The Marriage Deal Read online

“So? Did the villagers ask for proof of cohabitation? I hardly think it matters to them which bedroom I sleep in.”

  “There are thousands of staff members at the palace, people who come from all over the country to work here.”

  His meaning is clear. People work here who come from Thakirt. People who might hear that we’re not sharing a room and take that information back to the world at large.

  I grind my teeth, hating to see logic in his argument. “That seems like a long bow to draw,” I respond eventually, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Nonetheless, if your father is to come to Qabid, I will leave no stone unturned in creating the perception of a true marriage between us. We do not need gossip to add to an already inflammatory situation.”

  My lips part, the breath whooshing from my lungs. “Is that a threat?”

  Something shifts in his face, his features tightening and I wait for him to deny it, needing to hear him assure me.

  “It’s a reminder.”

  My stomach swoops to my feet.

  “Of what?”

  “Your father’s return was always to be contingent on our marriage being good for my people; if there is any sign of unrest, then the deal is off.”

  If our wedding is to cause any unrest, we will know it quickly.

  And if it does?

  That will depend on your conduct.

  What does that even mean?

  It means that if you do anything contrary to my interests, our deal is off. It means you’ll wish you never came here, Amy.

  Flashes of our conversation that first day we came face to face ignite something inside me. “I’ve done everything you asked of me,” I want the words to be defiant but they emerge as a whisper. “I’m trying, Zahir, I really am.”

  A muscle jerks in his jaw. “I know.”

  I’m angry that his concession mollifies me in any way. I’m angry, so angry, but also, frustrated and…sad.

  “So can’t that be enough for now? Why do you need me to be here with you?”

  “I don’t need anyone.”

  He’s said that to me before as well, on that same day in his office, but back then the words didn’t have the power to sting me as they do now.

  “Then why can’t I stay where I was? In my own suite with my own staff and space?”

  “Because, damn it!” His words are loud, a sign that his temper is near breaking point.

  “Where is your passionless reasoning now, Zahir?” I taunt him. “What is this if not an act of passion?”

  His eyes bore into mine. “On the contrary, there is reason to this.” He speaks calmly now, neutral and easy. Did I imagine his earlier outburst? “You want your father to come here and I’m committed to that course of action. I’m aware that you have acted in good faith, doing everything I’ve asked of you. I am not faulting you, Amy.”

  His kindness springs tears to my eyes; I look away.

  “But I will not have harmful conjecture undermining the steps we’ve taken. Does it really make that much of a difference which bed you sleep in?”

  Damn him! I hate him in that moment, because he’s made me sound petty and juvenile.

  “Think about this,” he says quietly. “If I wanted our marriage to fail, wouldn’t I leave things as they are? With the possibility of gossip pulling apart what we’re outwardly showing? I promised to bring your father here and I intend to uphold my word.”

  “If I sleep here,” I add, not willing to let go of my temper.

  “What is it? What are you afraid will happen if we share a bed? Do you think you might start to hate me less somehow, if we lie side by side overnight?”

  My gut squeezes painfully at those words, words I’d thrown at him in the middle of the night when guilt and need had made me crazy and I’d wanted to push hard against any betrayal of my father, any softening towards Zahir.

  “I don’t know.” I spin away from him, my shoulders dropping. Where is my anger now?

  “I shouldn’t have carried you here while you slept.” His words are a concession I definitely didn’t expect. I spin around, staring at him in disbelief. His face though is as hard as ever, giving nothing away. “That was wrong of me.”

  “Are you apologising?”

  His eyes bore into mine and I hold my breath, waiting. Finally, he nods. “Yes. I want you to sleep here but I should have spoken to you about it again, rather than making the decision unilaterally.”

  “So I can go back to my room tonight?”

  A muscle throbs at the base of his jaw. “Is that what you want?”

  My stomach lurches. Crap. I didn’t expect that question. The truth is, I’m not sure. I need my own space. Zahir is too much. Way, way too much. When I’m with him I feel as though the gravitational pull of him sucks me in so that I lose all ability to think and act in my own interests. If we share an apartment, how will I cope? And yet, at the same time, the idea of being here with him is intoxicating and if I stop fighting him for long enough to imagine what cohabitation looks like, I could admit to myself that my heart wants nothing more than to be here with him, in his bed, waking up next to him every morning for as long as we’re married. The ground tilts unevenly beneath me.

  “I want my father to come home,” I say unevenly, glad that, in the end, the decision doesn’t really come down to my dichotomy of wants and needs. “If you believe moving into your quarters expedites that, then so be it.”

  He doesn’t react.

  “But you’re right. You shouldn’t have carried me here. I’m not just a ‘thing’ you can move about as you see fit, Zahir. I’m a flesh and blood woman with my own thoughts and beliefs and it’s not your place to ride roughshod over me. Got it?”

  His eyes narrow at my reprimand and I wait, bracing myself for his response, hoping – wondering – if his temper and passion will be ignited once more. Instead, he simply nods. “It won’t happen again.”

  And with that, he’s gone.

