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Gina Whitson had indeed carried on a relationship for over half a decade with her husband’s rival, Dr. Charles Everhart. Dr. Jonah Whitson had been adamant that the diary was false, a figment of the mad scientist's imagination—which went hand in hand with Everhart hiring an assassin to murder Whitson.
Nevertheless, the truth was far more sinister. Gina Whitson had suffered a life crisis after being raped, seeking solace with Charles, as Luxury’s father was emotionally unavailable.
Or rather, the bloke was ramming his prick in every other cunt.
“Paul,” I clear my throat, “whatwas your last assignment? Have you foundher?”
“Monica brought in more assistance. Our team’s searching every square inch of the Arabian desert,” Paul articulates with less enthusiasm. “You’d think they all lived in some sort of underground—”
“Myteam. Not yours!” I pause for a moment to glare at my watch. I have a meeting in ten minutes with Dayuna and Janae, two young prostitutes, who will assist me with searching for Luxury. For a price, they’ll assume the dangers of searching areas of Al Rafi’s inner circle that are virtually untouchable. Because time is of the essence, I growl, “Paul, I suppose a better question would be . . . do you fucking fancy breathing?” My tone flattens.
He sucks in air. “All five members of the group are accessing aerial views in a hundred-mile radius of Saudi Arabia, Victor. We’re doing everything humanly possible to find Ms. Whitson.”
“We? Or do you mean your mates?” I ask, veins long ago boiled over.
“My apologies. I assumed you’d still want me to continue with the Whitson murder. I was warm on the killer's trail when this incident—”
Paul’s words sail through the air, as does my iPhone, before crashing into a ceramic vase.
A bloody incident?
No, a fucking catastrophe.
9
Luxury
Whispers of Al Rafi’s return ooze through the common kitchen area. I expect more confrontation from Wasim as she and her posse stroll past in fine garments.
“Did she forget the fuss she made?” I murmur out loud.
My own lady-in-waiting sniggers softly. “No. During his absence, she’s taken two, what you’d call prostitutes, in.”
The other one gasps on the other side of me. “My lady, if you’d like to secure favor with Sheikh Al Rafi, tell him that hidden in Wasim’s apartments are the infamousJanaeand...oh...the other woman’s name slips my mind. My apologies.”
I imagine how I could leverage the information.If Al Rafi’s a jealous man, will that send him into Wasim’s arms?Could this information save me? I’ve not been taken by force thus far and would like to keep it that way, yet I’m uncertain.
Another woman bows before me. I can’t tell if she’s another wife or servant as they’re all beautiful and most are respectful.
“Al Rafi requires your attendance at once,” she murmurs.
Blood thrums in my ears as I’m led like a lamb out of the opulent dining hall. When I come to, my servants guide me into my own apartment.
Does the sheikh have a room where he takes his women for the first time?
No, dummy, you were almost raped here the first night.
As the doors whisk open, my eyes crash into Al Rafi’s. His eyes teem with lust. Sitting in a sunken chair, guards surround him.
I search their faces for Ahmad, and my shoulders instantly fall.
“Ah, there she is.” The sheikh apparently has some sort of memory loss. He smiles affectionately. “Everyone, leave us!”
To my left and right, the men and women flood out of the room. I almost reach out to graze someone, anyone, to stop their retreat.
“Kneel.”
You’ll have to kill me.
