THE DRESS IS LIKE gossamer silk, so soft against my skin. It is not white, but rather a deep turquoise with gold embellishments. The sleeves are long and drape past my wrists. At the front, the dress comes high across my neck, a delicate lace thread forming a detailed pattern there, in lieu of jewellery. At my back though the dress scoops low to the base of my spine, and an ornate gold necklace hangs in reverse, the jewels glittering against my spine. I wear flat shoes, a soft leather dyed turquoise.
I have been primped to within an inch of my life. My hair was treated yesterday, my body waxed then massaged with fragranced oils until my skin is supple and smooth, my brows were threaded, a facial was applied, and my nails were neatened into short ovals then painted a creamy white. For the wedding, a makeup artist arrived but I sent her away again. I don’t particularly like wearing cosmetics and despite the fact it’s my wedding, want to have only the bare minimum on my skin. A dash of mascara, a lick of gloss and I’m done.
It’s not until I enter the grand hall that the realisation of what I’m about to do hits me like a tonne of bricks.
Not just that I’m getting married, but who I’m marrying. On two fronts, this is overwhelming. First of all, his hyper-masculinity is something I wasn’t prepared to face, but there is no doubt in my mind that he’s unlike any man I’ve ever known.
On the other hand, he’s also a Sheikh. A powerful ruler of a wealthy, large desert country, a man responsible for the welfare of a hundred million people, a man whose personal net worth is in the hundreds of billions. He is a King of this ancient country and from the minute we say our vows, I will be his Queen.
The grand hall is exactly that – a room with a vaulted ceiling carved from stone with ancient, dark timber accents. The windows are enormous, rectangles with curved tops, filled with glass that shimmers in the morning sun. The floor is bright – tiny tiles forming a mosaic like a tapestry of sorts. If I were to kick off my shoes, the tiles would feel cool beneath my bare feet.
It is a room that could easily house one thousand people but this morning there are only a dozen or so in attendance. The Prime Minister of Qabid, a man who works closely with Zahir. Zahir’s chief of staff, two men I don’t know but I gather from their proximity they are close friends or advisors to him, a cleric dressed in fine robes with a beautiful head piece, and three women to the other side. Aliya is there, disapproval in her eyes.
Perhaps she intends to intimidate me; it doesn’t work. I find her obvious dislike encouraging, because I would never do something so predictable as crumple under pressure.
I stare her down for several seconds before turning my attention to Zahir. And perhaps I fought looking at him, seeking distraction in my surroundings, because I knew that when I did give him the full force of my attention I’d be utterly overwhelmed.
He’s dressed in black, the ceremonial robes traditional for state events. I suppose this qualifies, despite the lack of fanfare. A kaleidoscope of butterflies runs rampant through my stomach. I want to look away, just so that I can breathe more easily, but I can’t. My eyes are welded to him, taking in every single detail of his appearance, from his close-cropped hair, a rich dark brown in this light, to his thick brows and obsidian eyes, a jaw that looks cut from steel. His hands are large and confident, and my eyes drop to them against my will, imagining them touching me, just as he promised he would. Not in so many words, but isn’t that implied by his need for a child?
My pulse spins out of control and I almost lose my footing. It’s taking forever to reach the front of the room; I feel as though I’ve already walked a kilometre. Not for the first time today, I’m acutely aware of my father’s absence and I wish, more than anything, that he was here to see this. Perhaps it’s better he’s not though.
This isn’t the wedding he would have dreamed of for me.
I push that thought aside, not wanting anything to shake me from the decision I made. I have one chance to fix things for my father, and I’m going to grab it with both hands.
When I was eleven years old, I came home early from school one day. A senior had poured soda on my lunch and I couldn’t face the rest of the day – but that’s another story. I arrived home and found dad crying. My big, strong, capable-of-anything dad, hunched over a book, sobbing into the lounge room. It broke my heart. It was the first time I realised that my own father was fallible. A human. Not all-conquering and unafraid of anything, but a regular flesh and blood man with emotions ripping through him.
