But that would have been beneath him.
He had wanted Cora. He’d wanted her to choose him, to choose to be with him, but in the end, she was right. He couldn’t offer her what she deserved, what he’d known from their first night together she should have in her life. He could never be her husband, or even her boyfriend. A secret lover. That’s what he’d offered, and she’d decided, in the end, it wasn’t enough.
No matter how many times he looked at it, he saw her perspective, but it still ate at him, leaving him angrier than he’d ever been and now, finally, he was running away, desperate to be on his own with his recollections, his thoughts, his futile dreams. Dreams that were filled with Cora, that had him reaching for her, needing her, dreams that were filled with memories of their time together and fantasies for a future that could never exist.
He couldn’t understand why she’d ended itwhenshe had. Even knowing that it would need to stop, someday, why had that day had to be now?
Every minute we’re together makes this moment harder.
Was that why he felt as though he’d been gouged clear of organs? Why breathing was hard and concentrating impossible? Why he’d snapped at his servants and cancelled meetings all week? Why he’d run harder and faster than ever before? Because the moment had been hard? Because of all the wonderful minutes they had shared leading up to it?
But what if he could offer her more? What if there was a way to leave this behind him, to choose Cora over his country? To leave Al Medina, the royal family, to abdicate his place in the line of succession, to choose a quiet life with the woman who had become…become what? A part of him? It was absurd.
But no matter how many times he looked at it, he kept wondering what their lives would be like if he were just an ordinary man, free to live without public scrutiny.
He made a grunting noise and continued to drive, seeking a solace only the desert could provide to him. Seeking peace, even when he knew no peace could come as long as his tortured, never-ending thoughts existed.
Sometime in theearly hours of the morning, when the silver light was rising over the dunes and kissing the sand with the sun’s warmth, Samir heard a noise. An engine. Given that he was on palace land, in the middle of nowhere, it had him sitting up, looking around, reaching for his phone first, so he could call Rami if needed, and his flick knife next. Samir had trained with the military; he was not afraid. Besides, the mood he was in, he’d almost welcome a little hand to hand combat. Bring it on.
When he stepped out of the small, calico tent, he saw the car approaching—a four wheel drive, likely from the palace. Nonetheless, he stood with legs planted wide, arms crossed, aware of the blade he carried and how quickly he could wield it.
Adrenaline spiked through him as the car came closer, evidently pinpointing him easily, and he waited, blood rushing through his body. There was a recklessness in Samir, a sense of danger that came from his recent breakup with Cora. He would almost welcome a fight to the death.
But when the car drew to a stop, it was not a group of would-be kidnappers, but rather, Rami, his security chief and friend, and another man Samir didn’t know, driving the vehicle. Rami stepped out, as soon as the car came to a close.
“You’re lost?” Samir asked with a grunt. No one ever came out this far. This was his desert, his place.
“I came to find you.”
“Then you succeeded. Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes. We need to speak, Your Highness.”
“Your Highness?” Rami hadn’t referred to him by his title in a long time, and the fact that he had now set an alarm bell ringing inside Samir. “Is something the matter?”
“We must speak.”
Rami was pale, Samir noticed, as he stepped towards the front of the vehicle, where his face was more clearly illuminated.
“What is it?” Samir demanded, sure now that there was a problem. “Is it the Queen?”
“No, Your Highness.”
“Damn it, Rami, stop calling me that and tell me what the hell has happened.”
“It’s your brother, Sam.” Rami put a hand on Samir’s shoulder, squeezing it. “I’m—I’m sorry to tell you, but he’s dead. You are now the Sheikh of Al Medina.”
PARTII
8
LA WAS NOT HER FAVOURITE place. It was far from it, in fact. She’d come to see Bianca, her godmother, but the moment she’d touched down, there’d been the paparazzi who camped out at LAX habitually, to catch whichever celebrities were transiting through the airport that day, and they’d snapped Cora, despite the fact she hadn’t done anything newsworthy in a very long time.
With a sigh, she’d simply slipped her dark glasses into place and stepped into the car that was waiting to whisk her away. Since then, every time she’d stepped out—catching up with friends at restaurants or bars, she’d been photographed. Her outfits had been analysed, shared online, starting a storm of comments and selling out whatever dress she’d happened to choose. She’d gone to a friend’s birthday dinner and the next day, the papers had run a photo of her with an alleged old flame, laughing about something, and all of a sudden she was in a relationship with him. The stories they made up!
She used to find them amusing but now, with a heart that was battered and bruised, and a consciousness of a pair of dark eyes that might, if he were of a mind to google her, see these photographs and read those stories, she felt a rush of complex, aching feelings. The idea of Samir believing any of it almost had her reaching for her phone to explain to him. To explain that he’d left such a huge hole in her life she was desperately trying to fill it, but not with other men. Never.
She spent a week in LA, trying to push Samir from her mind by indulging in all her favourite activities with her favourite friends, but he was always there, a shadow and darkness created not by memories of Samir but by the absence she felt in every cell of her body.