Privilege for the Sheikh

by Annabelle Winters

  But she still felt a strange underlying calmness, a lazy sense of inevitability, like she needed to let go of everything and just allow herself to be carried along with the current, let the sequence of events take her to her destination. Was this how destiny worked? The fantasies of that teenage girl with her nose buried in books, reading about kings and queens and magical lands where nothing was real but everything was still vivid and colorful?

  This, she thought as that breeze whispered against her hair, curling around her neck, under the turns of that silk scarf. This makes me happy. Being here, on these crowded streets, feeling the warm air against my face, the sun’s heat on my arms, the cobblestones beneath my feet. There’s something about this place, like I was meant to be here, in this moment.

  But then the moment passed, and she shook her head and smiled. She tried to push away a strange thought that appeared at the corner of her mind, but it persisted until she faced it. The thought grew stronger as they walked on, and then she absentmindedly strolled past a newsstand and glanced at the headline on an English-language edition of the local newspaper. The headline was about the old Sheikh, Amir's father, passing away, and Lora frowned, thought for a moment, and then nodded.

  “I think I know what I’m going to do,” she said slowly. “What I have to do.”

  7

  THREE DAYS LATER

  THE EVENING BEFORE THE WEDDING

  “I am surprised, Miss Langhorne. I did not think you would do this,” the Sheikh said as he watched the woman step past the threshold of his day-chambers and onto the thick red Persian rug that had been there since his great-grandfather’s time.

  “Just so we’re clear, I’m not doing anything,” Lora replied, looking into his eyes but not holding the contact for long. “I’m here because I refuse to let anyone ruin my wedding plans—least of all a man who feels he’s entitled to anything and anyone he wants. So I’m here to comply with your law and tradition, which, as I understand it, does not mandate any form of physical contact. In other words, there’s nothing in the law of Sheikh’s Privilege that actually forces me to have sex with you.”

  Amir watched the color rush to her smooth round cheeks as she said the word sex, and immediately he knew she’d thought about it. Not about actually having sex with him that day—no, he could already tell she was too much of a lady to consider cheating on her fiancé even if she wanted to. But at some point the thought of sex with him had crossed her mind. Maybe not even a thought. Perhaps just a passing fantasy.

  The Sheikh exhaled and nodded. “You have done your research. Yes, you are correct. Sheikh’s Privilege is an old tradition that is more complex than a king exercising blind power over his people. But I am curious, Miss Langhorne. How did you arrive at that conclusion? There is not much written about the tradition, and even if you translated the text of Johaar’s laws, there is not much stated beyond what you read in the proclamation I sent over.”

  Lora smiled tightly, carefully crossing her arms over her breasts. She wore a long green dress that was not particularly flattering to her curves, and Amir could tell she had a slip on beneath. She showed no cleavage, and she wore no makeup. She was clearly sending a message, and this somehow excited the Sheikh more than if she’d shown up in high heels and red lipstick. This woman had courage, faith in herself, a strength that was interesting, intriguing, beguiling.

  “I saw the headline in the local newspaper three days ago,” Lora said softly. “About your father passing. It had happened that very day of our visit to your Palace. The coincidence puzzled me, made me think that perhaps you weren’t thinking clearly when you kissed me.”

  The Sheikh flinched, blinking and looking away for a moment. Ya Allah, he wanted to say, I was thinking as clearly as ever when I kissed you! He glanced up, about to say it, but then again he saw the color rush to her face when she mentioned the kiss, and so he held his calm and smiled. “Go on,” he said.

  “And that got me thinking,” Lora said, taking a step deeper into the room and glancing across the sprawling day chambers. She looked back at him, and he could see she was nervous, that just showing up here had taken a courage she wasn’t sure she even had. What had she told her husband? Her friends? The mystery of Lora Langhorne was suddenly so exciting to the Sheikh he almost forgot he’d just buried his father!

