by Leslie North
Because Fatim knew what love and romance could do to a king. He’d seen it happen with his own eyes. His father and mother had a love that was wonderful and rare—but once Fatim’s mother passed away when Fatim was an early teen, his father turned reticent and cold. The loss of his love had hardened him, made him cruel, affected his leadership.
For Fatim, marriage needed to be a business move. Something convenient to produce heirs—which he’d already done. The romance part didn’t figure in, much less love. And going through the business transaction a second time just felt redundant.
“Figure out a loophole,” Fatim finally commanded, ripping his gaze from Calla and his kids. “Because I am not getting married a second time.”
Yaret grimaced. “Sir, there’s just not—”
“Find. A. Loophole,” Fatim repeated slowly. As king, there wasn’t much beyond his control or influence. And this, of all things, he desperately needed to control.
“I’ll do my best,” Yaret finally said in a small voice, scooping up his papers. “But I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Yaret let himself out of the sitting room without another word, leaving Fatim to his tumultuous thoughts. He returned to the window, gaze settling back on the children. They’d moved toward the swing set now. Calla grinned as she pushed Rashid in the swing. Nara pumped her legs furiously, going higher and higher.
First order of business for now was finding a new nanny. Finding one who fit with the children had been a struggle. Of all the failed hires over the past two years, none had meshed so seamlessly as Calla. Sure, it was just a little outing. But usually they shied away from strangers, even when going to the swing set.
He buried his hands in his pockets, mulling over his options.
What if the royal seamstress became the royal nanny for a spell?
Only one way to find out.
3
When Fatim found Calla and his children in the royal gardens an hour later, Calla could have sworn there was a sparkle in his eye. He sauntered over to them, looking every inch the dashing off-duty king, hands stuffed into the pockets of the linen pants he wore with grace. A simple navy tunic fluttered in the breeze as he came their way. Calla’s heart nearly stopped.
“Having fun, I see.” He paused at the edge of the stone-laid path, grinning down at his children. They bounded over to him, tripping over themselves and giggling in the process.
“Yes. We had a lovely time out here.” Calla offered a smile up to the king. “Your kids are fun to be around.”
“I wish all the nannies thought like you,” Fatim said.
“Have you had trouble with nannies? Discounting what happened today, of course.”
“You could say that.” Fatim eased to sitting on a small stone-carved bench nearby. Rashid climbed into his lap, and Nara sat primly at his side.
“Papa, Miss Calla told me she makes clothes,” Nara gushed.
Fatim hefted with a laugh. “Is that so, dear?”
Nara nodded exuberantly. “She says she’s going to make clothes for celebrities,” the six-year-old stated matter-of-factly.
Calla froze. She’d forgotten that children harbored no secrets. Not that this was a secret, per se. But still, it seemed weird to have a six-year-old tell the king of Amatbah that she aspired toward Fashion Week. Like she’d admitted something to a friend, who then went and tattled to her parents.
“Celebrities, eh?” Fatim peered up at her, squinting against the rays of sunlight breaking through the trees. His dark beard, which he always kept trimmed to an immaculate stubble, even glinted in the light. “Like who?”
“Oh, no one in particular.” Calla waved it off. “I just mentioned to your daughter that one of my dreams is to participate in Fashion Week. With my own designs, I mean.”
Fatim nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the expansive rows of tents off to the western edge of the estate. They were referred to as the royal tents and held significance as the original true “palace” of the Amatbahn king. Now, various meetings and work spaces occupied the tents, and the king and his family lived in the more modern palace that had been built roughly a hundred years ago.
Calla cleared her throat, unsure what the protocol was for a moment like this. A brooding king lost in thought. “Well, I suppose I should get back to my room.”
“Wait,” Fatim commanded. His baritone sent a shiver through her. “Tell me. How long have you worked here?”
Calla stood straighter. “Almost a month.”
“And what are you paid?”
Calla swallowed hard. This was an unexpected turn of events. She told him her monthly salary and he nodded.
“I have a proposition for you.” He smiled up at her, that sparkle back in his eye. “If you act as the children’s nanny, I’ll double your salary.”
Calla’s mouth fell open as the words traveled through her. They didn’t even make sense. Her…be a nanny? Why on earth would he ask his seamstress to do such a thing?
“I don’t understand,” Calla finally blurted.
“The children like you,” Fatim said. “And it’s been difficult to find someone adequate. It would be a short short-term arrangement. While we search for and properly vet a permanent replacement.” He paused, wetting his bottom lip, which almost made her say yes on the spot.
“But…I…” She swallowed, trying to find the words to express the friction around the idea. She’d taken the royal seamstress job because it was part of her forward-moving plan, the carefully arranged steps that led her toward being an internationally recognized designer. Being a nanny was not part of that plan.
“Take some time to think it over,” Fatim said. He stood, sliding Rashid to the ground. “We can speak tomorrow about it.”
Calla couldn’t find her voice to say anything further, so she just nodded and offered up a smile. Fatim gestured for his kids to follow him, and he strode off toward the palace.
