by Holly Rayner
“Well, cheers, then,” Amira said, raising her glass. “To the woman who will marry my son, in just a week!”
A week? Willow’s brain felt like it was on fire.
She tried to steady her expression as Amira sipped her wine and closed her eyes, but inwardly, she felt like screaming. A week? What was Amira talking about?
“I’ll admit, it’s really rather fast—” Willow began, filling in the silence.
“But when you know, you know,” Ibrahim added quickly, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. He gave his mother a cocky smile, tilting his head. “And we wanted to ensure that it was the kind of wedding you could be proud of.”
“I know you, Ibrahim. I know you would be absolutely content with running off to Vegas and having some sort of sinful celebration without me,” Amira laughed, trying to share the laugh with Willow.
Willow joined in, sensing that her laugh was far too high-pitched to sound natural. She sipped more champagne, hoping the liquid courage would get her through the next few hours.
“But I’m so grateful the two of you chose Rebai as the place to have your wedding,” Amira continued. “With your help, I’ve been able to plan everything. I have the venue, the cake, the caterers—the same one we had for your father’s funeral, Ibrahim. And you remember how remarkable that food was. Everyone said it was the proper way to honor him. A man who loved his food, wasn’t he?”
“Indeed,” Ibrahim said, shifting in his chair.
Willow glanced toward him, sensing his face twitching with the mention of his father. Willow drew lines up and down her thighs with her fingers, unsure of what to do.
She felt anger buzzing inside her, reeling against the fact that she was helping Ibrahim dupe this woman. But also, she realized, she and Ibrahim weren’t due to leave Rebai until after the wedding—which meant she’d actually have to go through with it!
That hadn’t been a part of the deal. Ibrahim had lied to her, telling her that she’d have to fake the role of his fiancée for a week, speak to a few journalists and pose for a few photographs. But now, he was asking her to marry him, for show.
Willow forced herself to smile through the rest of the dinner, listening to Amira’s excited chatter about the wedding festivities. She ate slowly, trying to savor the flavor of the succulent lamb curry, but finding herself much too distracted.
She found herself drawn to the light in Amira’s eyes. She was as excited as a child, yet as regal as any queen. Willow wondered, in an abstract way, how nice it would be to actually have the woman as her mother-in-law. If only it all wasn’t a farce.
After dinner, the fake couple bid Amira goodbye, hugging her again and offering their cheeks for her kisses. In the silence that followed, Ibrahim placed his hand on Willow’s back and guided her toward the porch of the glass restaurant, where they could gaze out over the dark water. Willow pressed her lips together tightly, feeling herself sizzle with anger. Ibrahim lifted his glass of scotch and sipped it, seemingly lost in thought.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” Willow demanded suddenly.
Ibrahim blinked toward her, looking handsome yet far away.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, confused.
Willow’s hands formed tight fists at her sides. “Aren’t you going to explain why you lied to me? Why you’re actually having me go through with a wedding?”
“Oh, that,” Ibrahim said quietly.
“No! Not ‘just that,’” Willow cried out. She gripped the railing of the porch, feeling the sea wind whip at her hair. “You conned me, sure. But now, you’re asking me to con your mother—giving her a daughter-in-law, a chance at grandchildren, at least in her mind. That’s disgusting, Ibrahim. I can’t imagine anything more…more…deceitful.”
She felt herself stuttering as her passion grew. Ibrahim looked grim, his eyes dark and searching. Reaching for her, he put his arms around her, and Willow suddenly felt a bit more centered. She no longer teetered with anger.
“Let me try to explain,” Ibrahim began, drawing away from her. “My mother is the most important person in the world to me, and she will never be happy until I settle down. I’m her favorite child, at least after…” He paused, his eyes looking sad, distant. “That is, I’m her favorite, since we lost my brother.”
“Oh,” Willow said, her chin quivering. “I didn’t realize you also lost your brother…” An image of Paul sprung up in her mind’s eye—those soft, blue eyes, the ringing memory of his laugh.