  “Thinking about what?” Amir prompted, taking a step to his left, not directly toward her. This felt like the opening sequence of a dance, he thought. Allah’s decree? Destiny? Which one was it?

  Lora took a breath and gestured to one of the three seating areas in the Sheikh’s day-chambers—the one closest to the open balcony. It was a setup of two velvet divans and two large teakwood chairs with plush cushions you could get lost in. Amir nodded, and Lora sat in one of the chairs, keeping both feet on the carpet, her knees together, arms once again covering her breasts though she seemed a bit more relaxed.

  “Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’ve been in Johaar for almost a week now, and we’ve walked the streets, visited shops and cafes, seen the sights, talked to the people. And there’s a very peaceful, happy energy amongst the people. Even though your kingdom is in a period of mourning, there’s still an undercurrent of happiness that I can’t quite explain.”

  Amir took a breath even as he took a seat on the chair across the low teakwood table from Lora. It was the farthest spot from her in the seating area, yet he could smell her clean feminine scent coming across to him: just a subtle deodorant, he realized. No perfume.

  “My father has been sick for over ten years,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes as the setting sun bathed the two of them in golden light. “We have all been prepared for his passing, I suppose. The grief is there, but there is no shock, no surprise.”

  Lora nodded. “Yes. I read about his condition. A rare degenerative muscular disorder. He was diagnosed ten years ago, and apparently was given six months to live. But he held on for ten years, long enough to transition full power to his son and heir.”

  Amir smiled, his eyebrows rising for a moment. But he stayed quiet, his eyes focused intently on her. She looked beautiful with the setting sun lighting her from the left, he realized. She’d picked up a slight tan, perhaps even some mild sunburn, and the slight redness combined with the alluring lack of makeup or perfume made her seem so real, so honest, so innocent that the Sheikh wondered if he’d be able to hold himself back. There was a part of him that wanted to rip that ugly green dress off her, see her naked in the twilight of his day-chambers, spank her bottoms until they were as red as her cheeks, until she submitted like so many others had over the years. But there was another part of him that wanted to sit here across the table from her, just talking, just looking into her big brown eyes, all day, all night, all his life.

  He smiled and shook his head as he thought back to the old tradition of Sheikh’s Privilege and the complex, often misunderstood reasons for its origins. Had she already understood that Sheikh’s Privilege had never been about sex, that it had always been a test of faith, of trust, of commitment: A three-way test involving a husband, a wife, and their king and supreme ruler?

  Let us see, Amir thought as he took a slow breath. Let us see.

  8

  Lora could barely see straight when she took that first step into the Sheikh’s day-chambers, her head was throbbing so hard. This went against every bit of common sense, every logical argument, every scrap of decency and decorum. She’d agreed to present herself to a man who had absolute power within the walls of his palace, a man who’d kissed her before he’d even said two sentences to her, a man who might very well take her appearance as a sign she was submitting to him as perhaps hundreds of women had in the past. And then what? If the worst scenario played out, who could she blame?

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” Mark had said when she’d told him of her decision to honor the Sheikh’s order. “I can’t believe I’m hearing
this. You’re going to sleep with him for . . . for . . .”

  He hadn’t finished the sentence, and Lora had wondered what the last word would have been. “Nothing? You’re going to sleep with him for nothing?” Was he going to ask how much they’d get if she fucked the Sheikh? The thought flashed hot through her mind and body, sending her into a spin of both rage and arousal that made her feel ashamed at first and then more determined about her decision the next.

  “I’ve thought about it for two days,” she’d replied, “and I don’t think the Sheikh’s Privilege law is about sex at all.”

  “And what brings you to that conclusion? Your PhD in Middle Eastern Traditions? Oh, wait, you don’t fucking have one!” Mark had yelled.

