He flinches at my scathing tone.
“I cannot see how anyone could have come close enough to you to put a note in your dress, without your realising,” he says quietly. “I am trying to find an explanation, but you are guarded at all times.”
And then I remember. The bike. The little boy and his father. It had all happened so quickly, but there would indeed have been an opportunity at that moment for the father to have slipped something into my pocket as I was distracted by the child.
“What is it?” He asks urgently.
“There was an accident,” I murmur. “Nothing consequential. A little boy fell off his bike near us – he’d had to swerve to avoid us, actually. I felt responsible. I was tending to him, making sure he was okay, when his father – at least I presume it was his father – came to crouch beside me. It all happened very quickly, so I can’t be certain, but I suppose, theoretically, he would have been close enough, and I was distracted enough…” I shake my head. “But who knows? It could have been anyone, at any time. The point is, you don’t even know the note’s contents were bad. It could have been an old friend of my father’s simply wanting to meet to discuss old times. All of this is based on your belief that my father is inherently bad, and I don’t agree with that premise. I know he would never hurt a fly. He’s not capable of the things you accuse him of, and nor am I. Now please, just…leave me alone.”
His jaw is clenched tight, his face impossible to read. I’ve never felt more alone and isolated than I do in this moment.
He comes into the kitchen, watching me, and the pressure inside of me builds, so I feel as though parts of me are splitting under the intense burden.
“I can’t do this.” The words bubble out of me, tumbling from my lips without forethought. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I can’t be married to someone who…who thinks me capable of…and my father…I can’t live under a cloud of suspicion, on probation, terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing in case my father is penalised for my misstep. I can’t…I need…please…”
He is frozen, his eyes unreadable, but that barely registers, my own feelings are too enormous to allow space to comprehend his.
I gulp in air, tears streaming down my cheeks now. “I was wrong to do this. I thought it would be simple but nothing’s simple and nothing makes sense and I just want…”
“Hush, hush,” he draws me to him, his arms rough and tender at the same time, urgency in the movement, holding me tight, vice-like, clamping me to him while I sob and mumble incoherently, grief ripping me to pieces. “It’s okay, Amy, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I shake my head. “I can’t live like this. I can’t…I didn’t…I wouldn’t…”
“I know, I know,” he strokes my head, so gently, and nothing makes sense anymore. A moment ago he was accusing me of – I don’t even know what – and now he’s telling me ‘he knows’?
“Almost from the moment we met I have believed in your innocence. I have trusted your goodness. It is unusual for me to take someone so completely at face value, and particularly you – the daughter of a man I…your father’s daughter,” he finishes clunkily. “I presumed you would be easy to dislike and mistrust, that keeping you at arm’s length would not prove difficult, and yet from the moment you arrived I have found it impossible.”
My breath punctuates the silence, each like a small, shaking sob.
“When I saw that note, I panicked. I thought I’d been wrong all this time. I overreacted because I was angry with myself, for believing in you so completely.”
“You were right to believe in me,” I tilt my face up, needing to see him, needing him to see me. There is sincerity in my eyes, truth and honesty on my face. “I never lied to you.”
“I know.” He catches my face with his hands, holding me still, and his expression is tormented, tortured. “The shock of that note made me feel as though everything I thought I knew was wrong. For a moment I doubted – it was wrong of me to accuse you.”
I close my eyes, glad for his apology but not feeling much better. My emotions are rioting all over the place. He drops my face and pulls me to him again, holding me there, close to his chest, so I can hear the beating of his heart.
“I’ll have your father brought to Qabid immediately.” He speaks slowly, the words grim, and instead of the euphoria I’d expected to feel, everything is complicated by my knowledge that this man is doing the opposite of what he wants. I’m so torn! For my father I want this, but for Zahir? When did I start to care about his wants? When did I start to prioritise them?
“You’ve done everything I asked of you. It’s time.” He kisses the top of my head. My eyes sweep shut against the barrage of emotions.
“A minute ago you were accusing me of plotting your downfall and now you’re saying he can come home?”
“I won’t have you feeling like this,” he says simply. “You married me for one reason and one reason only, and I intend to keep my word. You’re right. You can’t live like this, worrying that I’m going to cheat your father out of the future you’ve bought for him with your sacrifice.” He steps back and I want to scream at him that I don’t see it that way! Our marriage isn’t a sacrifice!
But I can’t – I’m too proud, or too cowardly – I can’t fully admit to myself that I feel that way, let alone to this man. It’s all too complicated. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t – please – don’t thank me. I do not deserve it.” His lips form a tight smile and then he turns and leaves. At the door he hesitates; I hold my breath, waiting, hoping he’s going to say something, anything, to turn and come back.
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“His highness’s express orders,” the woman apologises, her smile friendly as she waits for me to admit her to the apartment. “He says you were ill?”
“I think it was too much sun,” I lie, aware that it was devastation and stress, nothing more.
“Nonetheless, this won’t take long.”
I really want to send her away but given that she’s here on Zahir’s orders, she’s not likely to take ‘no’ for an answer. Besides, it can’t hurt.