by Leslie North
Jacob sighed, as if he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “There are ramifications to marrying into the royal family,” he tried again. “Are you sure—”
“Dad.” Laila did to go to him then, putting an arm around his waist and drawing him to the window. “This is my choice.”
“A choice you made two weeks ago, and now the wedding is tomorrow.” Worry sharpened the edges of his voice. “That’s too much of a whirlwind for my taste.”
The whole story danced on the tip of her tongue, and Laila swallowed it back. There was no need for them to worry about her grandfather. She had it handled. She knew he was worried that she’d feel hemmed in by palace life, but part of being independent was making her own choices. She’d always done it, and she wouldn’t stop now.
“I promise this is what I want. And if it doesn’t work out, Raihan allows for divorces. But you know that.” She nudged him gently with her elbow. “Come on. Mom married you after a short engagement, and it all worked out.”
“That was different. We knew each other.”
“And I know Zayid.” Her chest thrummed with the want to know him more. “It’s going to be wonderful. All you need to do now is enjoy yourself.”
“Right,” said her father, sounding no less worried than he had before. “That’s right.”
The imam paused for a moment of prayer after the ceremony, and a shot of pure, sweet adrenaline raced through her veins. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
There, under the canopy in the garden, under the golden hour sunlight of a Raihani evening, Zayid took her in his arms, dipped her back, and kissed her.
Laila thought she’d collapse to the ground.
He was so strong, his grip so possessive, that she gasped against his mouth. It felt like something had come loose in her—the restraint she’d been carrying all this time. Her arms went around his neck. Her mouth searched his, tasting and exploring. And then Zayid straightened, eyes locked on hers in a mortal lust, and took her hand.
Wow. Wow.
They were married.
Somehow, it had all come together in the space of two weeks. Zayid had hired the country’s best seamstresses to make her a custom gown, light and elegant, with sleeves that would impress the more conservative royal court. She’d flown in her parents. Zayid had relocated Labeeb to an apartment in the royal palace, right next to her parents, for the duration of the wedding festivities. Her grandfather hadn’t remembered signing a wedding contract with Harb leaving Laila both sad and relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain anything to her parents. Zayid had ordered the renovation on his house while he was gone to add safety features that would put everyone’s mind at ease and had taken it one step further by making sure Harb would never come near him again. And now, the last and quickest task had been completed—the actual ceremony.
She gripped Zayid’s hand with all her strength as they made their way through the guests, who sat surrounded by flowers from the garden. Two servants opened the double doors leading inside for them, and he pulled her into the cool of the hall. Laila’s heart rocketed from one side of her chest to the other. She kept Zayid’s hand in hers—just in case anyone came in and saw them.
“What was that kiss?” she said breathlessly, teasing. “You’ll make them think you’re in love with me.”
Zayid’s expression went serious. “Better that than think I’m opposed the marriage.”
Hurt knocked at the outer wall of her heart, but she didn’t let it in. “It felt intense.” That rush of hope she’d felt—that rush of desire, of being desired—had clouded her mind. Of course Zayid wasn’t going to do anything silly, like press her up against the wall and kiss her senseless. Everything they did was for show.
A silence lingered between them, and then he squeezed her hand. “Our guests will be arriving. It’s time to go to the ballroom.”
In the ballroom, they greeted a parade of relatives and dignitaries, one by one. The King and Queen of Raihan, Zayid’s mother and father, entered first according to protocol. The palace photographer snapped photo after photo as the four of them exchanged formal greetings. The king wore the same calculating expression as his son, and Laila could feel him assessing her as he kissed the back of her hand and she dropped into her best approximation of a curtsy.
“It’s very well that you two are married,” he said by way of congratulations, patting Zayid’s shoulder and shaking his hand. “I’d have preferred a strategic alliance, but what’s done is done.”
