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CHAPTERELEVEN
“Are you serious?” Lucy thrust her hands on her hips. “That’s barbaric! I demand you release me. Immediately!”
“That’s not possible,” Anwar affirmed quietly. His hand crept up to her neck and cupped gently under her chin, lifting her face toward his.
She swallowed hard and forced his hand away. “You are not playing fair!”
“Life is not fair,habibti.Don’t fall into the entitlement trap of feeling like you’re a victim. You’re not.”
“I’m nobody’s victim,” she threw at him. “I will not be your kept bride. Do you think kidnapping me will keep me here? You’re mistaken! Do you think hijacking my art career will be my ruin? You’re mistaken. Do you think forcing me to marry you will make me love you? You’re mistaken! I warn you, Anwar. You have bitten off more than your perfect white teeth can chew!”
Anwar smiled with the arrogance of a man consumed with only his right to rule. “Who said anything about love?” he threw back at her. “Duty. She is my mistress. And as for my appetite,” his gaze trawled over her in carnal appreciation, “I am insatiable!”
She shuddered as a wave of sensation swamped her protests. She loathed the power he held over her.
“You are not a mere pawn,habibti.Contrary to what you may think, I care about what happens to my son’s mother.Unlike my father.I can’t change the past. But I can change the future.”
He stopped in front of a giant contemporary building the size of an aircraft hanger. “I do not want my son marinated in fear and hatred,” he said, gesturing to her belly. “I want him to feel love. So given you don’t feel love for me, and nor I for you—” he said, flinging open the doors and leading her into the giant space. “It’s yours. Do with it as you wish."
Lucy had heard of oil-rich Arabs handing fantastic gifts to people who had won their favor. She knew such gifts generated a sense of obligation upon the person who received them. But he already owned her. At least, that was what he believed. So that made his motive what? Her mind lapped great circuits of possibility as she took in the vast space painted gallery-white, with high ceilings fitted with spotlights.
“Three months," he said.
What was he asking of her?
"You have twelve weeks before the child is born to fill this space with your new collection."
"What collection?" she lobbied.
"The collection of paintings you will create to honor the birth of my heir. The collection of paintings that I will ensure the world's wealthiest art collectors flock to view when they pay my son and me their respects. The collection of paintings that I guarantee will sell by word of mouth alone.”
Despite her anger, she felt a delicious thrill of excitement as she visualized the successful accomplishment of the audacious quest he was dangling before her. Then gulped as realization dawned. Was he trying to buy her affection?Again?
It was so confusing.
“So you see, already you’re mistaken. I do not plan to destroy your career. I plan to lift you to stratospheric heights of fame. You are insanely gifted. It would be wrong to allow your talent to languish while you are here.”
One moment, he was saying she could do what she wished in the space, and the next, he was bossing her around like an autocratic ruler.
"I couldn't possibly create the number of paintings such a vast space would demand."
“You can and you will.”
“I appreciate your faith in me,” Lucy reluctantly conceded. “But, I don't know where to begin,” she said, her eyes falling on the giant blank canvases stacked in a corner of the gallery space. “I don’t know what to paint.”
"Feelings," Anwar said. "You will paint feelings."
“Feelings?” she said incredulously. Right now, she didn't know what she felt. On the one hand, she felt absurdly happy at receiving the perfect gift, a studio and gallery of her own, large enough to hang paintings ten stories high.
On the other, she felt bewilderment at the enormity of the task that Anwar deemed so simple. Then, there was the turmoil of confusion about what she should be feeling. Should she be angry with Anwar for kidnapping her? He had treated her so badly. Should she marinate in the hurt his past actions had inflicted?
She raked her hands through her hair. Her mind was muddled. Nothing made any sense. Was this his love language? Instead of telling her he was sorry, was he trying to buy his way to redemption? Lucy didn’t know what she felt. Every time she looked at him, all she saw was a waterfall of tears born of love and war.
"No one has ever made a phone call on my behalf, opened any doors, or given me any favors,” she threw at him. “Until you.” Anger and hurt tainted her normally measured voice. “I always hated the idea of carrying the burden of people saying I only got where I am because of who I slept with. Until now, everything I achieved has been on my own merit. But now you are ruining it. You’re ruining everything,” Lucy said defiantly. “I never should’ve slept with you.”
“So I see,” his eyes sparkled as he glanced at her belly.
She wanted to tell him, ‘You left a hole in my heart when Hamad falsely accused me of art fraud, and you didn’t believe me. You walked away from helping me, and my heart followed you out the door.’
