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She had breakfast, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the feelings welling inside of her, but they were no clearer by the time her plate was empty.
She knew only that she wanted to go away again, to return to the city, to somewhere she was comfortable, where she could be without risk of seeing her husband. No, without him seeing her.
She couldn’t face him.
“Aysha?” She called, standing and wiping her hands on a napkin simultaneously.
“Good morning, your highness,” Aysha smiled as she entered.
Chloe found it hard to meet even Aysha’s eyes. “Aysha.” She moved towards her desk. “I need a letter delivered to my husband.”
“No need,” Aysha interrupted. “His security detail just informed me that he’s on his way here. Now. He asked for a meeting with you.”
“No!” Chloe’s eyes were huge. “I mean, not now. I can’t see him.” She swallowed, and turned away from Aysha, moving towards the balcony. “Please tell him I’m not well.”
She didn’t turn around to see Aysha’s reaction, but despite that, Chloe thought better of her approach. “No. Give him a letter after all. That’s better.”
She crossed to her desk again, dipping her head down as she wro
te.
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hating the wave of over-sentimental emotions that were buffering her system. She’d never been like this before. She bent her head forward and continued to write, not seeing the way Aysha watched with obvious sympathy. What else could Chloe say? She was sorry. Sorry, angry, upset. With a noise of frustration she tore up the piece of paper.
She wasn’t a coward.
And it wasn’t her fault.
Pull yourself together, Chloe! She’d tell him herself, and then she’d go far away to lick her wounds.
“Never mind, Aysha. I’ll speak to my husband when he arrives.”
Her servant nodded and left the room, so Chloe was alone once more. She paced to the windows, and stared out at the desert. A warm breeze came in across the space, fragranced with the heavy spices that were available to buy from the markets in the nearby town. It lifted her hair and distractedly she looped it over one shoulder, her mind running over the fact she hadn’t fallen pregnant.
What if something was wrong?
What if this wasn’t going to happen?
It was too early to worry. She knew this to be the case. Every pregnancy magazine would confirm that. But this wasn’t a normal situation! They needed this heir, and they had a ticking time bomb with Malik being so ill. The transition to Raffa being sole ruler of Ras el Kida would run so much more smoothly if he had a child – even the promise of one – to offer his people. To show that the future was every bit as bright as the past had been.
Unless… she closed her eyes and saw another royal heir. Amit.
What if she could convince her husband to recognize him as his heir?
He was Raffa’s son, and he was intelligent, kind, instantly physically recognizable as a descendant of the throne.
It was like a weight being lifted off Chloe’s shoulders. She wanted a child, she wanted to carry the royal heir, but if she couldn’t, if her body wouldn’t comply, there were other options. She could help Raffa see that; she could make her understand that Amit would be an excellent Sheikh one day.
The door to her suite opened and Raffa entered. She turned to face him, slowly, and her heart, her foolish heart, lurched to see him dressed in formal robes. Gold and black, they emphasized the caramel glow of his skin and the darkly handsome planes of his face.
He crossed to her, his eyes scanning her face. “You are unwell?”
“No,” she shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m…”
“Yes?” He waited, but Chloe found she couldn’t answer him. She didn’t know what to say after all. Absurd! She was furious with herself for being so sensitive.
“It doesn’t matter.” She turned away from him, looking towards the window. “Did you need something?”
He was quiet for so long that she shifted her gaze back to his face. “Raffa?”