He was embarrassed; I pretended I hadn’t noticed. Later, when he was making dinner, I found the book he’d been looking at. It was a history text, old black and white photographs interspersed with academic writing. My heart broke for him that day.
All my life I’ve grappled with a sense that I don’t belong. Though my mother’s American, I never really felt as though I connected with my peers. I felt a gap, a sense of disconnect. It was probably in my head, but that didn’t matter. It was real to me. I can only imagine how hard it was for my dad, to discover he’d been exiled so suddenly, with no opportunity or warning, no ability to prepare. He lost everything, everyone, his accounts and property seized so he had to start life all over again in a foreign country.
Anger simmers through me, jettisoning any feelings of desire for this man who’d put my father through that. I’m marrying my enemy and whatever I feel for him on a physical level will never alter the fact that I hate him, and will always hate him, for what he did to my family.
I squeeze my nails into my palm, his words from the day before like a banging drum inside of me. His need for an heir. A child. With him.
I push my uncertainties aside. That’s something to worry about later. One step at a time, one step at a time.
Approaching the front of the hall, a beam of sunlight filters through a window behind the cleric, casting us in golden warmth, and yet I shiver when I face him, my veins flooded with ice.
It doesn’t last long. The smouldering look he gives me thaws the ice and then some, spreading lava and fire beneath my skin. Damn him.
The ceremony is short. Contrary to my research, which indicated Qabadi weddings usually last the better part of three hours, this is pared back to the bare minimum. A brief recitation of the ancient joining scripture, a pledge detailing what it is to honour one another, and our sacred duties to this land, and we are then pronounced husband and wife.
So simple. No need for us to even sign a wedding certificate.
“You have made this commitment in a holy place, the sacred intent of your union one that has been immortalised evermore. And with that, you may now begin your married life with your first kiss.”
My insides flutter. The wording is traditional, and yet I know that for most couples, their first kiss wouldn’t be shared at the alter on their wedding day. But for Zahir and me, that’s exactly what we’re dealing with. A week ago he emailed me, I met him yesterday, and now, in front of a small collection of people I don’t know, I’m expected to kiss this man.
His eyes hold mine and I feel a rush of dislike – from him to me. There is no love lost between us. How are we ever going to make this work?
He moves closer and I glare at him, warning in my eyes, a warning that he shouldn’t take advantage of this moment. He meets my glare, unperturbed, his head lowering, my breath is frozen. His chest is right there. If I sway forward, I’ll brush against him. I hold my ground, spine rigid, feet planted firmly to the floor, unmoving. Right before he kisses me, his lips twist in a tight smile and something lashes the base of my spine, a feeling I can’t interpret. A second later, he’s kissing me, but not in a way I’ve ever been kissed before. This isn’t slow. It isn’t tentative. This isn’t gentle or polite. This is a kiss of possession, a kiss of warning. His lips mash to mine, opening my mouth, and his tongue drives in, his hand lifting to cup the back of my head, holding me against him – or perhaps to stop me from falling backwards, because my knees are weak, my body quivering with a breathtaking rush of desire.
I hate him, I hate him, I remind myself, as I press forward, my breasts crushing to the rigid wall of his chest. My soul begins to spark, heat searing me; my eyes fill with shards of light. His arm comes around my back, pinning me to him, and I surrender completely to the kiss, overwhelmed by the tsunami of wants that began to develop yesterday and are in a full-blown explosion now.
It’s ten seconds, at the most, but when he pulls away I can only stare at Zahir, breath ragged, eyes spitting chips, a completely different person to the woman I’d been that morning. I wish I’d pushed him away or failed to respond, but even with no one in the room watching us, I know my reaction would have been the same. Something took over, an instinct, a need, completely beyond my control.
But that’s not good enough. I have to do better next time. Next time? I push out a sharp breath in rejection of that, my eyes fixing him with a cool stare. “Are we finished?” The words ring with disapproval, but his smile is sheer derision.