“Oh, Salim, don’t be that way.” Zayid’s mother, Aanisah, was the opposite of Salim in almost every way. Zayid had inherited her dark eyes but not much of her lightness. Aanisah took Laila’s hands and looked into her eyes. “We are so honored to have you as part of our family. You make a stunning bride.”
Laila fought the urge to look away, a fresh blush painting itself across her cheeks. “Thank you. I’m honored to be here.”
Aanisah leaned in close. “You’re good for him,” she said softly. “After my son’s first love, he became...hard. Cynical. I’m hoping you can return him to his compassionate self. I miss him.” She pulled back, looking mildly embarrassed. “I shouldn’t say all that to you.”
“You should,” Laila insisted, curiosity ignited. She wanted to follow Aanisah back to the head table and pepper her with questions about Zayid, but her own father had entered the ballroom and was stiffly shaking Zayid’s hand. Laila’s mother came next, tears streaming down her face, even as she wore a wide grin.
“I’m so thrilled,” Sadia said, pulling their faces close to kiss their cheeks. “I’m so thrilled. A son-in-law. And my daughter.”
“Come this way, Sadia,” said her father gruffly. “Let’s not make a scene.”
And finally Zayid’s brothers.
Yaseen, whose aura oozed relief, shook both of their hands vigorously. “Congratulations. And thank you,” he added in a hushed voice. “Thank you.” He pressed Laila’s hand one more time, a smile playing around his mouth. “We all have much to celebrate tonight.”
Last came Nadim, who gave them a plastered-on smile, then pursed his lips. “Prepare yourself for lots of sad faces,” he told Zayid.
“Have a seat at the table, brother,” Zayid said through gritted teeth, his own smile staying perfectly in place.
The noise in the hall outside the palace’s biggest ballroom intensified. Chatter gathered and echoed off the high ceilings. Laila leaned into Zayid. “Is one of the aides with my grandfather?”
Zayid shook his head. “They sent word that he was tired after the ceremony and went to his room to rest.” So it was only the rest of the crowd to face. Laila steeled herself. Zayid noticed. “You look worried. Is it your grandfather?”
“No, just the crowd,” she admitted. “It seems like an endless sea of people.” Her stomach growled. She’d been too swept up in hair and makeup and photographs to eat for most of the day, and now they were speeding toward evening. “Nadim was right.” She tilted her head subtly toward the approaching ladies, who were dressed to the nines in gowns that rivaled Laila’s own. “They don’t look happy.”
“Listen to me.” Zayid put his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face toward his. Laila’s every nerve lit up with the contact until the air around them seemed to hum audibly with it. “Don’t worry about any of the other guests. Not tonight.”
She swallowed hard. “Isn’t that the point? To worry about the other guests?”
“The point is that today, you are the bride. Today is about your happiness.” His eyes searched hers, and Laila let her eyes close for just a moment so she could memorize his touch. Oh, she wanted it. She wanted it badly. She opened her eyes and looked back at Zayid. “If you don’t want to stand for the whole receiving line, then we’ll take our place at the head table.”
“No, no—I wouldn’t want anyone to think—” She smiled up at him, her mind following the planes of his cheekbones rather than the protocol she’d studied f
or two weeks. “We can stay here.” Laila swallowed again.
“You’re thirsty,” her new husband said. “And hungry, too.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers. An aide appeared at his side. “My wife needs a glass of champagne,” Zayid said. “And something to eat.”
“I—” Before she could finish protesting, a waiter had stepped up, balancing a small silver tray on his hand. It held a single glass of champagne and a small silver serving dish. The dish held three pieces of golden flatbread. Laila took one without another thought and bit into it. It melted on her tongue, the buttery flavor the best thing she’d ever tasted, bar none. The waiter with the tray stood at attention until she’d finished and hovered nearby while she sipped at the champagne.
“Thank you,” she told him. She looked back at Zayid and realized he’d done more than call over a waiter. He’d had staff block the entrance so that she could have a minute to refresh herself. “Thank you,” she told him, and slipped her hand into his.
