Was she living out a foolish fantasy now? Had she clung so hard to Addan because he’d crystallised a perfect moment in a life that was about to be turned on its head? When her father had died, she’d lost two parents –her mother had given up any pretence of behaving in a maternal fashion, and her sister had been sent away, to live with Spanish Godparents.
Sophia had needed to feel at home somewhere, and Bashira had made her so welcome. Addan had made her so welcome.
And Malik had made her feel alive – hating him had set her soul on fire when it had been almost dead. She ran her finger over the pomegranate bush, avoiding the spikes, and her stomach twinged. She sobbed. Grief.
It overtook her.
“Happy birthday, my friend,” she said, dipping her head forward, so that her tears fell on the scorched earth beneath.
She stayed a long time, until the sun had set and darkness had wrapped its way around the palace. She picked a small handful of rosemary – for remembrance – on her way back inside.
Her stomach twinged once more.
Before she reached the steps, there was a pain low in her abdomen and then water was gushing down her legs.
“Awan!” She called at the top of her lungs, turning around. For once, there were no guards. “Awan!” She grabbed the railing and moved up one step, but there was another pain. She called for her servant once more, and then felt darkness descending – she sat down before she fell.
“Her highness is in labour,” the message came to Malik while he was in the middle of a dinner with several of his high-ranked ministers. His mind though had been on Sophia, as it almost always was. He scraped his chair back, leaving the room without another word.
“Where is she?”
“En route to the hospital already,” his servant said.
“What happened?”
The servant shook his head. “I am not certain, sir.”
“How is she?”
The servant shook his head. “I cannot say.”
Malik began to run, his pulse like fire in his blood. He couldn’t get to her fast enough.
“Where is she?”
The doctor was shouting instructions and Malik’s blood pounded harder. “Doctor?”
“You cannot go to her,” he said, not looking up from the charts he was reading.
“Where is my wife?”
The doctor spoke low and fast to the assembled team and then nodded, so they scattered like leaves in the breeze, before turning to the Sheikh. “She’s in the operating theatre.”
“Why?”
“There were complications.” The doctor’s expression was grim.
“Doctor, I command you to tell me whatever it is you’re holding back. I want to know everything.”
The twins were fine. Sophia fought hard for them, even when her body was turning against her. They emerged robust and bright red, their cries loud and confident. Malik heard them from outside the Operating theatre and emotions swarmed inside of him.
He’d been told he couldn’t enter, that the room was sterile and with twins there were too many specialists on call – that it would be too crowded for another.
And a man who was used to being universally obeyed found himself deferring to the doctor even when every cell in his body was demanding he burst into the room and see for himself. See his children. See his wife.
His wife.
God. Please let her be okay now the twins had been born.