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‘You think you’re so forgettable? You’re the only princess I’ve ever slept with.’
I don’t know what I want him to say; not that. ‘Still just another woman in a long line of women.’
‘And that bothers you?’
I feel trapped, and I don’t even know why. I’m not sure why I brought this up, nor why I sound as though he’s betrayed me in some way. We both knew what this was. And we both know why our relationship can never go beyond this. I have expectations on me, expectations I’ve carried all my life—how I’ll live my life, who I’ll spend it with. Marriage to a prince, children...sensible, traditional. A casual fling with a man like this would be a disgrace; my parents raised me to respect my duties, to honour the requirements of my role. This is way outside of that. But it’s okay, because it’s temporary, and no one will ever find out. That’s the way it has to be.
So why does it feel like I want more from him? Some kind of pledge that I mean something, when I know I don’t...
‘I have never lied to you about my past,’ he says quietly, pressing a finger to my chin, angling my face to his. Until that moment, I hadn’t realised I’d been avoiding his eyes.
‘I know that.’ I brush aside his comment.
‘Sex is a wonderful experience to share with someone.’ His voice caresses me as his words turn my heart to ice. ‘I’ve enjoyed sharing it with you. I will always feel honoured to have been your first.’
But not my last. The words he hasn’t spoken hammer through me, and I feel physically ill. Out of nowhere, a desperate sense of nausea assails me. The idea of another man ever making love to me makes my heart twist painfully.
‘And, after I’m gone, I’ll see photos of you in the press, with all the women you share this experience with.’ Despite my best intentions, the words are hollowed out. Bitterness is recognisable in the clipped remark.
‘And I will see photos of your wedding,’ he reminds me, but it’s simply a res
ponse rather than a complaint. His words are robbed of emotion, flat, spoken with the calm delivery of someone simply making a point.
‘Yes, my wedding,’ I murmur throatily, trying to remind myself of the importance of my engagement, the wedding my parents planned for something I’ve always accepted as a necessity. ‘I wonder if I’ll feel differently about Heydar now.’
Santiago’s eyes narrow, his lips tight as he waits for me to elaborate.
‘I’ve never felt anything for him before, but maybe that’s because I had no experience with men. Perhaps it will be different now that I understand things more. Maybe.’
I truly wonder if this is the case, but even as I say the words I’m aware I’m seeking to provoke a reaction from Santiago. I want to make him jealous because I am jealous. I’m jealous of him and his freedom, and I’m jealous as hell of the women who’ll come after me. The women who will get to kiss him and make love to him and feel like the centre of his universe. I want to freeze time and hold on to this moment, never letting the world intrude, pushing reality away for ever more.
‘You will find out when you are married. I hope the gamble pays off.’
I lift my shoulder in a slight shrug. ‘I’ll find out tonight, actually.’
His face remains the same, but his eyes darken, and they bore into me with the intensity of a jet engine.
‘At the state dinner,’ I explain. ‘Heydar’s on the guest list.’
‘I see.’
I can’t discern jealousy. It’s clear that he doesn’t like the idea but, at the same time, it might just be the whole concept of an arranged marriage he’s opposed to. I don’t know. Frustration gnaws through me.
‘And so your hope is that, now you are sexually awakened, you’ll desire this man you’ve agreed to marry?’
‘I didn’t agree.’
His smirk is mocking. ‘You intend to go through with it, do you not?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Then you have agreed.’
‘I just haven’t gone against my parents’ wishes,’ I say. ‘It’s a nuanced difference.’
His response is curt, the words whipping the edges of the room. ‘That results in the same thing.’
‘Yes.’