And Zayid, her husband, winked at her. “Let them in,” he told the aides. “We’re ready.”
7
Laila folded her hands neatly in her lap in the back of the SUV, which trundled gently over the roads outside the city. Her honeymoon had come and gone, and...that was as much as she could say about it, really. She and Zayid had flown to Paris on the royal family’s private jet. They’d spent ten days sightseeing. The Eiffel Tower. The Catacombs. An endless parade of patisseries.
She’d found herself sneaking looks at Zayid while they made their way along the gleaming glass cases, security keeping a loose perimeter around them. At first she’d thought he hated the honeymoon. But at one private dinner in their hotel suite, she’d asked him about it. He’d been shocked.
“No,” he said. “It’s a pleasant change of pace.”
That was how she’d learned that Zayid didn’t smile much outside the palace. It was also how she learned that she did not, in fact, mind it when Zayid frowned seriously at a case full of pastries. It brought out the sharp cut of his jaw. He really was a sight to behold. For ten days, she’d had that same breathless feeling as when she first saw him in the garden that night.
And now...
“We’re almost there, Your Highness.”
The driver’s casual use of her new title made her sit up straighter in the backseat.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling like a fish who’d accidentally leaped out of the water and onto a dry dock. What was she supposed to say now? If Zayid were here, he’d know whether or not to make conversation with the driver.
But Zayid wasn’t there. They’d landed in Raihan three days ago, and he’d gone immediately into a late-night meeting. His waking hours were jampacked with other meetings—meetings with security teams, meeting with cabinet members, meetings with...all kinds of people, she supposed. He’d toss her a bone some mornings and share a cup of coffee with her, but otherwise Laila barely saw him.
The driver pulled the car around the final corner before her grandfather’s house. Laila swore she’d stop dwelling on Zayid’s schedule. It was for the best, anyway. They were two individuals with separate lives, and the more separate they kept them, the better. That way they could go their own ways without fuss in twelve weeks, after Yaseen’s wedding.
Her grandfather’s house came into view, and Laila sucked in a breath. While her grandfather had been in the palace for the wedding, Zayid had kept his word and hired round-the-clock care to tend to his needs. He’d also had the entire house renovated for optimum comfort. The exterior looked much the same as it had before, only with a fresh-painted sheen. Everything had been buffed and repainted and reinforced. She spotted a subtle camera by the doorbell—a safety feature she’d never once thought about before her great escape.
“That looks incredible,” she said, forgetting her question about whether it was royal protocol to remain silent during drives.
“It’s excellent work,” agreed the driver. “I’ll be waiting out here when you’re ready to return.” He stopped the car by the front door and got out to open Laila’s door. “Message me before you come out, and I’ll be prepared.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. She hadn’t said a word about being nervous to come back to this house, but her driver had sensed it, nonetheless. “Thank you. I will.”
And then it was time to focus on visiting. Laila took a deep breath on the front porch. There’s no one inside but Grandfather, she told herself sternly. He didn’t know what he was doing.
She opened the door and went in. Her grandfather greeted her with the warmest embrace she’d received in weeks.
Maha waited in the living area of Laila and Zayid’s shared suite, dusting the side tables. She looked up with a half-smile when Laila came in. “How was your visit, Your Highness?” Maha’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.
“It was lovely.” Laila sat down on the floral-patterned sofa and stretched out her legs. She’d been tense the first few minutes of the visit, but had soon relaxed in her grandfather’s love. Harb could do nothing now that she was married to the crown prince. Not that he hadn’t tried but Zayid had been true to his word and when the man had attempted to call on her grandfather shortly after the wedding, he’d been quickly shown the door. A subsequent visit from the royal family’s lawyers pointing out their awareness of many of his more unscrupulous actions along with veiled threats of legal proceedings had the man quickly shuttering his house and off on an extended visit with relatives outside the country. She could finally rest assured that Harb would never bother her or her grandfather again.