Calla stood there in the gardens for what felt like an hour, surveying the bushes, the trees, the endless stretch of stone-paved paths dotted with succulents and enormous blooms of every color and style.
Coming here was a dream—one that she’d been groomed to want. She didn’t grow up in Amatbah, but she’d always come here as a child. Her mother was Amatbahn, and after a childhood and young adulthood in the USA, Calla wanted more time to get to know this part of her culture than the infrequent holiday visits she’d had as a girl had allowed. Her mother was thrilled that Calla chose Amatbah as her launch pad for her professional goals. It felt like both an homage to her heritage and a dizzying adventure that promised to change her future for the better.
But only because it allowed her to be laser focused on her goal, which was fashion design.
Not child rearing.
It’s only temporary. Calla tried her best to beat back the doubts and the sense of disappointment. As if even considering the king’s offer was somehow akin to abandoning her life’s work. Calla left the palace and headed into the center of Al Ghuman, the capital city, where she’d set up shop with a tiny studio. Here she worked on the majority of her designs, both traditional and progressive. The traditional ones she sold to make rent—only made possible by splitting the tiny space with a local clothing designer. The progressive ones she squirreled away as part of her ever-growing portfolio, designs she would eventually utilize as part of her bid to get into Fashion Week.
As she resumed work on a traditional caftan, her mind wandered. Part of her wondered what it might be like to get into Fashion Week this year instead of waiting. If she got paid double, she might even be able to scrounge up the money needed to pay the entry fee. Wild thoughts zipped through her, making her excited, breathless, and dreamy. Her parents would be so proud of her. She might be able to make a real name for herself, at least in Amatbah, much sooner than she anticipated.
The more she let her mind roll with the fantasies, the more she made up her mind. She wanted to make her mark by age thirty. That was just three yea
rs away. If she hoped to hit that goal in the fashion world, she needed to start now, and in a big way.
Calla let the possibilities wash over her that night and all through the next morning so that when she walked into Fatim’s office the next afternoon, she was ready to negotiate.
“I’ve thought about your offer,” Calla said after he’d welcomed her into his spacious office, filled with handwoven rugs and low-hanging lamps. Seated behind his desk, he laced together his fingers and leaned forward.
“And?” Fatim asked, the hint of shadows under his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t slept the night before.
“I’m going to need the first three month’s salary up front,” she declared. “From there, we’ll take it on a week-by-week basis. But three months should be enough time for you to find a replacement nanny.”
“Hm.” Fatim’s gaze fell to his desktop, and silence filled the room. She could hear her own heart pounding between her ears. Her whole life, she’d been too much the people pleaser. Did this count as people pleasing? King pleasing? At any rate, she wanted to stand up for her goals. That’s why she’d come here, after all.
Fatim tapped his fingers against the wood a few times before speaking. “Why three months up front?”
Calla hesitated and then took the leap. “I want to participate in this year’s Fashion Week. I’ll need the sum to pay the entry fee. If they accept me, that is.”
Fatim nodded, leaning back in his chair. His gaze darted over the surface of his desk. Calla found the rest of her confidence and continued speaking.
“Furthermore, I’ll need at least fifteen hours per week to continue working on my fashion designs for the show,” she said. “Days of the week are flexible; I’m sure that will be based around your schedule. But that’s non-negotiable.”
Fatim squinted at the surface of his desk now. Like maybe he was negotiating with that instead of her. “I think that’s fine,” he said at last. He gave her a winning smile that immediately set her at ease. “And I appreciate you showing up ready to negotiate.”
Calla blinked a few times, pleased with herself. You did it.
But now she was officially a nanny. Maybe this was what she got for wishing she could be closer to the king. He invited her into his inner circle—just not at all in the way she’d secretly fantasized about.
4
Several days later, Fatim felt like he’d been pacing his office from sunrise to sunset. And in a way he had been. He hadn’t slept a wink. Yaret had returned to deliver the final blow yesterday: not only was the law valid, but the news had leaked. Everyone knew about this ancient decree, and it seemed the entire tribal nation of Amatbah had sat up and taken notice overnight.
The pressure was on. Fatim needed to make a decision. Fast.
His laptop dinged with an incoming video call. Amad, the middle brother, returning his desperate slew of calls from earlier that day. Fatim picked up on the second ring.
“Brother. There you are.” Fatim crumpled into his desk chair.
“I’m here.” Amad was in London for a global technology summit. He spent most of his time abroad, so video calls constituted the bulk of their brotherhood anymore. “What’s going on? Your message sounded urgent.”
Fatim rubbed at his forehead. “Yes. This would be considered urgent.” Fatim gave him an executive summary of the ancient law destined to change Fatim’s life in less than two weeks. Complete with the infuriating fact that even though Fatim had been married once, he wasn’t married now.
“God help me, brother, I’m not getting married a second time,” Fatim said.
Amad was quiet for a moment before letting out a whoosh of a sigh. “Sounds like you’re going to have to.”
Fatim scowled. That was precisely what he didn’t want to hear. “I thought you’d have some sort of idea for me to sidestep this.”