  I don’t know why I argued with him, anyway. Nothing changes despite the fact I’m in his room. He returns late that night, and I’m already asleep. I only know he’s joined me in bed because I fling my arm out sometime around three and connect with the solid wall of his chest. I quickly withdraw my hand to my side of the bed, but I don’t fall back asleep. I can’t. Knowing he’s beside me has awakened my body, needs spiralling out of control. I stare at the wall for the rest of the night, so hear him wake just after five. There is a rustle of clothing as he dresses, and then the silent padding of his feet over the marbled floor until he reaches the door. I keep my eyes shut until I hear it click closed. This forms the pattern for the next few days, so the fact I’m in his room makes very little difference to my day-to-day existence. I tell myself I’m relieved.

  Zahir

  “I wanted to come to you directly.”

  I fix Aliya with a stare, something inside of my hammering against my ribs, because for Aliya to come to my office without an appointment means something must have happened with Amy.

  I tap my pen against the edge of the desk, assuming as mask of patience when I feel far from it.

  “What is it?”

  She hesitates, her eyes darting to a guard who’s accompanied her inside the door.

  Frowning, I dismiss him with an easy wave. Relief crosses her face, and when we’re alone she clicks the door shut, locking it for good measure. Surprise has one brow lifting, and still I wait, looking impassive when I feel far from it.

  “Did the Emira send you?”

  “No.”

  Frustration is like a wave in my belly. “Then what can I do for you?”

  “I have been moving Her Highness’s clothes from her suite of rooms to yours, as you know.”

  I nod curtly.

  “I found something in one of her robes.”

  “Then give it to my wife,” I say dismissively.

  Aliya’s face is pale, her hand lifting as she holds a crumpled piece of paper towards me. It’s thick, like cardboard.

/>   “It was in one of the dresses from your state visit to Thakirt,” she says with a tightening of her lips. “It has been laundered, hence the damage to the paper, but you can still make out some of the writing if you look closely.”

  I take the paper from her with curiosity now, not sure what I expect to see.

  I study the damaged stationery, angling it until, as Aliya said, I can make out some words written in tiny black script. English has been used, which makes sense if the note was in Amy’s pocket, though the spelling is poor, so I presume she was not the writer of the note.

  You fater’s freind. A meating. Important.

  A light seems to be blinding me from the side of my head as I read the note, over and again, wanting to find an explanation that nullifies the importance of this, that removes my wife from suspicion. But the more I think about it, the more I realise there is at least a base level of complicity in her having this note in her possession, even if she didn’t act on it.

  “You haven’t mentioned this to anyone else?”

  Aliya’s expression shows consternation. “No, your highness. I wanted to bring it directly to you.”

  “I’m glad; you did the right thing.” My frown deepens. “Thank you. I’ll handle it.”

  At the door, Aliya turns back to me. “I should mention, sir, that the Emira was with me the entire time we were in Thakirt. She did not leave my presence once.”

  I don’t know if she’s telling me this out of a desire for self-protection, or to provide support to Amy, but it doesn’t matter. Whether Aliya left Amy’s side or not, somehow, she managed to meet with one of her father’s supporters for long enough to receive this note.

  Blood pounds through my veins, a deafening tattoo drumming inside me.

  I can’t say when I decided to trust Amy, but I do. Implicitly. I have believed her. Every look, every word. I have believed her innocence and goodness. Is it possible that I’ve been wrong about her all along?

  12

  Amy

  I READ THE WORDS with a frown.

  “What is this?”

  His eyes are scrutinising me, his body so close that every indrawn breath fills my nostrils and senses with his masculine aroma, so thinking is – momentarily – difficult.

  “You tell me. It was discovered in your possession.”

  My brain jangles into place. This is serious. I frown, reading the words again, trying to capture a memory I know simply isn’t there. I lift my eyes to his and feel a wave of cold coming from my husband. I shiver. “I don’t know anything about it.” I hold the piece of paper out to him.

  He takes it, but his expression doesn’t relent. “It was discovered in the pocket of a dress you were wearing in Thakirt. Does that jog your memory?”

  Despite the tenor of his question, I laugh. “I’m sorry,” I lift a hand to his chest then quickly dropped it when sparks ignite my fingertips. “You’re making it sound like we’re in some kind of police drama. Is this an interrogation, Zahir? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I can’t answer that. Do you?”

  He’s not joking. My breath flies from my body as though I’ve been winded. “Zahir, you can’t be serious?”

  “At some point, in Thakirt, you met with someone. They gave you this note. I don’t know the extent of that meeting or conversation, but I need to understand. So tell me everything, at once.”

  My lips part and the pain in my chest widens to a chasm. “You’re wrong.” Hurt explodes through me. “I didn’t do anything of the sort.”

  “Then how did this note come to be in your possession?”

  “I’ve never seen that before!” I point at the piece of paper he’s holding.

  “It’s been badly damaged by the laundering process. When you last held it, it would have been a fresh piece of note paper.”

  I roll my eyes. “I realise that, but the words on it I read for the first time just now. I’ve never seen it before.”

  He’s very still, watching me, trying to fathom if I’m telling the truth or not. That he believes me is vitally important, and not just because my father’s fate hangs in the balance.

