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He couldn’t feel those things though – he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t still want her, he shouldn’t be so weak that he could crave her even after she’d stepped out of his life without a backwards glance.
She’d left him.
She’d sent divorce papers through so many channels it had made it impossible for him to locate her. She’d wanted to dissolve their marriage without so much as a face to face meeting. Without the courtesy of even a conversation.
He was tempted to have her sent away, and he knew it was the right thing to do. She could go to her apartment in the city until the funeral, and then make an appearance if she wished. A meeting with Raffa wasn’t necessary. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to see him again.
Yet she was here, now, on her way to him, and she’d be before him within an hour.
His blood pounded inside his body, and his emotions almost tore him apart. But he wouldn’t let her see that. He wouldn’t let her know that he’d spent these three months scouring the earth for her, worrying about her, needing her. He wouldn’t let her see that she’d left him and he’d crumbled apart inside.
No one should have that kind of power over a king!
He straightened his spine and poured all the strength he’d once laid claim to into his bones. His expression bore a mask of cool impatience.
“Bring her to me as soon as the car pulls up.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was only fifteen minutes later when a knock sounded outside his office door. Raffa froze, sliding his hostility firmly into position as one might a shield, before turning around. “Come.”
The door pushed inwards, and two servants strode in.
He barely saw them. All of him, every cell of his body, every fibre of his being, was focused on the woman behind them.
God, Chloe.
His body, his traitorous body, wanted to push the servants aside and draw her into his arms. To kiss some sense into her, to remind her of what they’d shared.
He didn’t. He glared at her, and in that glare he poured every single moment of worry, every single hour of regret, every single hurt and betrayal, so that Chloe blanched physically, her face pale, her eyes unable to meet his.
During the first month of her absence, he’d missed her. He’d looked for her because he needed to see her, because he’d been worried. He’d been motivated by compassion, care, disbelief. The second month, it had morphed into impatience and disbelief. Where was she? How could she have disappeared into thin air? And why had she wanted to? The third month had been a reflection of his darkening soul. Her absence had soured him, and he no longer looked for her because he wanted to see her – he looked for her because he needed her to know what she’d done to him.
But now, he saw what he’d done to her and the world shifted beneath his feet, leaving a flash of uncertainty where righteous indignation should have stood.
Hell, she’d changed so much. She was physically altered in the way he felt internally different. Her skin was fair, after months without the kisses of the Ras el Kidan heat, and her hair hung loose about her face, unstyled, uncared for. But beyond that, she was…
Hurting.
He saw it because it was exactly as he felt! He recognized the pain in her features, the stretching of skin over worry and doubt. And for a second he felt hope, and gladness, but then he realized: she was grieving Malik. Of course she was. It was the only event that might have pulled her from the woodwork.
And once the funeral was over, she would disappear once more.
And he’d let her – because she wanted to go, and he wasn’t going to imprison her against her will. Hell, their whole marriage had obviously been so exactly the opposite of what she’d wanted. His gut rolled; anguished recriminations danced on the periphery of his mind but he wouldn’t speak them.
The time of speaking was passed – this was closure. An end. That was all.
“Leave us.”
The servants straightened and walked in a line through the door, pulling it softly behind them, the click of the lock quiet but vital in a way that resonated around the room.
“So,” he drawled, taking a step towards her, studying the way her expression shifted, the way she tried – and failed – to hide behind that icy mask she always had to hand. “You came back.”
“Is it true?” She whispered, swallowing, so that the fragile column of her neck shifted visibly beneath his scrutiny. “Is he…”
“Is my father dead?” Raffa asked, only the fact the death had, in fact, happened a week earlier, allowing him to speak the words without sounding at all effected. “Yes.”
Chloe’s eyes swept shut and now, to his surprise, she began to sob. Big, racking sounds that filled his office. “I’m so, I’m so, sorry,” she stammered, spinning away from him, walking towards a chair and sinking down into it. “I knew he was sick but I thought… I still wasn’t ready …”
