by Holly Rayner
EIGHT
The door opened wordlessly as Amity approached it, aided by a maid who Amity would soon learn was awake for much of the night, ever ready to take care of Aziz and his fellow partiers. Amity thanked her and approached the steps. Her feet were heavy, like rocks. She slipped her heels off and felt the soft, expensive rug beneath her toes.
When she reached the first floor, she was surprised to hear the opening of the door downstairs. Perhaps another maid, another household worker? She arched her back and peered down, concealed behind a marble pillar. Curiosity at the happenings in the mansion at night had captured her.
But she was taken aback, in that moment, to see that it was the Sheikh himself who walked through the doors, his head high and his face calm, sincere, without that bright smile. He thanked the maid and adjusted his sleeves as he walked. Nothing about his movements was sloppy; he was all royalty, all perfect posture.
Amity toyed with rushing upstairs to her rooms, with pretending she wasn’t moments from seeing him. But an invisible force halted her. She waited until he appeared on the steps and she spun back, looking at him directly.
“Hi there,” she said softly.
“There you are,” Aziz said. “I left shortly after you did. Did you have a good night?”
Amity tilted her head back and forth, unsure of how to answer. “It was a nice club,” she chose. “And that champagne. To die for.”
Aziz dropped his chin. “Truthfully, I have an entire cellar full of that stuff downstairs. A bit greedy when it comes to French champagne, I’m afraid.”
“We all have our vices.”
“It doesn’t seem like you do,” Aziz countered. He looked at her curiously, climbing up the steps to join her. “But I was surprised when you didn’t say goodbye. Disheartened, in fact. Why did you leave?”
Amity frowned; she hadn’t expected to be called out like this. She swallowed, and her throat felt tight. “You know, I’m not sure. I felt uncomfortable after a while. It’s not really my scene. But I didn’t want to interrupt your… time with those girls.” She shrugged.
Aziz nodded. His eyes were large, welcoming. She felt as if she could dive into them like great, dark pools.
“Well, Amity. I suppose we’d better be getting to bed—”
“Wait,” Amity said, breathless. She was aching with fatigue, but she couldn’t leave this moment. “I wondered. I wondered why you like to be seen partying so much. I saw you tonight. You didn’t seem to be having even a moment of fun. Why do you do it?”
Aziz combed his fingers through his dark hair. He was as caught off-guard as she was, it was clear. Around them, the mansion was silent.
“Well,” he murmured. “That’s a good question—one that no one has asked me before.” He began up the steps, but it was clear he wanted Amity to follow him. She did so gladly, slipping her shoes back on as she went.
“I suppose, like most things, it has to do with my father,” Aziz said then. “Bahir was the life of the party, eternally. A grand merrymaker. Always singing and dancing. People loved him for it.”
Amity nodded. Abstractly, she was taking notes on this—trying to comprehend how it could assist in her cause. It was clear, from what she’d heard at the nightclub, that not everyone was buying into his merrymaking—certainly not Aziz himself.
“Ah,” Amity said, her mind zipping back to what her research had told her about Sheikh Bahir. “But wasn’t your father adored because he was always entertaining for a good cause? He held balls and galas for charities, and he didn’t frequent nightclubs. Do you think doing something similar could assist in improving your image?” She blinked, suddenly feeling her PR brain coming back to life. She longed to rush up to her room and start strategizing.
But Aziz seemed to harden at her words. They’d reached his rooms and he leaned against the golden doorframe, a portrait of an oil baron, a billionaire. He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to think about work right now,” he said, his voice stern. “I know that might be difficult for you to hear, given that you probably came back here to work the rest of the night,” he teased, and Amity bowed her head.
“But I would be interested in continuing some kind of non-work-based conversation downstairs, if you feel up to it,” he continued. “In the gardens. I can’t sleep when I feel like we have a million things to cover.”
Amity felt her eyes open wide. He wanted to hang out—with just her—even after those women had latched to him and refused to let go?
“Sure, perhaps for a while,” she whispered. Why did she seem so meek?
Aziz led her out through a back staircase, a direct route from his chambers to the outdoor gardens. In the moonlight, the reds, oranges and yellows of the flowers seemed to leap out at them. The large bushes, which lined the walkway, were enormous beasts, their leaves rustling in the breeze.
“Frankly, I’m relieved you agreed to not talk about work,” Aziz said, shaking his head. “I know I seemed all business this morning, in the desert, but it really does scare me—hiring you to work on my image like this. I’ve been this way my entire life. Why do I need a professional to help me show the world who I am? What am I doing wrong?”
Amity had heard these words from other clients before, and already, she felt inclined to protect him from himself. “You know,” she began, searching for the right words, “Image isn’t everything. In my line of work, you start to learn that when you show people who you are, truly, down to your bones, then people begin to trust you and like you. It’s bizarre to hear it, I know, but the way to come out from under your father’s shadow is just to be yourself.”
Aziz looked at her for a long time. She felt vulnerable, waiting for his answer.
“You know, that’s probably the most sense anyone’s ever made to me,” Aziz said, laughing.
“That’s why I make the big bucks,” Amity grinned.
They walked slowly for a while, without words. Amity noted how bright the Sheikh seemed, especially given how somber he had seemed at the nightclub. So fascinating how people can switch on and off like that, she thought.
“Who were those girls?” she teased him after a moment. “They certainly latched onto you.”
“You know, that happens everywhere I go out. It’s like they can smell the money on me,” Aziz stated. “It’s not that they’re not fun. They are. But they don’t have anything going on back there.” He gestured to his brain. “Not that I blame them. It’s probably far more fun to live without brain matter.”
“Sometimes I want to ask Flora,” Amity admitted, grinning. “How much easier it is for her, without brain activity.”
Aziz laughed. “She’s bright, that one. She’ll sniff out a dumb billionaire yet. I know the type.”
“But for now, she’s supposed to be helping me help you.”
“Trust me,” Aziz said, his eyes flashing. “She’s already been scooped up by the Al-Mabbar party scene. We won’t see her again until you’re boarding your flight home. And even then, who knows if she’ll join you.”
“Such a California girl. I can’t imagine her not going home.”
“But even you. You’re from Minnesota, and you wanted to live miles and miles away. You like the displacement, don’t you?”
“I think I do,” Amity admitted. “I crave different worlds. I crave things I don’t know. I think that’s why I like PR. I like building characters I could never be. Images I could never relate to. It’s entertaining. Like molding clay.” She laughed at herself. “It sounds silly when I put it into words.”
“Everything does, doesn’t it?” Aziz began. “Love, especially. Madness. Eating, drinking, sorrow or grief. Everything sounds silly when you try to describe it. Which is why you must accept feelings as what they are.”
“Now you’re the one with wisdom,” Amity said.
“You’re just saying that because I’m paying you,” he said, winking.
They walked along like that, eyeing each other between sentences, chatting like equals. They d
ug into their opinions about nightlife, about why people liked to see and be seen.
“It’s this strange, electric energy when you’re out on the dancefloor,” Aziz explained. “But then, at some point, after you’ve done it for over a decade, you realize how false the energy becomes. It tastes foul in your mouth. And you crave real human interaction, like this.”
These words made Amity’s heart warm. She longed to slip her fingers through his. It had been years since she’d felt this close to someone.
Nearly an hour later, when they said goodbye at the entrance to the mansion, she felt as if she floated to the top floor. She was daydreaming about him, and about his words, as she drifted off to sleep.
She lost herself to the beautiful madness of it, knowing only that she’d wake up responsible, recharged the following morning. She had to.