by Leslie North
“That’s right, but I have plans.” And Harb—she did not want to see Harb. The man was a creep. He’d shown up at dinner with her grandfather her first week in the country, and he’d made her stomach turn. He always looked like he was plotting something when he looked at her—something she knew she would not enjoy.
The man himself stepped into the doorway. The smug smile on his face threatened to unseat her lunch.
“Hello,” she said. “See you next week, Papa.”
“Don’t go just yet, my dear.” Harb stepped fully inside, and Laila backed into the living room. Harb laughed. “No need to be shy. In a few minutes, we’ll be married, and you’ll have no time to be bashful.”
A terrified laugh bubbled up into her throat, but she swallowed it back. “I promise, you’re wrong about that. I’m not marrying anyone, least of all you.”
Herb raised his eyebrows at her grandfather. “You didn’t tell her? Labeeb, you’re losing your edge.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of his linen pants. “I’ve come to claim you as my bride. The deal is set.” Harb handed her the paper. Laila willed herself not to throw any punches.
She read the words printed there, which spelled out the marriage contract—including a bride price, of all things—but the signatures at the bottom dealt the final blow. Harb’s and her grandfather’s.
He was already talking.
“—perform the ceremony.” She looked up to find a third man in the room. The imam. “We’re ready to begin.”
The imam cleared his throat. “Stand together, and the ceremony will commence.”
“You’re joking.” Laila couldn’t get a breath. “This isn’t a valid contract.”
“It’s signed and witnessed. It’s valid.” Harb stood next to her. “Proceed,” he said to the imam.
“My grandfather has dementia. He wouldn’t have signed this if he were in his right mind.” It hurt her, saying it in front of him, but what did they think they were doing? “You can’t possibly believe this valid.” Even as she said the words, she could see her grandfather nodding from the corner of her eye.
“Perfectly valid,” he said. “My child, it’s past time you married.”
“That’s right, Labeeb.” Harb patted the old man on his arm. “You have every right.”
“I have every right.”
Horror clawed its way up from the pit of her gut to her throat and clenched her airway in its fists. The imam shuffled from one foot to the other and pulled out a battered prayer book. She had to get herself some time to think.
“I need the bathroom.”
“Fine.” Harb cut a glance at her. “Then you’ll come right back here and marry me.” Laila turned to go, but Harb caught her arm. “Right back here,” he purred. “Or I’ll come for you.”
Bile stung her throat, and she clapped a hand over her mouth and ran for the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and locked it, her breaths coming hard and fast.
No time to be sick—she had to get out of whatever this awful situation was. A marriage contract? To Harb? Laila put her hand on the door handle. Maybe she should go back out. Could she really leave her grandfather with him? But after a moment she dropped it to her side. She had to leave him here. Harb wouldn’t hurt Papa as long as he could be used to lure her back. And his friends in the neighborhood would continue to check on him, just as they’d done before she arrived in Raihan. Especially Mara, the next-door neighbor who cooked all his meals and kept the house tidy.
“She’ll come around to it.” Harb’s voice came to her muffled by the door. “She’ll make me a very happy man.”
Laila jerked away from the door as if it had shocked her, her heart a miniature earthquake. She hopped up on the linen chest, knocking a basin off balance as she did. She grabbed the ceramic hard enough to crack it. At least it stopped the noise. It took both hands to force open the window. Laila squeezed painfully through the too-small opening and dropped to the ground outside.
Just move. This was no time to get scared and freeze. She sprinted around the house to the driveway, yanking her keys from her pocket as she went. The little car—bought off Raihan’s version of Craigslist when she arrived—didn’t have much life left in it. God, had she remembered to fill the gas tank?
The door stuck, then flew open, and she jumped in so fast she slid into the gear shift. Laila allowed herself one look at the house. Nobody had come out. The car hummed to life when she turned the key, and she forced herself to keep her hands calm on the wheel. A smooth drive out. Like nothing was happening. She kept stealing glances in the rearview mirror, but the door stayed closed.
She didn’t release her breath until she rounded the corner at the end of the road.
Home free—for now.
At the next crossroads she took a right, heading away from the city center. The apartment she rented above the studio probably wasn’t safe. If Harb was really determined, he could get that information from her grandfather, and then...
She couldn’t go back there now.
Laila rounded the city on the western side, through a hilly area that gradually climbed into mountains. The sun threw itself beneath the horizon as if it was hiding, just like she was. There was no going back. She wrenched the wheel to the right, heading deeper into the foothills, and gunned it. Panic filled her head, clouded her thoughts, and the miles slipped away under the wheels of the car,
Until the engine sputtered and stopped. Laila sucked in a breath. No, no, no. The gas gauge slipped below empty. Her only option was to guide the car to the side of the road.
In the foothills of Raihan.
With nobody to call and a man after her with a marriage contract, which was apparently enforceable.
She got out of the car.
The breeze still held a bit of warmth from the day, and it ran its fingers through her hair. Laila took a deep breath. Far to the east, the city of Raihanabad glowed. She had no idea how far she’d driven.
She patted her pocket for her cell phone and reached back into the car to grab her purse. And then Laila started to walk.
Grab your copy of The Sheikh’s Marriage Bargain (Hasan Sheikhs Book One) from
www.LeslieNorthBooks.com