
Everything about the royal palace of Qabid is overwhelming, and not just because I’ve grown up in small town North Carolina, without a lot of spare money. This would be overwhelming for anybody. My ‘bedroom’ is actually a huge suite with a super king-size bed, marble floors, a sitting room fit for a Queen and a bathroom that’s the size of my old apartment. The corridor we’re walking down now is all marble and gold, with ceilings that reach for the sky, lined with life-size portraits of royal family members on one side and ornate windows framing a view of the desert sands the other. Flower arrangements burst with colour, showcasing native blooms and fruit, the fragrance sweet and addictive.
Despite my dislike for Zahir, I can’t help but feel a bubble of anxiety as we draw closer to his quarters. How do I know we’re getting there? Because security has increased by tenfold, the uniform guards now appearing every few metres, staring straight through me like I don’t exist.
I wanted to annoy Aliya today. She’d chosen a silver grey dress for me to wear, simple and sensible, and I’d been very tempted to pull on a pair of torn denim jeans instead. But I didn’t. Even I could sense the importance of this occasion. So I compromised, eschewing her dress selection and opting for a buttery yellow gown with long sleeves and a loose top. It sat lower on my cleavage than Aliya approved of but by then we were already late for this meeting, so she let it slide.
Nerves buzz through me as she speaks in Qabidi to a man in a white robe. His eyes, flint-like, run over me slowly, sending a shiver of something unpleasant down my spine. He nods, turning to the door and knocking once.
A deep voice rumbles towards us. “Come.”
My heart knocks into my ribs. The man in the white robe addresses me in accented English. “His highness has only five minutes. Do not get too comfortable.”