I have to fight to stop my jaw from dropping. Anyone would think I was here against his will, forcing my way into the palace, instead of the truth: my company had been demanded, the Sheikh’s emails quite explicit about the consequences I’d face if I denied his marriage proposal.
I square my shoulders, defiance running through me as I glare through the palace staffer. I refuse to thank him. Inste
ad, I walk towards the doors and he opens one to allow me to pass. As we’re basically face to face he adds with a deep hiss, “Remember. Five minutes.”
I don’t look at him.
This is not Zahir’s apartment. Instead, I find myself in a formal room, the blinds closed so that the space is dark, the furniture a heavy wood. Everything is very beautiful, very traditional, and very intimidating. Most of all, there’s the man behind the desk, his eyes – so dark they’re almost black – piercing me with the force of his intent gaze. He stands as I enter, and I suck in a sharp breath at the sight of him, because despite the fact I’ve seen myriad pictures of this man before, meeting him in the flesh is something I wasn’t – and could never have been – prepared for. He’s at least a foot taller than me with broad shoulders, and a body that looks as though it’s been cast from granite. His face is just the same, every angle and plane intentional and determined, from the slashed cheekbones to his straight nose and lips that look as though they’ve been carefully sculpted by a renaissance master. My mouth goes dry at this unexpected hurdle.
I do not want to be aware of my future husband on a physical level. Not at all.
This man single-handedly destroyed my father’s life, forcing him to live as an impoverished exile, away from a country he loves with his whole soul. This man is a beast and a monster.
The thought is exactly what I need as it empowers me to regard him with a look of cool displeasure, rather than showing my fascination with his incredible physique.
“I’ve been told you only have five minutes, so perhaps we should cut to the chase.” I stalk deeper into the room exuding a confidence I definitely don’t feel.
His lips flex downwards, his disapproval obvious, reminding me of Aliya. Good. Dislike is fine – it suits me perfectly.
“Fine. Take a seat.” His English is spiced, accented with his native tongue, the words deep and seductive. I swallow hard and move to the seat opposite his desk, perching on the edge of it before forcing myself to assume a more relaxed pose.
“How are you settling in?”
It’s a very normal question, but our situation is far from normal, and I don’t think we should start our marriage with pretence. “You don’t have to do that, your highness.”
“Do what?”
“Act as though my comfort is of any interest to you whatsoever. We both know why I’m here.”
Something flashes in the depths of his obsidian eyes. “Our wedding.” He nods crisply. “Fine, let us discuss the details.” He presses a finger to his iPad, pulling up a document. I can’t make the text out.
“My parliament approved the marriage contracts this morning. Our vows will take place tomorrow.”
My pulse kicks up a gear. “So soon?”
His smile is laced with mockery. “What did you expect?”
Great question. A bit longer to adjust to this crazy idea, perhaps? After all, his email only arrived one week ago.
This is all happening very, very fast.
“I don’t know if I had any expectations whatsoever.”
“Probably wise, given the circumstances.” His eyes flick to the iPad, giving me a moment to observe him like this. He is undeniably handsome. But no, ‘handsome’ doesn’t do him justice. He’s animalistic and feral, dark and intimidating without having said or done anything that should have rendered him thus. He has a latent power that exudes from every fibre of his being, so anyone – myself included – would be awestruck by him. It’s more than just this luxurious room, and the grandeur with which he’s surrounded. It’s simply him. I resent this – I resent finding him attractive so resolve not to.
“I’ve had a prenuptial agreement drafted.” He holds the iPad towards me. “Would you prefer a printed copy?”
I eye the iPad. “You want me to read it now?”
His look shows impatience, as though I’ve disappointed him in some manner. “Given that we’re getting married tomorrow, I would say it’s a wise idea.”
I shoot him a withering look. “The man outside said you only have a few minutes. I’m simply trying to respect your schedule.”
“So read quickly.”
My pulse kicks up a notch as I skim the document. It’s not long, and it’s not complicated. The details he proposed via email are clearly articulated here. In exchange for our marriage, my father’s state of exile will be revoked, his citizenship temporarily reinstated. Temporarily because there’s a clause in this document that ties his place in Qabid with my remaining married to Zahir.
“So if I divorce you, my father has to leave the country?”