“Sidestep your duty to your tribe and nation?” Amad scoffed as he fiddled with an expensive looking watch. He stepped out of view from the camera for a moment, leaving Fatim an unobstructed view of his brother’s luxury hotel room. “That’s not the Fatim I know.”
Amad’s jab hurt more than Fatim wanted to admit. Because it was true—Fatim wasn’t one to shirk his duties. But this duty seemed wildly outdated and unnecessary.
“I thought you might be supportive of a surprise decree upheaval,” Fatim said. “Something modern and progressive.”
“Father is turning in his grave,” Amad remarked coolly. “I can’t believe you even said that.”
Fatim sighed. If his suggestion could make even his detached, modern-world brother think he was out of line, then Fatim had gone too far.
“I wasn’t serious,” Fatim fibbed.
“I think you should see this as an opportunity,” Amad said, his face filling the camera once more, his hair freshly combed and slicked down. “An opportunity that you desperately need.”
Fatim frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“You’ve been doing everything on your own for too many years. Running the nation, running the palace, overseeing every last detail. A partner would be good for you.”
“You remember our father, correct?” Fatim shot back. “How he completely dissolved once his partner was no longer? Do you think he was a good father to us? A good ruler, once Mother passed?”
Amad sighed tersely. “Father was better in all respects when he was married, yes, but you are not him.”
“It never lasts,” Fatim went on, finally able to voice the deepest, most roiling part of his objection to all of this. “Having a partner might be fine for a while, but the feelings don’t last. We saw it with our parents. I even lived it with my wife. I thought it might turn into romance, but after the one-year mark, it just dissolved into complacency. Besides, I fulfilled my duty with her. I produced children. Adding in another wife would only be a distraction.”
Amad smirked into the camera but didn’t say anything. Fatim frowned. “What?”
“Your argument is solid, brother,” Amad said, “But with one fatal flaw.”
“What’s that?”
“The law says you have to marry. Whether you want to or not.”
Fatim pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was coming. And it might take up permanent residence. He hated hearing the words.
“I would start finding someone who offers the path of least resistance,” Amad said. “And I’ll start planning my return trip home for the wedding.”
Fatim’s stomach clenched. The wedding. It would have to happen, if he wanted to remain the ruler of his tribal nation. He rubbed at his eyes.
“You’re right. It’s time to accept it.” Fatim sniffed, trying to permanently modify his attitude about the upcoming nuptials. “Time to find a wife. The law doesn’t say I have to like it.” Nor would he enjoy it. Much less love it. Or her.
“There’s the Fatim I know,” Amad goaded, giving him a big thumbs up. “Take it like a champ. It won’t be all bad, I promise.”
The brothers said their goodbyes, and Fatim ended the call. Alone once more with his thoughts, he paced his office while he thought. The path of least resistance. There were a hundred options at his fingertips, and even more willing participants should he send out the call for a new wife.
But he didn’t want just anyone. No, there were too many families out there who would be enamored by the political connection. And he hadn’t made it this far only to become indebted to someone else’s priorities and preferences.
More than anything, he wanted freedom for his tribe. For them to be able to flourish and grow in an unrestricted manner, as they had since his father’s passing. So what did that mean for his future wife?
Normal. He needed someone normal, who didn’t have any outstanding political aspirations, and furthermore who would be a good fit for his children. No use marrying someone who would turn out to be a horrible stepmother. He wouldn’t put his children through that.
So who then? Fatim tried to ignore the crushing wave of anxiety, made all the worse by the
timeline. He had less than two weeks not only to select someone, but to present the idea, hope they accepted, potentially find a second match, and propose the same idea, not to mention plan the damn wedding, and so on.
Time was running out. He needed to pick someone today.
A soft knock at his door broke through his thoughts. He sighed, not bothering to turn from his post at the window. “Come in.”
The door creaked open, but the ensuing silence made him look over his shoulder. Calla poked her pretty head in. The sight of her softened some of his unease. He straightened, clearing his throat. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, Your Highness, I just had a few questions for you.”
Fatim tried to hide the evidence of his high-anxiety morning: the rumpled shirt, his hair that he’d tugged out of place. “Come in. Take a seat.” He gestured toward a guest chair as he sat behind his desk. His gaze washed over her; she wore a flowing dress that seemed somehow both modern and traditional, like she’d combined all the best parts of Amatbahn beadwork with the lines and stitches of today.
“I really like your dress,” Fatim commented. “Where did you get that?”
“I made it,” Calla said, beaming. “This is one of the pieces I’d like to show at Fashion Week.”
Fatim looked over the dress more closely. “Wow. You’re truly talented.”
“Thank you. I’ve been sewing my whole life. It’s my one true passion.”
Fatim let her words settle into him. Here was someone who would have no political aspirations. Hell, she’d look more than fine on his arm at official functions. Plus, this would give him a perfect excuse to be around her more. Guilt free. Without feeling like he was creeping on a palace employee. He blinked rapidly as the thought took root and propagated. Calla was already nanny—why not make her his wife, as well?
“How have things been going the last two days?” Fatim rearranged the few items on his desk: the pen cup, a stack of folders, the mouse to his computer. “All good?”