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‘How can I? I have Romeo. But, more than that, loving Ethan taught me a lot. It’s like your experience with Fatima—you went through hell with her, but it made you all the more equipped to recognise true love when you found it.’
He looked away, his throat feeling thick and textured, as though he had razor blades stuck there.
‘Love is a huge leap of faith, Khal. It never comes with a guarantee, you know. But look—how beautiful and serene your bride looks.’
His head whipped around, his eyes pinpointing India immediately as she entered the room. Astrid was right; she was beautiful, but he knew the woman in question better and he saw much that Astrid had missed.
India was strained. Tired. Exhausted. Stressed. Scared. Terrified. She also looked completely and utterly...alone.
It was wrong for India to be walking down the aisle like this. Someone should have her arm. Her brother should be here.
It would feel like lying to him.
It’s not real.
His heart slammed into his ribs and he stepped forward, instincts stirring to supersede anything else. Everything about this was wrong...
‘Excuse me a moment.’ He was conscious of his parents’ attention on him as he strode down the aisle, aware when his father stood, but Khalil didn’t stop. He walked quickly towards India as though she were her own gravitational pull, and he powerless to resist it.
India’s stomach was in knots. Her panic attack had receded, but she was still light-headed and uncertain, the enormity of what she was about to do cascading through her like a tsunami. It wasn’t helped by Khalil’s approach. Was this some custom she hadn’t heard of? Was the groom supposed to meet her?
His eyes seemed to lance hers and the intensity in their depths had her steps faltering.
‘Is something the matter?’ she whispered, when he was right in front of her.
‘Yes.’ He reached out, touched her hands lightly then immediately withdrew again, angling his face away, his gaze deliberately averted, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. Was the idea of this marriage so terrible to him?
‘We need to speak.’
Her heart tripped into her throat. Only minutes ago she’d balked at the idea of marrying him, but now that she stood on the cliff-face of not doing so, she was awash with remorse. It took the spectre of losing him—this—to know without a doubt what she really wanted, regardless of the pain she knew would follow. Some pain was worth enduring.
But what if that wasn’t the case for him? What if nothing about this marriage made it worthwhile after all? It was patently obvious that he was having doubts.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
His father’s voice was booming, a noise that resonated through the room. Khalil reached for her hand now, interlacing their fingers.
India closed her eyes as something like a sense of completion wove through her.
Guard against it. It’s not real. Nothing about this is real. He doesn’t love you.
‘A moment.’ Khal responded in the same voice, terser though, as though tension were overtaking him.
‘Come with me.’ He drew her with him, through a row of seats towards a door at the side of the room, carved from dark, heavy wood. He pushed on it and it creaked a little as it opened to reveal a room that was smaller in size, but no less sumptuous. This had a large red carpet square in the centre, and the furnishings around the room were gold. There was only one window, but it was large and pushed out from the walls, creating a seating area with a view of the rose garden.
He dropped her hand as soon as they entered, then swept deeper into the centre, his back to her, hands on hips. Her heart dropped into her toes. It was clear that whatever he wanted to discuss was negative.
‘Khalil,’ she murmured, her voice throaty. ‘Why don’t you just say it?’
He was silent, but slowly, oh so slowly, he pivoted, his eyes unreadable as they locked to hers.
‘I mean it. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever it is, just say it. I’d rather hear the truth than stand here not knowing.’ But she did know. She could see the intent in his expression and was simply waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall.
His eyes narrowed, his expression carefully muted of feeling. ‘This wedding is a mistake. We cannot marry.’
She’d feared this was coming, but hearing the words shattered a part of her. ‘Because I love you?’
‘Because you’re miserable,’ he responded, dragging a hand through his hair. ‘Because despite my best intentions I will never be able to make you happy—and I promised that I would try. But I can’t. You love me, and I can’t give you that. There is no happy ending here for you. You’re already miserable—marrying me is only going to make you feel a thousand times worse. We can’t do it.’
