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because of love and affection.
And maybe that was true.
Maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter – because either way, Chloe’s marriage existed to stop a potential war. And their baby would cement that.
What had she thought? That there was no one else in Raffa’s life? No other bridal contender? How foolish. Of course there had been. Of course there had been many!
He had a child, for goodness sake.
It wasn’t that which hurt her.
It was the purely mercenary justification for their marriage. It was the certainty that he hadn’t married her for his father, for love of anyone; it had been love of his country, just as he’d said.
And was that so bad?
A week later, there was an official function at the palace, the kind of event Chloe had used to avoid like the plague, unless formally summoned by her husband. There had been no need for Raffa to summons her on this occasion.
He’d sent word from his staff to hers that she’d be expected in the ballroom by nine o’clock, and an hour later, a dress had arrived along with a seamstress, who made` sure it fitted perfectly.
It was the kind of attention to detail he’d never demonstrated before, but now that she was in the palace, Chloe supposed, such considerations were part of the package.
She was a queen.
It was only when the dress was zipped in place, and a crown of glorious, sparkling gems placed on top of blonde hair that had been styled in loose waves around her face, that Chloe accepted she’d been running from this fate the whole time.
She’d married Raffa but she hadn’t really wanted to be his wife. She had married him without truly picking up the mantle of what that meant.
Well, no longer.
She straightened her spine, staring back at her reflection. The dress was sensational – a dark green that hugged her torso and then fell into a wide, full skirt, with beading at the very bottom of it, that swished when she walked. She looked every bit the Queen of Ras el Kida and tonight, she would show that to the world.
It was an imperceptible shift, and yet, when Chloe approached the ballroom, she felt it. She felt power course through her, and as the doors were pushed open to admit her, a hush fell.
The room was full of dignitaries, but her eyes landed immediately on her husband, the Sheikh. He was taller than most, broader, larger than life, with his hair scraped into a bun, his ruggedly autocratic face terse as he spoke to three men she didn’t recognize. But at her arrival, the room’s silence, he turned towards the doors. Their eyes locked and the air around them supercharged with a jolt of electricity.
It was just him and her and they could have been anywhere. Here, or in her bed, or under the stars in the desert. Time stood still, or perhaps it accelerated; Chloe couldn’t have said.
He broke away from his group and strode towards her, and slowly, speaking began once more, filling the room, but not Chloe’s ears. She was in a void of time and space, waiting.
She had only seconds before he arrived to rally her defenses, to remind herself that they weren’t living a fairytale, no matter how it might seem to onlookers.
“This is a beautiful dress,” he growled, dipping his head forward, so only she could hear the words. “But I look forward to removing it later.”
Her heart skipped a thousand beats.
“Your highness,” she bowed a little, her eyes holding his, her smile droll.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, more stately, but with a burning look of passion drowning out the civility of his words.
“I was asked,” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t think not arriving was an option.”
“You don’t want to be here?” He prompted, shooting her a sidelong glance.
“On the contrary,” she sucked in a breath. “I’m your wife. I should be here.”
His nod of approval showed that this echoed his own thoughts.
“Have you seen Malik today?” She asked as they moved deeper into the room. She’d been to enough of these events to know that she wouldn’t be alone with her husband for long. A tide was already surging towards him.
