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He held up a hand perhaps in an attempt to appease her temper. It wasn’t apology, that much was certain. Zafar al Habib didn’t apologise. “I know what your upbringing was like, Amelia. I remember your stories perfectly. I know how you would want to avoid raising a child in poverty, as you were raised.”
“Believe me, if there was a way to avoid having anything to do with you, I would take that course of action. But you’re the father of my baby. You deserved to know.”
“So now you’re taking the high ground? Don’t forget, Amelia, I discovered this by chance.”
“All the more reason to believe it’s true. I could easily have passed this baby off as Arthur’s just now, to buy for time, and I’m ashamed to admit, that occurred to me. But I didn’t – couldn’t – do that. I’m being honest with you, which is more courtesy than you’ve ever shown me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking away, but not before she caught the dark look in his eyes, eyes that drew downwards to the roundedness of her belly displayed by the gesture.
“Is Farrah aware of this?”
Guilt tightened Millie’s gut. “She’s been so busy with the wedding. And telling her would have raised questions I wasn’t prepared to answer – not until I’d spoken to you, anyway.”
His eyes closed, his features like an iron-mask.
“I know a baby is the last thing you want,” she said quietly, forcing herself to push the words out there. And even though she knew she was right, she still held her breath, hoping he’d contradict her, hoping he might say that he’d changed his mind. She didn’t want her child to know what it felt like to be unwanted. She didn’t want her child to know the pain of desertion. Instead, he dipped his head forward in a silent, unspoken concession.
“Neither of us planned this,” she continued valiantly, her voice wobbling a little. “But I’m not sorry,” she finished, her hand curving over her belly protectively, with love, regret in her heart that her baby needed to hear any of this conversation. “Despite the fact this situation isn’t ideal, I love our baby. I’ll always love them – enough for both of us. You don’t have to acknowledge him or her. I know how impossible that would be for you, and I don’t mind.” It took all her courage to say that, because the truth was, she’d mind a lot. She’d hate it, she’d rail against it internally, for the sake of their child, but she knew she couldn’t force Zafar to love their child, nor to want it in his life. And if he didn’t choose to love their baby, then he was better to be absent completely. She wouldn’t have her child growing up with a sense of rejection. “While I’m scared about becoming a single mother, I know I can do this, Zafar. You don’t need to worry about us.”
He stared down at her, through her, and for some reason, she shivered, as though ice were being poured into her veins. “This is not the place for this conversation,” he said, after a long pause.
She looked around, observing the fact they were completely alone. “Why not?”
“Because —,” he hissed, clearly incensed at being challenged so frequently. “I have no intention of discussing my child’s future beside the pool. Come to my office tomorrow morning. After breakfast.”
She shivered at his tone – so regal and powerful. My child. So possessive. “That sounded an awful lot like a command,” she ground out.
“Make no mistake about it, Amelia. It is precisely that.”
A shiver ran the length of her spine. “I don’t much care for your commands.”
His smile was a quick flex of his lips, nothing more. “Then it is a pity you are here, in my Kingdom, where every word I say is regarded as such.”
She’d never felt afraid of Zafar’s position before. The summer they’d spent together, it had been almost impossible to remember, at times, that he was to inherit the throne of this powerful nation: the first-born son of the great Sheikh Mohamed al Habib. Oh, power ran through his veins like blood did mere mortals’, but with Millie, he’d been relaxed and relatable. He’d been…human. And she’d loved him. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, contrasting that figure with this man. She was afraid now. Not of Zafar, necessarily, but of the power he wielded, the command he could exercise, if he so chose.
“Is that a threat?”
His jaw tightened, his eyes sparking with hers. “Do I need to threaten you, Millie?” The question hung between them, the air rank with tension. He lifted a hand and pummelled the back of his neck, expelling a long breath. “I’m asking for a conversation about our situation. Is that so unreasonable?”
Her stomach squeezed. He was right; the panic of discovery was making her lash out. Of course he had questions; of course there were things they should discuss, like custody arrangements and the manner of their child’s future. “No,” she said after a beat, her voice wobbling only a little. “It’s perfectly reasonable. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
He rodeout hard and fast, the powerful beast beneath him a thrilling reminder of life, of strength, a symbol of freedom. Leaning low to the stallion’s neck, muttering into the horse’s ear, Zafar’s eyes focussed on the distant horizon. The sky was purple, just beginning to lighten with dawn’s newness, and heat was all around him. He relished it, relished the sand kicking up beneath him, his ability to feel completely at one with this landscape when he was free and wild upon it.
I’m pregnant, with your baby.
Anger thundered through him. How could this have happened? Had she lied to him about being on contraceptives? He dismissed the thought instantly. Despite the accusations he’d levelled at Amelia hours earlier, she was not a liar. There wasn’t a dishonest bone in her body. She’d said she was on the pill, and so she must have been. And what of her claim that Zafar was the father?
He’d watched her dancing with that British man at the reception. He’d seen their obvious comfort with one another, her ready smile in response to the man’s jokes. He’d observed the way Gareth had so comfortably placed an arm around her shoulders, her waist, a hand over hers while relaying some story or other, so despite the passage of time since they were anything close to a couple, Zafar had wanted to storm through the room and rip them apart, before summarily having Gareth thrown from the kingdom.
It had surprised him, the depths of his possessive heat, an animalistic desire to claim Amelia right there in front of everyone present almost overtaking him. When she’d left the reception, Zafar had been glad, because that temptation had been removed. Nonetheless, the vision of them dancing remained. Was he really so wrong to question the paternity? After all, so much was affected by this, namely the promise Zafar had made, that it would be Aziz’s children who inherited the throne, and not his own. The betrayal of this predicament settled on his shoulders like a tonne of cement, weighing him down, so not even his beloved desert could liberate him now.
But there was also the pain of rejection, the knowledge of abandonment, both of which were embedded deep in his soul. How often had he lain in bed at night and wondered how he could wipe out the damage his birth had wrought? He’d contemplated abdication, anything, whatever it would take to return things to rights. All his life he’d walked alongside a terrible guilt – and the burden that came out of that to earn the place he’d been bestowed. His own child would never know those worries. Amelia was pregnant and regardless of what Zafar wished, he couldn’t abandon her.
* * *
“Have a seat.”He gestured to the stunning armchair by the window, but Millie was frozen to the spot, her eyes trailing the details of this ‘office’. She’d never been in here before, and whenever Zafar had mentioned an ‘office’, she’d conjured images of something familiar to such a name. A small-ish space with a computer desk and a leather chair, a bookcase perhaps. Nothing like this. The room she stood in was at least twice the size of her one-bedroom Brixton flat, with vaulted ceilings, arched windows that framed a view of a stunning, verdant lawn with palm trees forming rows towards the desert. The walls were decorated with ancient tapestries, and marble pillars stood around Zafar’s height, each adorned with an abundant arrangement of native flowers, spiky and floral, so when she breathed in, she inhaled the very essence of this desert land. The floor was marble, glossy white without a single flaw, and the furnishings looked to be hundreds of years old, moorish influenced with detailed carving and sumptuous cushions. The only concession to this being a work space was on the desk, where a laptop and phone were sitting beside a pile of papers which bore the golden seal of the Abu Qara royal family.
She moved towards the armchair on legs that were uncooperative, somehow divorced from her body, but when she reached it, she didn’t sit. It was a small point, but Millie felt that she wanted to have more strength than would come from occupying a chair.