  Lora had taken a breath, reminding herself that Mark had a right to be angry. But there was still something about the events of the past two days that had killed a part of her, a part of the love she thought she had for Mark: the way he’d acted after the kiss; the strange appearance of that pre-nup and the implication that she was a cheater; that split-second of hesitation when Mark realized he wouldn’t get a refund if they cancelled the wedding. And all of it seemed to tie into this strange old tradition of Sheikh’s Privilege. She wasn’t sure how it all fit together, but somehow it did. She knew it. She felt it.

  “Do you trust me?” she’d asked Mark suddenly, a point-blank question that short-circuited the conversation. “Do you trust me to be alone with a man the night before our wedding and not sleep with him?”

  Mark had stared at her, his face going white and then red and then turning a shade that looked vaguely purple. She wasn’t sure where the question had come from, but the moment she asked it she knew it was the right one. A question that perhaps women had asked their men in different ways over the centuries. Marriage wasn’t about sex or even love as much as it was about trust, and perhaps that was the point of this ancient custom of Sheikh’s Privilege. Maybe it’s an exercise in trust, she’d wondered as she watched Mark blink and grimace. A test of the bond between a woman and the man she’s about to marry. A test conducted by the Sheikh, the ruler, the leader of his people.

  And there he sat facing her, the Sheikh himself. He still wore the black robes of mourning, but his face was alive and alert, his green eyes sparkling with energy. He hadn’t so much as brushed by her since she’d walked in, and he’d respectfully taken the farthest seat from her in the seating area. The day-chambers he’d chosen was bathed in light from the evening sun, with wide open balconies and large windows. This was not a scene where a king with absolute power destroyed a marriage by forcing himself on a woman. It never had been, and Lora was sure of it when she saw the hint of a smile on the Sheikh’s dark red lips.

  “Are you afraid that what happened to your father will happen to you?” Lora asked, surprising herself with the question.

  Certainly the Sheikh was surprised, because he blinked and tightened, his green eyes narrowing, his head cocking slightly to the left. He took a breath and looked past her to where Lora had seen several portraits of Sheikhs and Sheikhas lining the blue sandstone walls. “No,” he said finally. “Logic tells me I should be afraid, because it is a genetic disorder that might very well exist in my DNA.”

  “Did anyone else in your family have the disorder?” Lora asked.

  “Not in the last generation, but before that it is hard to say. My grandfather died young, and so perhaps the disease would have manifested if he had lived long enough.”

  “Are you worried that you’ll die young too?”

  The Sheikh laughed and shook his head. “Why am I being asked these questions? This moment is about you, not me.”

  Lora shifted on her velvet cushion. Suddenly she wished she’d worn something different. She hadn’t planned to ask him any of these questions, but she felt a need to learn more about this man sitting across from her in a black robe, his green eyes shining like emeralds in the sun, those dark red lips thick and full, their taste still strong in her memory.

  “How is this about me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “The way I see it, this is all about you. An exercise of power. Three days ago you forced yourself on me in front of everyone. Then you declared that I must present myself to you the day before my wedding or else . . .”

  “Or else what?” the Sheikh said. “I did not threaten you or your fiancé. I simply informed you of the tradition of our kingdom.”

  “A tradition that hasn’t been followed for a long time, I think,” Lora said. “Your father never invoked Sheikh’s Privilege, as far as I can tell from my research. And neither have you. Not until today. Not until . . .” She trailed off before she said the word ‘me’.

  “Yet again you are turning this conversation around to where I am being interrogated,” Amir said, his jaw tight but his eyes sparkling. “There is more to you than meets the eye, yes?”

  Lora snorted. “You can say that about anyone.”

  “I am saying it about you,” Amir said, those eyes losing their lightness for a moment. “And I am also saying this about you: Your marriage will fail. I knew it the moment I kissed you.”

  Lora’s heart almost stopped as she stared at the Sheikh. “How can you say that?” she whispered. “Why would you say that? What gives you the right to say that to me? You know nothing about me or Mark!”

  “I know when a man does not give a damn about the woman he is with,” Amir said, his gaze never wavering, those green eyes staring deep into hers. Then he broke the eye contact for the briefest of moments. “I know because I have been that man.”