“The fact that you work so hard to make your brother’s memory known—that really speaks to me,” Ibrahim said. “I can’t imagine what it felt like to watch Paul pass like that. For me, one day, I had my brother, and the next, I didn’t. It was a car accident…” he trailed off, his voice losing force.
“It must have destroyed you. It certainly did for me, for a while,” Willow murmured, knowing better than most that no words would actually do. They could never fill the hole in his heart.
“The issue is that I don’t want to settle down,” Ibrahim continued. “As you know, I like my life back in Houston. I’m famous, rich. I have a lifestyle that I’ve worked hard to cultivate, and I don’t see a single reason for giving it up.”
Willow nodded, closing her eyes for a long moment. She knew what he was referring to, and she wasn’t sure why, but she felt her stomach sour with jealousy. The women in Ibrahim’s life—she could never compete with them. She was a nobody; they were models and actresses and rich heiresses.
“I just don’t understand why you can’t wait to find the right woman for you,” Willow said, her voice softening. “Wouldn’t you much rather marry someone honestly, for your mother? Rather than building this false reality with me?”
“No. It just couldn’t happen that way,” Ibrahim said, sounding certain.
“How do you know?” Willow asked, her voice growing higher in pitch.
“I just do,” Ibrahim said. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he gazed at her, chuckling. “I can see already that I’m going to have to show you, rather than tell you. Aren’t I?”
“What do you mean?” Willow asked. Her head swam from the jet-lag, from the wine.
“Not tonight. But tomorrow morning,” Ibrahim said, slipping his fingers through hers and leading her toward the waiting car. “I can see we’re wiped out for the night. I want nothing more than to collapse in that hotel bed. And, don’t worry—” He squeezed her hand, glancing back toward her. “I made sure we have separate beds.”
Willow fell into the backseat of the limo, listening to the humming of Ibrahim’s voice as he spoke to the driver. She allowed her head to lean back against the headrest, her eyes to close. They were whisked back to the downtown hotel, where Ibrahim guided her up to the penthouse suite, opening the door to the bedroom in which she’d napped earlier.
For a long moment, she stood in the doorway, gazing up at him. Exhaustion filled her, making her eyelids droop. Ibrahim gave her a small smile, his face dark and clouded with emotion, making her feel almost woozy at how handsome he was.
“Good night, Willow,” he finally said, his voice strong. “This will all be over soon. It will be like a dream. I promise.”
Willow closed the door between them, unable to find the words; her throat felt constricted. But after stripping off her luxurious gown, which felt like silk beneath her fingers, she collapsed atop the sheets and fell asleep, not stirring until the sunlight streamed in through the small crack between the curtains.
Chapter 9
Ibrahim
Ibrahim awoke early, walking in his boxers toward the balcony and sipping fresh coffee—a morning ritual for him. The sunlight illuminated his shoulders and chest, shadowing the ripples muscles of his torso.
As he sipped his brew, he remembered Willow’s anger from the evening before: how she’d gazed at him with piercing blue eyes and told him he was wronging not only her, but his mother, as well.
Ibrahim had long felt that little white lies were the very backdrop of the
world: they allowed him to have meaningful relationships with loved ones, to flit between girlfriends with ease.
What they don’t know won’t kill them; it’ll just help me along the way, was something he thought often.
It was true that this entire trip to Rebai was built on lies that were a bit more than “white.” He’d conned this poor girl into coming here and masquerading as his fiancée, and then he’d dropped her into a meeting with his exuberant mother, with hardly any preparation. The very fact that his mother had seemingly adored her spoke of what a precious woman Willow truly was.
He’d gotten lucky when her photo had been dropped in Eva’s place. Of course, Ibrahim was accustomed to getting lucky. He’d been born into it.
But growing up a royal in Rebai hadn’t been easy.
