I roll my eyes. “I realise that, but the words on it I read for the first time just now. I’ve never seen it before.”
He’s very still, watching me, trying to fathom if I’m telling the truth or not. That he believes me is vitally important, and not just because my father’s fate hangs in the balance.
“Why would I do that, Zahir? Why would I scheme against you? If I wanted to see a Hassan on the throne? I’m already here. But apart from that, I don’t care about power or ruling. I just want my dad to come home, and plotting your downfall would destroy my chances of that. Why would I risk it?”
“You hate me,” he says simply, his eyes probing mine.
I reach behind me for the stability of a piece of furniture to grab onto, curving my palm around the top of a chair.
I don’t hate him. I hate what he did to my father, but I don’t hate him. Those words won’t come out, though. Instead, I try to focus on facts. “I was with Aliya all day. There’s no way I could have had a secret assignation with one of your enemies, even if I’d wished to – which I didn’t.”
His brows draw together. “She corroborates this.”
Again I have the sense we’re in a police drama but it’s not funny anymore.
I feel sick. Pressing a hand to my stomach, I stay where I am, staring at him for several long, painful seconds, willing the sense of nausea away, willing myself to be strong.
“Nonetheless, this was in your pocket.”
I can’t fight it anymore. He actually thinks I’m plotting to overthrow his government? Or worse, to kill him? It’s not the heinous nature of those acts that upsets me, but his quickness to believe the worst in me. I turn away from him, the nausea increasing until I know I can’t fight it anymore. I move quickly towards the bathroom, pushing the door open and kneeling, retching over the toilet until the nausea has passed. My brow is covered in perspiration and when I push up to standing, Zahir is standing in the door frame, watching me.
The coldness has left his eyes; there’s concern there now.
I ignore him, moving to the sink to splash water in my face. When I finish, he’s holding a towel towards me. I take it without a word of thanks, glad to have the softness to bury my face in when tears sting my eyes. I hold it there for as long as I can, needing to settle my stomach, my feelings, my sense of disgust.
Eventually, I drop the towel to the vanity and meet his eyes full on.
“I would never do what you’re accusing me of.”
Something stretches between us, his eyes probing mine until I look away. Not out of guilt but out of intense, unshakable sadness. The situation between us is a disaster. Fresh tears fill my eyes and my lip trembles.
“I need a moment.”
I move to the door, grabbing the handle, but he stays where he is, in the palatial bathroom, watching me.
“Zahir?”
He stands his ground, so I do the only thing I can, leaving, walking through his suite towards the kitchen, where I grab the jug of iced tea from the fridge and pour myself a small measure. It’s sweet and overpowering but I throw it back, hoping it will settle my stomach.
He follows me a moment later, still watching me in that way he has.
“Is it possible someone slipped the note into your pocket without you realising?”
“Of course it’s possible,” I mutter. “Either that or someone’s framed me,” I add on. “Not that I’m blaming anyone, but looking at this logically – with your passionless reason – if you believe I’m innocent, which I know to be the case, then those are the only two explanations.”
“I do not believe you were framed,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because it was Aliya who found the note, and she brought it directly to me.”
Pain is like a swift blade at the base of my skull. More betrayal. I thought she and I had formed an understanding, were even becoming friendly. But there are no friends for me here in Qabid. I’m completely alone. I dash at my cheeks, angry to be showing the weakness of crying in front of Zahir but unable to stop.
“If she’d wanted to ‘frame’ you, she would have gone to the head of security, who’d have had no option but to lau
nch an investigation.”
“Instead, you’re doing the investigating. Well? What’s the verdict?” I ask angrily. “Do I need to go to jail, Zahir? Or are you going to exile me back to the States as well?”