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Time seemed to trip into fast forward from then. A quick, refreshing shower and a change of clothes into white palazzo linen pants, matching wide-sleeved top and gold wedge sandals, and she was heading out to join Zaid in his motorcade.
The jumbo-sized royal jet, its wings and tail painted in the same signature colours, stood waiting on the tarmac, its crew courteous and efficient as they readied their King for his journey. But, contrary to thinking she would get a chance to speak to Zaid, she was promptly installed in a sumptuous living suite with Nashwa and Aisha keeping her company, while Zaid cloistered himself with his financial advisors in a separate part of the plane.
That theme continued when they reached Paris. Only with more people thrown into the mix. The royal party had hired the whole upper floor of the hotel on Avenue Montaigne, with she and Zaid occupying two separate bedrooms in the Royal Suite. Decorated with typical Parisian glamour, the hotel nevertheless held hints of eastern exoticism that made Esme feel at home the moment she walked in, although the thought that she was beginning to think of Ja’ahr as home struck and stayed with her.
Despite the jaw-dropping elegance of their hotel, Esme felt as if she was on pins and needles as the days rolled by and every opportunity to talk to Zaid was thwarted. In her uncharitable moments, she suspected it was by design. But then she would catch a glimpse of him thro
ugh an open conference room door, see the haggard expressions of his advisors reflected a hundredfold on his face, and feel regretful. On one of those occasions his gaze caught hers as she hesitated in the doorway. Then his intense eyes dropped to her flat belly for a long moment before he resumed his conversation.
The wordless indication that she and their baby were also on his mind only doubled her guilt.
It was that emotion that stopped her from sending away the designers when they started to arrive on their sixth day in Paris. That and the undeniable fact that her period hadn’t made its prompt appearance on her due date. She’d found herself alone with Zaid for a rare minute in the living room a few hours after absorbing that reality.
He’d taken one look at her and frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I... My period didn’t come.’
The brush of knuckles on her cheek was at variance with the almost reproachful look in his eyes as he nodded. ‘I know,’ was all he said before yet another group of business-suited men walked into the room.
With the confirmation that she was well and truly impregnated fixed in her mind, Esme sat in the designated throne-like chair in her suite and watched row after row of exquisite gowns being wheeled into the room.
Apparently, His Highness had requested a full trousseau and new set of clothes for her honeymoon. For the Ja’ahrian wedding, her traditional wedding gown was being prepared in a secret location she wasn’t to be privy to.
Esme went through a cycle of frustration, anxiety and anger as she inspected the beautiful gowns. But her mind kept returning to one kernel of hope that wouldn’t disappear.
Zaid had arranged for all of this despite knowing that her past was less than exemplary. If he was prepared to take a risk for the sake of their child, was she not doing it a disservice by attempting to stand in the way of her child’s rightful inheritance?
The only thing holding her back was her secret.
She would tell him. She had to before anything irreversible happened. But in the meantime she squashed down her churning feelings and carried on choosing the clothes that were to her taste.
Nashwa and Aisha’s enthusiastic applause the moment she tried the clothes on confirmed her choices. With that out of the way, a knot of anxiety eased and Esme allowed herself to relax a little.
Zaid walked in as the stylists were transporting the clothes to her bedroom. He took one look around, then his eyes zeroed in on her.
‘You’ve chosen your trousseau.’ It wasn’t a question, but confirmation of what he’d willed her to do all along.
Her breath emerged shakily as she replied. ‘Yes.’
‘So you will marry me?’ This time it was a question, but one he knew the answer to already.
On a silent prayer, Esme swallowed. ‘Yes.’
* * *
If she’d thought the events since their arrival in Paris were hurried, the momentum once she’d given her consent was nothing short of warp speed. The morning after, Zaid presented her with a staggeringly beautiful yellow diamond set in Arabian gold. Tears were already prickling her eyes at the sheer beauty of the stone when he informed her solemnly that the ring had belonged to his mother.
The moment would have been perfect, magical even, had it not all been witnessed by his twenty-strong staff and captured on camera by a professional photographer drafted in for the sole purpose of documenting Zaid’s formal proposal. After that, a formal announcement was made in Ja’ahr.
Zaid stood in the centre of the room, his hand holding hers, surrounded by his staff as they watched a televised version of the announcement.
The rock of anxiety that sat in her belly doubled in size as the camera panned over the crowds gathered in parks and stadiums to await the news. At the replay of Zaid’s proposal, they erupted in deafening cheers.
Inside the hotel suite, his staff also applauded as Zaid leaned down and murmured in her ear, ‘I told you they would welcome you with open arms.’
Almost instantly, Esme’s popularity exploded.
But then so did the delicate trade talks Zaid had been painstakingly stitching together.