Sliding his hand across his cheeks and chin, he rubbed at the spiky, unshaven hair, knowing that this was his last chance to convince Willow of this false wedding’s importance. He wouldn’t involve anyone else. No drivers. Just the two of them and the open road.
If only she would awaken!
Finally, he heard the door creak.
The Sheikh’s heart began to beat fiercely in his chest. He was suddenly incredibly conscious of his body, and he flexed his muscles slightly before turning.
Willow stood in the center of the living room, her hair brushed and bright, catching the light from the sun. She wore a simple white dress, one she’d brought with her from Houston. Her arms swung at her sides, her fingers toying lightly with the fabric.
“There you are,” Ibrahim said, feeling suddenly dizzy. He felt a stirring of longing, one he had to push back. “I was about to wake you.”
“Sorry. Turns out traveling halfway across the world really knocks you out,” Willow said, giving him a soft smile. As she strode toward him, Ibrahim was conscious of her eyes, which seemed to rove over his abdomen.
Finishing the last of his coffee, he walked toward the kitchen area and set the mug in the sink. He brewed another pot for Willow, and then turned back toward her.
“I was hoping I could show you, today…”
“Show me why you have to be dishonest with your mother?” Willow asked, catching him off guard. “Because you think you can change my mind.” But she gave him a broad smile, showing him her kindness. That she was open to his argument. “I’m ready when you are.”
“It’s something of an adventure,” Ibrahim told her, feeling oddly giddy. “If you’re ready for that.”
“I’ve already followed you to Rebai,” Willow said, chuckling. “I think I can follow you a bit further.”
Twenty minutes later, the Sheikh was dressed, jangling the keys of his sports car in his hand. He and Willow entered the elevator, shifting about a foot apart from one another. Ibrahim was all-too aware of her perfume, her long legs, how, for some reason, he wanted to touch her lower back. Suddenly, she seemed like a woman he wanted to make his own, rather than just some random girl from Texas.
Willow whistled as they approached his red coupe, bringing her hands on either sides of her hips. In response, Ibrahim slid his sunglasses over his eyes, knocking his head back in mock cockiness.
“I knew the old wagon would make an impression on a girl like you,” he said, teasing.
Willow laughed in surprise. It was rare that Ibrahim showed anyone how self-aware he could be, and he was grateful that she seemed to appreciate it.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he waited until Willow was situated beside him. He cranked the engine and sped from the garage, screeching the tires as he bolted from the inner city and toward the desert, taking the highway along the coast.
As they drove, Ibrahim put the windows down, allowing the wind to whizz through their hair. He turned up the radio, and Willow seemed to hum along without being conscious of it, gliding from note to note. For a moment, Ibrahim felt more comfortable than he had in years.
About ten miles outside of the city, Ibrahim steered the car down a paved driveway, lined with palm trees. At the end of the driveway was a once-elaborate palace, now empty, sun-scorched and browning.
It was an immense building, with over thirty rooms. As Ibrahim drove down the driveway, he turned off the radio, feeling the weight of his past circulate. He could almost see himself, as a young boy, racing through the trees. He could almost hear his brother calling his name.
“Ibrahim,” Willow said, sounding almost breathless. “Where are we?”
Ibrahim cut the engine near the palace and left the car, gesturing for Willow to follow him. She did, without further question. They strode over the sand, finding the long brick pathway beneath, which guided them toward the front door. Gripping the handle, Ibrahim attempted to open it, but found it bolted shut.
“Shoot,” he murmured.
“There must be another way in,” Willow said. Slipping her fingers through Ibrahim’s, she yanked him around the side of the palace.
Between a pair of overgrown bushes, they found a large, cracked window, offering a hole big enough for one person to slip inside. Ibrahim pressed the glass with his elbow, creating an even bigger hole.
“Careful of the glass on the other side,” he said, helping Willow ease her way through.
