by Leslie North
His stomach tightened and turned at the thought.
She came to him, her stare fixed on the carpet. He tried to offer up the warm, loving smile she deserved. But she would not look at him. Her hands seem to be trembling. From fear?
At last she looked up. Her dark eyes seemed huge. She drew in a deep breath. She did not smile at him. He assumed they were both nervous for the same reasons—they knew next to nothing about each other. Did she hate this whole thing? Maybe that would be something for them to talk about after this was all over.
He put his hand out to her, but the doors behind him banged open, voices lifted. Khalid glanced over and saw two burly security men—noticeable for their Western suits and their muscles—were trying to bar a woman who was struggling to keep a cell phone out of their reach.
Her blonde hair was pulled back, and glasses obscured her eyes, but she was not dressed for a wedding. She struck him as attractive in tight blue jeans, a beige blazer over a button-up blouse. She also looked like a reporter. He could admire her courage, but he wished she had chosen some other place for its display.
“I have a right to be here. This needs to be covered. Do you know that Sharjah is one of the few countries where women’s rights are routinely ignored, and this is a prime example of that.”
Khalid groaned. The woman’s accent was clearly American—and brash. Had he not already courted enough trouble because of these Americans and their ideas. He glanced around, saw his father’s face reddening, as was Mehmood’s. Black beards had started to bristle. Glancing at Fadiyah, he saw her staring at the woman, her eyes wide.
The reporter was not wrestling with one of the security guards over possession of her cell phone, which no doubt had photos or videos. The sultan had ordered no media. Khalid watched the woman’s hair come undone and spill out golden strands. Her glasses fell to the floor, and she went after them, slipping away from the security men.
The reporter rose and darted over to one of the American businessmen, pushing her cell phone into his face. “As the CEO of AmeriTek, does your presence here mean you condone Sharjah’s treatment of women as mere property?”
Khalid winced. What could the poor man say? That he disapproved and have the sultan ready to sever ties? Or that he approved and then watch that quote appear on American news?
Security caught up with her. One man wrapped one hand around her waist and the other around her mouth, muffling her protests. The other grabbed her cell phone from her hand. They hustled her back out through the back doors, which clicked shut on what sounded like a threat to call the American Embassy.
The commotion had distracted the guests. Concerned whispers raised into a low murmur and some stood as if to leave. Khalid glanced at his father—the old man was sending one of Khalid’s uncles out of the room, presumably to be sure the woman had been arrested. The Americans had all stood and were tugging suits straight and looking at the exits. The unhappy expressions were impossible to miss or ignore.
Khalid glanced down at his bride to be. She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. He had no idea what he could say to her.
In the next instant, she let out a shrill cry and tears spilled from her eyes. Her father put a hand on her arm, but she smacked him away, and cried out, “I’m not marrying anyone. She’s right. I won’t be treated like…like…like a barrel of oil!”
Hiking up her gown, she turned and ran from the room. Mehmood shot Khalid a glare so hot it rivaled the sands of the desert. He followed after his daughter, begging her to be the reasonable child she had always been.
Khalid blinked twice.
West had apparently collided with his traditional wedding, and he was uncertain if he had been saved or cast from one disaster into a worse one.
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