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CHAPTER FOUR
‘OH, GOD, NO.’ She stared at the pregnancy test with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, her worst nightmares confirmed. Six weeks after rushing from the penthouse apartment she’d shared with Khalil, India finally had an explanation for all the strange symptoms she’d been experiencing. The exhaustion, nausea, sore back and rioting emotions had been easy to explain on their own, but her skipped menstrual cycle was the final straw. It was only when writing overdue bills in her calendar that suspicion had formed.
It couldn’t be true. Surely fate wouldn’t be so desperately miserable as to throw this complication into her already careening out of control life? She looked around the home desperately, as the future seemed to twist away from her completely.
‘Pregnant?’ She groaned, shaking her head and laughing at the same time—this couldn’t be true!
The realisation hit her that she was alone. No, she corrected herself. She’d have Jackson, and, even though their finances were in a parlous state, somehow, she’d cope. Her parents would expect that of her, and for them, she’d do this.
On autopilot, she strode into the kitchen and opened the top drawer, where she’d stashed the envelope, the morning after returning from Khalil’s hotel room. He must have put it in her bag while she slept; she hadn’t discovered it until she’d returned home. She’d been too numb to do more than reach for her bus pass at first, but then, she’d needed her keys and that had required a more detailed rifle through her bag. It was only then that she’d identified the envelope with thick black lettering on the front.
You earned this.
Her heart had thudded to a stop as she’d opened the envelope to discover a cheque—grey in colour with gold lettering and the intricate emblem of the Khatrain royal family. The cheque was made out to her, for an absurd amount, more than she earned in a month—or had earned, before losing her job.
‘This is a reputable agency, India. I will not have the name of this business dragged into disrepute by young women who are looking for an extra way to earn income. You will no longer be listed on our books. There are several other...businesses...that deal in the kind of work you do.’
She had been mortified and offended, and then terrified. Keeping her younger brother Jackson at college was all her responsibility, and on top of attempting to maintain her parents’ mortgage, so that she didn’t lose their family home, India already struggled to make ends meet. Without the booking fees from Warm Engagements, she had no hope.
Why hadn’t she cashed the cheque sooner? Because she hadn’t earned it. And to cash it would be some sort of tacit acceptance of his accusations. Now, though, the cheque took on a new meaning, as she imagined all of the expenses involved in carrying out a pregnancy and then delivering a baby. Courtesy of her mother’s cancer treatments, India was no stranger to hospitals and what they charged—there were some bills still outstanding. There were also the baby’s needs once it was born. She could thrift shop a lot of things, but certain items would have to be purchased new, and there would be a period of time when she was unable to work altogether. What would she do for childcare? There was no one who could help her.
How was she going to do this, and all on her own?
But she had to. For the sake of their baby, she had to find a way to manage. And the cheque Khalil had written was a good place to start. To hell with her pride; there was a baby to consider.
Khalil had truly hoped she wouldn’t cash the damned thing. He didn’t realise how much he’d needed that assurance until his bank in New York called to advise him that the cheque had been brought in that morning. It was all the confirmation he needed—not that it had been necessary. A cursory investigation by his security team had shown that she was a popular employee of the agency, going on multiple dates a week. They’d been unable to confirm her assertion about meeting men at the events, however society photographs had captured more than enough images of India being held tight by her dates, the intimate nature of the pictures making it impossible to believe that things were as innocent as she claimed.
Why had she waited six weeks to cash the cheque? It was a question that barely mattered. She’d lived up to what he’d thought of her, it was time to stop remembering the night they’d shared. It had been the worst mistake of his life; he could only be grateful his father had been spared the mortification of tabloid speculation about it. Their kiss had not gone public.
It was not appropriate that he continued to think of her, that she played such a part in his fantasies night after night. Somehow, her betrayal stung almost as much as Fatima’s. When he looked back, there was a part of him that had, on some level, always known Fatima for what she was: mercenary and opportunistic. He’d fallen in love with her quick wit and fun-loving attitude, but there had been something in her eyes that had been appraising, always, something that had held parts of him back from her as well. But with India, he’d been completely fooled, her innocent act so easy to buy into.