  Lora frowned as she thought back to what she’d read about Amir over the past three days. He’d just ended an engagement with Princess Marissa, a member of Monestonia’s Royal Family. There’d been rumors of her infidelity, but there’d been no proof other than Amir’s accusation. No paparazzi photographs of her with another man. No scandalous emails or texts. No tabloid gossip whatsoever—in fact the only news was when Amir had broken up with her after hinting at a betrayal of trust! What was the story there, she wondered suddenly. And what did he mean about being a man who didn’t give a damn about the woman he was with? Was he talking about his relationship with Marissa, or did he mean the countless flings he’d had before the Princess?

  She stared at the man across from her, a king with green eyes and thick dark hair. He was drawing her in, it suddenly occurred to her. Making her want to know more about him. Was that his intention, or was it just her? Was she attracted to him, or was she just reaching for an excuse to escape from a situation that deep down she knew was wrong for her?

  And which situation felt wrong? The fact that she was sitting in a room with another man the day before her wedding? Or the sense that the marriage itself was . . .

  Your marriage will fail, came the words as Lora’s head spun and her eyes glazed over. She desperately tried to regain focus, but all she could see were the Sheikh’s green eyes, his dark red lips, his thick jawline. Was he playing her? Getting inside her head? Or was it her own guilt, her own doubt, her own fear that she was marrying the wrong man manifesting itself in the form of the Sheikh?

  Sheikh’s Privilege, she’d read in an obscure academic journal written by a long-dead scholar at the University of Chicago, took many forms over the centuries and across the kingdoms of the Middle East. There were some Sheikhs that abused the law, seeing it as a tool to exercise power over their subjects while satisfying their worst urges. But those Sheikhs did not last long: They were hated by their people, resented for their abuses of power. After all, the Middle Eastern Sheikh is considered the protector of every man, woman, and child of his realm. But in other Middle Eastern kingdoms, Sheikh’s Privilege was treated as a test of the bonds between the betrothed and their king, an act of faith and trust, similar to Abraham offering a sacrifice to God.

  In those cases, the Sheikh would spend the evening with the bride-to-be, never touching her. T
he husband would be at home, his faith in his wife and his king being tested, even as the Sheikh tested his own self-control to not exercise his power simply for lust.

  And the woman? Indeed, the test for her would be to simply show up. To step past the threshold into the Sheikh’s private chambers, to trust her instincts, her fidelity, her king.

  At the end of the day the Sheikh decides if the marriage should proceed. And if all three pass the test, then an unspoken bond is created. A promise that the Sheikh will protect this marriage and everything in it.

  The protector of the marriage. This was mostly symbolic, but in some kingdoms it was more than just a symbol. In some kingdoms, if Sheikh’s Privilege was invoked, being protector of the marriage meant that should the husband die or the marriage fail, the Sheikh himself is bound to step in and take over.

  Take over as husband.

  Lora’s entire life flashed before her eyes as she thought about what she’d wanted to say to the Sheikh, about how she’d read about the various forms of Sheikh’s Privilege, and that she believed the form practiced in Johaar in the old days was about faith and trust, not sex and power. She wanted to tell him that she’d seen the peacefulness and joy in his people, and it was deep-rooted, which meant this was not a kingdom with a history of Sheikhs abusing their privileges. After all, a line of kings who slept with every woman before her wedding day would probably not foster goodwill amongst the people, yes?

  But she couldn’t say any of it. Not after what he’d just said.

  Then suddenly Lora was angry. Furious. Just simply mad at everything and everyone: At the Sheikh for saying that. At Mark for being the man he was. At herself for even being here.

  And so without another word she stood and walked out of the room, took the waiting car-service back to the hotel, and stormed back into her suite. Then, still in that strange middle-ground between rage and madness, she snatched up those pre-nup papers, and without reading them again signed her name to every damned page.