Taking the clothes from the man, Jag walked around the other side of the car and clothed himself while Rita entered the back seat through the door the driver had opened for her.
Moments later, Jag joined her, sliding into the seat, his attention focused on the phone in his hand.
They spent the rest of the drive that way, Jag engrossed in his device, Rita staring at the night outside, her mind wrapped up in wondering how long they were going to pretend their arrangement could go on as it had before.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EIGHTWEEKSLATER, Rita was no closer to an answer, and had, in fact, only driven herself sick in dwelling on it. The most obvious reason—that she’d become pregnant from her night with Jag—had already been ruled out by the particularly emotional period that had followed it, just days later.
She was utterly exhausted and could not remember the last time she had made it through an entire night without her bladder waking her at least once to use the restroom.
Her skin, too, seemed affected, becoming sensitive and tender as if now that she had had sex once, she should experience actual pain from the lack of it.
Maintaining the line Jag had reestablished for them even as the ashes of it still burned from how thoroughly they had set it aflame, they had not had sex again.
In fact, she hadn’t really seen Jag since.
It appeared that their intimacy had had opposite effects on each of them, even if it came to the same conclusion: deeper commitment to maintaining their agreement.
And now she had lost her appetite and could no longer reliably keep down even the scant food she felt like eating.
Losing weight as a result, she could suddenly understand what people meant when they said they were wasting away.
She found herself spending long stretches of time, sometimes entire days, replaying the night of the debut and what had happened afterward in her mind, trying to figure out how a man could go from making her the center of his attention to behaving as if she were an acquaintance in the blink of an eye.
True to his word, Jag had indeed endeavored to keep things professional between them, no longer coming home for dinner most nights, and scheduling a three-week trip abroad, leaving Rita in Hayat.
Now that she was publicly his wife, and gaining her own popularity with car-loving citizens, he had told her before departing, with her security detail, she would be safe enough from his father that Jag believed they could reasonably afford the risk of the trip.
Or so he said.
With all of that time to herself to think, Rita had come up with other theories, as well as more questions.
Mulling over it all once again, however, she meandered into the blue dining room to have yet another meal alone.
Walking into the room, she was welcomed by a bouquet of aromas.
Rafida had set the table already, including the cinnamon porridge she knew Rita loved, fresh fruit, dates, and yogurt with honey. There were fragrant flowers, as always, and freshly squeezed orange juice. It all looked beautiful—and Rita got one whiff of it and dropped to her hands and knees, gagging, as dry heaves overtook her.
Rafida walked in carrying a tray of bread and, seeing Rita, dropped it with a clatter and ran over. She placed her hands on Rita’s cheeks and forehead before bringing them to rest on Rita’s shoulders as she guided Rita back out of the room and into the cooler, less aromatic hallway.
Moments later, Rita was more settled, her wave of nausea having passed. After propping Rita against the wall, Rafida hurried off to retrieve something for her to drink.
Rita had expected a glass of ice water, but Rafida came back with a mug filled with what looked like hot water.
“Here, have a sip of this,” she said.
Trusting, Rita took a drink and nearly spit it out. Inside was not just warm water, but vinegar and, if she wasn’t mistaken, sugar.
The combination of strong yet nonspecific flavors was an attack on her senses—until it wasn’t.
As the sip settled, so too did her stomach—her whole system, really.
The strange concoction had done the job, and Rita was grateful.
Gingerly, she rose to her feet, Rafida hovering nearby to offer a hand of support if she needed.
Smiling and mildly embarrassed, Rita said, “Thank you, Rafida. I’m glad you were there. I don’t know what came over me, but your vinegar drink has cured me.”