As he entered behind her, he found himself in his father’s study: still lined with shelves, some of which still held the odd book. They were yellowed and worn, filled with dust. The smell of it was strikingly similar to how it had been when it had been in use: cigars and aging texts. It brought back a wave of nostalgia, which Ibrahim felt powerless against.
Willow stepped through the study, clearly enamored with the dilapidated building.
She ran a hand over a crack in the wall, tilting her head. “What was this place, Ibrahim?”
“This is where I grew up,” Ibrahim heard himself say, his voice soft and distant. He stepped toward her, placing his hand at the small of her back. He felt the air sizzling around them all of a sudden with anticipation. “Come on. Let’s head down the hall. We have much to explore.”
They tiptoed along, through the barren hallway, and into an expansive, brightly lit ballroom with large, south-facing windows. In the corner was a piano, once painted white, yet now scratched and ancient-looking from the erosion of sand. Willow stepped into the center of the dance floor, her sandals the only sound.
Whirling around, she said wistfully, “I can’t believe you grew up here.”
“It wasn’t as perfect as it might seem,” Ibrahim said, stepping toward her. “Which is what I wanted to explain to you. Why we need to be married, for my mother’s sake.”
Willow nodded, gazing up at him. She didn’t speak, just waited, as if she knew he was brimming with a story. Ibrahim hadn’t explained his past to anyone before. He fumbled at first, unsure of where to begin.
“As a young royal, growing up wasn’t easy for me. My father put so much pressure on my brother and I, so much so that I wasn’t entirely sure of the meaning of affection. I knew only that my role as his son was that I had to make him look good in front of his peers. I had to get good grades, be the best athlete, stand the tallest, be the strongest. Nothing else would be good enough,” Ibrahim began.
Willow’s eyes grew heavy with emotion. Reaching toward him, she gripped his hand.
“I remember the fights we would get into,” Ibrahim continued, his voice shaking now. “About how it was paramount that I find a wife he could be proud of. How I needed to align with what the public wanted, maintain a flawless public image…”
“So much pressure to grow up with,” Willow murmured.
“Exactly. And I grew so tired of the expectations. After my brother died, I took my leave of Rebai and fled to Houston. I built my business there, hoping to please my father from afar. Over the years, I spoke with my mother often, but hardly ever with my father. Of course, you always regret the things you didn’t do, didn’t say, when someone passes away. In our case, we never rectified our relationship. I was far away in the States when he passed, and I returne
d there after the funeral—”
“And your mother left the palace?” Willow asked, gesturing around at the ballroom. Her eyes sparkled with what Ibrahim suspected were tears. Could she really feel his pain so viscerally?
“She did. And I left her out here, alone. She’s had to pave the way forward, without my father, on her own. And I can’t tell you how guilty I’ve felt since then. She’s asked me consistently if I’ve found someone to settle down with, like it’s the only thing she cares about. She won’t rest until I’m married.”
Willow pressed her lips together tightly. After a pause, she cleared her throat and offered, “Have you considered bringing her to live in the States?”
“Then she would only realize the truth of my lifestyle there,” Ibrahim heard himself say. His heart hammered as Willow’s eyes darted away from his.
“Right. The Playboy Sheikh…” Willow sighed, giving him a soft smile. “How could I forget?”
“Listen,” Ibrahim said, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “I haven’t found anyone to settle down with, but I want to give my mother something she can be excited about. Something that will make her eager to get out of bed in the morning. As long as she never finds out about us—”
“About how fake our relationship is?” Willow asked.
“Right,” Ibrahim said. “As long as she never discovers the truth, the burden will be solely with me. And the woman who is kind enough to help me go through with it.”
They didn’t speak for a long moment. Ibrahim had given her everything he could of himself: the truth. He was asking her to carry it. He knew it was almost too much to ask of someone he didn’t know, who he might never really get to know.
Yet something in her eyes glowed with recognition, as if she could see him, truly, for who he was.
“All right,” Willow said, giving him a small nod. “I’ll do it. For her, and for you.”
Chapter 10