“Let us just hope that distraction is not synonymous with ruin,” Jag said, pitching his voice jovially as another group of reporters neared them, mics at the ready.
Taking Jag’s cue for the warning it was, his friends shifted their bodies into their royal public personas as the media arrived.
Jag noted a murmur running through the crowd of reporters and knew the time for light inquiries had come to an end. His father had finally made his move.
Jag brought an arm around Rita’s shoulders protectively before gently turning her to face his father, himself offering the man a nod of the head that was just shy of respectful.
“Father,” he said, watching him closely.
The helpless rage that boiled in his father’s eyes was of an intensity unparalleled in Jag’s experience, and a part of him thrilled.
Learning that his son had married without his consent or input this way, in a public forum after the fact, and that his daughter-in-law and the future Queen of his country was all of the things he despised in modern women, was nowhere near the shock and pain that Jag himself had felt when he’d learned what had happened to his mother, but it was enough that it felt good.
It was a start.
Staring at his father, seeing his rage all the while knowing that his plan to take the only thing that had ever mattered to him—just as his father had done to him, so long ago—had begun in earnest, was the closest thing to justice that Jag had ever felt.
And this was only the beginning of a grand scheme that had started with an electric exhibition and an unexpected daughter-in-law and would end in prison.
Jag’s blood sang, his eyes lighting with the satisfaction of things going exactly according to plan.
His father refused to look at Rita, averting his eyes upward for all the impression he gave of gazing at her with fatherly love and affection.
Rita was everything that his father detested in a woman: smart, ambitious, hardworking and bold.
And though he had learned of his son’s matrimonial status for the first time tonight, like everyone else in attendance, the King would have to pretend that he had not only known but approved, when in fact he had not even given his blessing—that was an immense disrespect.
But the worst of the situation would have been the arrangements and concessions his father would have to give to whomever he had already promised Jag’s hand in marriage to. Jag had no doubt that his father had always intended to select a bride for him, and a bride who would be a benefit to himself—not Jag nor the people of Hayat.
By making his announcement so painfully public, his father was forced to play along or lose face. It was no less than he deserved.
And his father knew that Jag meant every bit of it.
“My son!” His father’s voice was booming and jovial, the size of it intended to dominate for all that he sounded harmless.
The room quieted.
“You have outdone yourself as ever with your astounding exhibition, global leadership and committing Hayat to a one hundred percent electric society within the next fifty years. As in everything, you have proved once again that the innovation and style and groundbreaking leadership of Hayat is boundless.”
Muted applause followed his father’s remarks and his eyes—the same burning brown orbs that stared at Jag in his own mirror—sharpened, glued to Jag’s face as he spoke, conveying threat and fury even as his face presented geniality.
Jag angled further toward Rita, placing his body between hers and his father’s.
Turning, his father finally addressed her. “My daughter,” he said, a hint of poison in the word. “Your unbelievable achievements are living proof that even the lowliest can climb to great heights when given the example and trappings of quality. Through your toil you have earned the attention and affection of my son. Your accomplishments are a testament to our house.”
While those gathered applauded, Jag did not.
He had anticipated an encounter like this, had looked forward to it even, but he had not accounted for his own reaction to his father’s taking aim at Rita.
He had not anticipated that he would be filled with the urge to tear his father apart.
Beside him, Rita gave Jag’s hand the faintest of squeezes—enough to remind him that he needed to get himself under control.
Unable to let the insult slide completely unaddressed, however, Jag said, “Come now, Father. You and I both know that it is Rita who redirects our jaded and capitalist eyes toward the things which truly matter. It is her heart that is beating new life into the house of Hayat.”
Again, Jag was rewarded by his father’s glare that meant the barb had hit its mark.
Cheeks reddening, his father opened his mouth, no doubt to issue another disparaging remark, when Rita startled them both, her bright smile and fearless American accent tromping right into the fray like a lost tourist. “We must give the credit where it is truly due. It is family that teaches us—” and here she looked up at Jag, her eyes sparkling as she put on an outstanding performance of a blushing new bride “—that it is only through learning together that we ever truly discover anything.”