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A whole month.
And I have thought of him, craved him, longed for him, the entire time. In the days I’ve wanted his counsel. I’ve wanted him to make sense of my father’s actions. I’ve wanted him to fix it, somehow. To make me feel okay but the fact is, my dad is a traitor. I haven’t spoken to dad since he told me the truth. I can’t. When I think what he was involved in, my blood turns to ice. The idea of anyone hurting Zahir, of anyone taking him from his position as ruler of Qabid – a role he performs with such ease and skill – I want to crumble.
I want Zahir to make it all disappear, but he can’t. He’s powerful, but he’s not magical.
Ours is an impossible relationship, my love for him something I must hold close to my heart and try to conceal. Nothing good can come from wanting more from him. All this time I thought we were fated to be together, but now I see: we are fated to be apart, enemies, whatever we might feel tarred by generations of ill will. Their decisions have demanded our actions.
He dips his head as I draw near in a gesture of respect, but doesn’t reach for me and I’m glad. I’d expected some kind of embrace, a kiss on the cheek, a gesture of welcome not out of place with friends or business acquaintances, but if he’d touched me, even lightly, I think I would have melted.
“Zahir,” I murmur, pleased my voice emerges cool.
“Amy. Thank you for coming.”
My heart is pounding, it feels as though it’s travelled to my throat and is acting as an anvil there, hammering against me from the inside out. I dig my nails into my palms, trying to stay calm.
“Of course.”
His eyes bore into mine. Desire, awareness, love, lust, need, heat, pain all lash me. I offer him a tight smile.
“Well, shall we do this?”
For a second he looks poised to contradict me and I hold my breath, but then he gestures towards two enormous golden doors across the room.
“The dinner is through here.”
I nod, understanding why I was brought here instead of directly to the state room. So that we could arrive together. An illusion, to fool people into thinking we’re a committed, married couple.
At the door, he lifts a hand, and I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind me. A servant appears holding a silver tray, and on it a piece of pale blue fabric is folded neatly. Zahir lifts it from the tray, staring at it for several seconds before lifting his eyes to mine.
“Will you wear this?” He pauses. “It’s appropriate for the occasion.”
“Then of course I will. I told you, I’ll do whatever you need from me. I’m your wife.”
The words ring with bitterness. I look away, unable to meet his gaze anymore.
“What is it?” I ask, as he unfolds the fabric.
“A military sash. It was my mother’s.”
Pain cuts through me. I stand silent and still as he slips it over my head, careful not to dislodge the style or the crown, draping the sash across one shoulder and letting it land on my hip. His touch is light and impersonal, but that doesn’t matter. It’s enough to send scatters of awareness through my body, supercharging my blood.
He steps back, staring at me, his eyes moving from the crown on my head to the necklace at my throat, to the sash, and lower, to the golden tip of my shoes, before returning to my eyes. I’m breathless and dizzy from the inspection.
“Well?”
His smile is curt. “You look like my Emira.” He lifts his arm, a question inherent in the gesture. I stare at him, skittled by this. I have to touch him. Of course I do. We’re a married couple and the attendees of this dinner will expect us to behave like one. Tentatively, as though I’ve never touched him before in my life, I lift my hand, slowly inching towards him until my hand is over his. His eyes meet mine and I feel an arc of electricity pass between us, setting me on fire.
“Let’s get this over with.”
The same man who brought the sash moves to the doors, knocking on them three times, loudly. A moment later, they’re drawn inwards, and a room is revealed that is more grandiose than any I could have imagined. Golden walls filled with life sized paintings that must be centuries old, two long tables down the centre each dressed in white cloths and filled with tabletop chandeliers and elegant floral arrangements, fine china and crystal glasses. There must be at least a hundred people assembled, all dressed in the most elegant, formal clothes, all looking at us.
This is what he brought me here for.
Flashes go off, our photos are taken. I paste a smile to my face, hoping that the lens doesn’t capture the sadness of my heart.
Naturally we sit beside one another, at the head of the room, but we are not alone. The Prime Minister of a neighbouring country sits to Zahir’s other side and the prime minister’s wife to mine, so I can plausibly ignore my husband for much of the night by engaging her in conversation. Fortunately, she is easy to talk to and clearly thrilled with my attention. I can’t entirely ignore Zahir though. I am conscious of him at all times. I hear his voice as he speaks to the Prime Minister, and I listen to the tones, if not the words, allowing them to reach inside of me and placate something that has been broken by our time apart. Beneath the table, when he shifts, his leg occasionally brushes mine, jolting me out of my own conversation, rushing me with an awareness that is purely sensual, and absolutely urgent. Memories flood through me. His weight on mine, his legs pinning me to the bed, his strength and power. By the end of the dinner, I’m completely frazzled. There are speeches throughout the evening but Aliya was wrong – I don’t find them boring, so much as necessary. They give me time to come to terms with this – being here beside him, to rationalise away my desire, to remind myself that we’ve been lovers and now we’re not, so it’s normal to still feel attracted to him. That’s all this is. Lust. Nothing more than chemistry, just like he said so early on. That’s all our marriage ever had going for it, he just called it better than I could.
At the conclusion of the formal part of the night, Zahir stands and the room follows. Again he lifts his arm, silently inviting me to take it, and I brace for the same assault on my senses as earlier. Only I could never adequately prepare for this. It’s as though the exposure to him all night has heightened my need for him, so the second I curve my fingers over his I am jolted out of time and space. I am jolted through the entire record of our experiences together, flashes of us in the desert, of us in his room, my room, together, apart, it all clarifies in my mind and my eyes flare to his, loaded, I have no doubt, with the intensity of my feelings.