He scraped back his chair, pacing towards the windows that overlooked the capital city of Takistan and, in the distance, the Persian Gulf—which, today, sparkled as though a net of diamonds had been cast over its surface.
At twenty-nine years of age, he knew he could delay no longer: his country required him to marry before his thirtieth birthday, when he would become King of Khatrain. It was necessary to choose a suitable bride—he could no longer think about India. She didn’t deserve it.
Only his mind was not obeying him today, and India continued to flash before his eyes, as she’d been in the car on the way back to his suite. She was an excellent actress, he’d give her that. His lips twisted in a mocking smile as he reached for his phone.
‘Have my horse readied. I intend to ride west.’ He gripped the receiver more tightly. ‘I do not know,’ he responded to the question of, ‘for how long?’ and then disconnected the call. The desert was an essential part of his soul, and it was there that he could clear his mind of the American call girl—an obvious mistake—once and for all.
‘He is still unavailable, madam.’ India stood like a flamingo in the kitchen, one foot propped against her opposite knee, her hand resting on the bench to her left. The other pressed to her still-flat stomach as she tilted her head to catch the phone between her ear and shoulder. It was a warm day and pregnancy hormones—in full flight despite the fact she was only eight weeks along—were making her tired, nauseous, anxious and cranky. She had been attempting to contact Khalil for over a week, ever since she’d decided he deserved the courtesy of the information at least.
Only contacting a royal was no mean feat.
‘Well, when will he be available?’ she snapped, although it wasn’t this low-level staff member’s fault that Khalil had disappeared into thin air.
‘I cannot say, madam. My apologies.’ The line went dead.
India made a deranged laughing sound as she placed her cell phone on the bench. Was he dodging her calls? Or truly unavailable? She suspected the former, and it made her furious to think that he wouldn’t even give her the courtesy of a conversation after that night. But then, she’d seen his anger when he’d accused her of being a prostitute. She’d left his hotel with no question in her mind that he hated her—and truly wished to never see her again.
‘Well, tough,’ she said softly, patting her stomach. ‘I know what it’s like to be abandoned by your dad and I’m not going to let that happen to you, little one. At least, not without a fight.’
She knew a little about Khatrain—bits and pieces garnered through her life, and studies—but most of her knowledge related to their economy. It was dry, black-and-white information about their oil industry and burgeoning tech sector with their headquarters in the then fledgling city of Takistan. Only Takistan was now a stunning metropolis, a sprawling construction of steel and glass that burst from the earth. The dusk sky gave it a perfect backdrop, the gradient colours spreading from purple to gold and orange highlighting the twinkling lights of the monoliths in the foreground. She craned her neck to see the city better, admiring not just its modernity but also its proximity to the ocean, which curved around it like a ribbon, and had been diverted, at some point, to create several canals that ran as veins between the buildings.
‘Beautiful,’ she said with a shake of her head, earning an approving nod from the man beside her. Their elbows had been engaged in a silent battle for the duration of the flight, the too-small seats and narrow armrest far from ideal for the number of hours she’d had to spend cramped between her neighbour and the portal window. But it had all been worth it to secure this exceptional vantage point of the city as they descended.
The plane was climate-controlled. It was only once the doors were opened that a rush of hot air blasted into the cabin and India had to brace herself against the seat in front. Nausea rose in her chest. She grabbed a mint from her purse and sucked on it—this was the only thing she’d been able to discover that helped with the waves of sickness that assaulted her occasionally.
Their aircraft had been towed to a distant terminal—the budget airlines’ designated space—and there was no air-conditioned aerobridge leading inside. Instead, there were stairs, wheeled to the doors of the plane, and a large, sweeping route around another aeroplane before they were ushered through security doors and passport control.