  “Why would I do that, Zahir? Why would I scheme against you? If I wanted to see a Hassan on the throne? I’m already here. But apart from that, I don’t care about power or ruling. I just want my dad to come home, and plotting your downfall would destroy my chances of that. Why would I risk it?”

  “You hate me,” he says simply, his eyes probing mine.

  I reach behind me for the stability of a piece of furniture to grab onto, curving my palm around the top of a chair.

  I don’t hate him. I hate what he did to my father, but I don’t hate him. Those words won’t come out, though. Instead, I try to focus on facts. “I was with Aliya all day. There’s no way I could have had a secret assignation with one of your enemies, even if I’d wished to – which I didn’t.”

  His brows draw together. “She corroborates this.”

  Again I have the sense we’re in a police drama but it’s not funny anymore.

  I feel sick. Pressing a hand to my stomach, I stay where I am, staring at him for several long, painful seconds, willing the sense of nausea away, willing myself to be strong.

  “Nonetheless, this was in your pocket.”

  I can’t fight it anymore. He actually thinks I’m plotting to overthrow his government? Or worse, to kill him? It’s not the heinous nature of those acts that upsets me, but his quickness to believe the worst in me. I turn away from him, the nausea increasing until I know I can’t fight it anymore. I move quickly towards the bathroom, pushing the door open and kneeling, retching over the toilet until the nausea has passed. My brow is covered in perspiration and when I push up to standing, Zahir is standing in the door frame, watching me.

  The coldness has left his eyes; there’s concern there now.

  I ignore him, moving to the sink to splash water in my face. When I finish, he’s holding a towel towards me. I take it without a word of thanks, glad to have the softness to bury my face in when tears sting my eyes. I hold it there for as long as I can, needing to settle my stomach, my feelings, my sense of disgust.

  Eventually, I drop the towel to the vanity and meet his eyes full on.

  “I would never do what you’re accusing me of.”

  Something stretches between us, his eyes probing mine until I look away. Not out of guilt but out of intense, unshakable sadness. The situation between us is a disaster. Fresh tears fill my eyes and my lip trembles.

  “I need a moment.”

  I move to the door, grabbing the handle, but he stays where he is, in the palatial bathroom, watching me.

  “Zahir?”

  He stands his ground, so I do the only thing I can, leaving, walking through his suite towards the kitchen, where I grab the jug of iced tea from the fridge and pour myself a small measure. It’s sweet and overpowering but I throw it back, hoping it will settle my stomach.

  He follows me a moment later, still watching me in that way he has.

  “Is it possible someone slipped the note into your pocket without you realising?”

  “Of course it’s possible,” I mutter. “Either that or someone’s framed me,” I add on. “Not that I’m blaming anyone, but looking at this logically – with your passionless reason – if you believe I’m innocent, which I know to be the case, then those are the only two explanations.”

  “I do not believe you were framed,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was Aliya who found the note, and she brought it directly to me.”

  Pain is like a swift blade at the base of my skull. More betrayal. I thought she and I had formed an understanding, were even becoming friendly. But there are no friends for me here in Qabid. I’m completely alone. I dash at my cheeks, angry to be showing the weakness of crying in front of Zahir but unable to stop.

  “If she’d wanted to ‘frame’ you, she would have gone to the head of security, who’d have had no option but to lau
nch an investigation.”

  “Instead, you’re doing the investigating. Well? What’s the verdict?” I ask angrily. “Do I need to go to jail, Zahir? Or are you going to exile me back to the States as well?”

  He flinches at my scathing tone.

  “I cannot see how anyone could have come close enough to you to put a note in your dress, without your realising,” he says quietly. “I am trying to find an explanation, but you are guarded at all times.”

  And then I remember. The bike. The little boy and his father. It had all happened so quickly, but there would indeed have been an opportunity at that moment for the father to have slipped something into my pocket as I was distracted by the child.

  “What is it?” He asks urgently.

  “There was an accident,” I murmur. “Nothing consequential. A little boy fell off his bike near us – he’d had to swerve to avoid us, actually. I felt responsible. I was tending to him, making sure he was okay, when his father – at least I presume it was his father – came to crouch beside me. It all happened very quickly, so I can’t be certain, but I suppose, theoretically, he would have been close enough, and I was distracted enough…” I shake my head. “But who knows? It could have been anyone, at any time. The point is, you don’t even know the note’s contents were bad. It could have been an old friend of my father’s simply wanting to meet to discuss old times. All of this is based on your belief that my father is inherently bad, and I don’t agree with that premise. I know he would never hurt a fly. He’s not capable of the things you accuse him of, and nor am I. Now please, just…leave me alone.”

  His jaw is clenched tight, his face impossible to read. I’ve never felt more alone and isolated than I do in this moment.

  He comes into the kitchen, watching me, and the pressure inside of me builds, so I feel as though parts of me are splitting under the intense burden.

  “I can’t do this.” The words bubble out of me, tumbling from my lips without forethought. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I can’t be married to someone who…who thinks me capable of…and my father…I can’t live under a cloud of suspicion, on probation, terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing in case my father is penalised for my misstep. I can’t…I need…please…”