“How was everything here?”
Maha stood in front of the coffee table at Laila’s feet, and Laila waved her into a chair opposite the sofa. Would she ever get used to having staff? Probably not before the fake marriage came to an end. An ache moved through Laila’s chest—premature disappointment. She couldn’t get used to living in the palace and being with Zayid. Not that they spent much time together. Not that she should even care about it.
“While you were gone,” Maha said carefully, “the Prince Zayid sought your attendance.”
Laila dropped her feet to the floor and sat up straight. “I didn’t know he would want to see me today. There was no indication that—sorry, Maha, was there something else?”
“He was a bit perturbed to find that you’d gone. He wanted to pass along the message that in the future, he would like you to clear your trips with his office beforehand. That way, this scenario won’t be repeated.” Maha softened the words with the hint of a smile.
Laila couldn’t force her face into an expression resembling happiness. Really? Zayid was going to spend every waking minute in meeting after meeting, but she couldn’t visit her grandfather with her own security detail? How was that even close to fair? She made a conscious effort to relax her face. It wasn’t Maha’s fault that Zayid wasn’t thinking this through. Or maybe he had thought it through and had concluded that he needed to track her every move.
Laila exhaled all her irritation into the room. “Thanks for letting me know. Next time I want to leave the palace, I’ll...send a note?”
“A note would be fine, yes, or I can coordinate with the crown prince’s office for you.” Maha stood up, face brightening. “Now that I’ve passed along that message, I have another for you. There is a surprise awaiting your return.”
“What is it?” Laila followed Maha to her feet, heart jittery in her chest. There had been too many surprises in the last few weeks, but Maha looked so happy about this one that Laila’s optimism almost won out against her irritation.
Almost.
But she hadn’t agreed to be monitored for the entirety of their...agreement. That hadn’t been part of it. The plan was to get married, move into Zayid’s apartments, and then...coexist. How was it coexisting if he had the final say on everything she did? Yes, things were different when it came to being royalty—they had to have security. But he could’ve mentioned his own personal need to control her ever
y movement before they’d signed on the dotted line. It wasn’t like Laila came from a royal family. Her grandfather had been a diplomat, so perhaps he’d been closer to the royal family than most people in Raihan, but she hadn’t been here since she was eight. Her thoughts went around and around in her mind until she forced herself to open her mouth and ask a question—any question. “What kind of surprise?”
“It’s a surprise.” They went out into a hallway lined with carpet of the deepest blue, shot through with a subtle gold pattern. In all her time at the palace—which, granted, wasn’t much—Laila had never seen so much as a speck of dirt on the carpet. Cream-colored walls soared high above them, decorated with pieces from famous artists. Laila had seen a Van Gogh and was sure there were more.
They turned to the right, moving down a long corridor. A private gym was down at this end, fitted out with exercise equipment she recognized from a luxury catalogue she’d seen on the plane ride over, all of it pristine. It also had a private pool. “Is it in the gym?”
“It’s not in the gym,” Maha said. “It’s here.” They stopped in front of a set of doors. “Go ahead.”
“Okay…” Laila turned the gilt handles and opened the doors. Her heart stopped, then raced, then settled into a happy rhythm. Her whole body relaxed at the sight in front of her. “Maha, you didn’t tell me there was a studio in the palace.”
And it was a studio indeed. There were two steps down into an airy, open space, with massive windows on the opposite wall—the same kinds of windows that were in the gym, from what she could remember of her tour. Light poured in on everything Laila could have dreamed of having in a pottery studio of her own. A top-of-the-line electric pottery wheel. A long table with a hefty wooden top. Shelves lined with glazes. A separate shelf for tools, and hooks on the walls for others. An arrangement of empty shelves, painted white, waited for her pieces. And more, and more, and more. And this was only half the room. The other half boasted another low workspace, this one with an entirely different set of tools and a classic foot-powered wheel.