“No,” Sasha says at the same time, her voice clipped and final. “The music industry is cut throat, and you’re the only one who will look out for us. We already talked about this when you tried to drop out of law school…”
Don’t I know it. The only reason I bothered to finish my law degree after Dad died was because I knew the twins would need someone in their corner with their best interest at heart. But… “I don’t think me being your manager is doing you any favors.”
“No, you’re the best,” Kasha insists. “You take care of us, and schedule all our shows, and make sure there’s always hot cocoa in the house even when the bills are tight...”
“And we’re not going with anybody else,” Sasha adds, cutting off her sister’s list.
“You’re both so sweet. Seriously, I don’t know what I did to get such great little sisters.”
“Stuck around after the double funeral,” Sasha answered in the trademark tone that made it hard for most people outside our family to tell when she’s joking.
For the record, she is joking. We all know there was never any question of me bouncing out on them after their mom died. But I couldn’t let her derail a very serious conversation. “Look, guys, I’ve got to overrule you and resign as your manager. I did something today. Something that’s likely to get me full-on blacklisted at Majesty Records—not just regular old ignored.”
“Stop,” Sasha says, her face falling as her eyes bug out.
“No, just let me explain to you why I can’t be your manager anymore—”
“No, Prin, seriously, stop and look!” Sasha says again, cutting me off and pointing behind me.
I turn to look over my shoulder at the gate’s widescreen television. And my eyes widen when I see what’s happening behind a ticker tape of stock prices and a bunch of scrolling Arabic.
“Is that…is that you?” Kasha asks behind me.
I would have liked to say no. As broke as I am, I would have paid serious money to say no. But there’s no denying what we’re looking at…
A video of me talking to Zahir on the palace balcony. Someone captured the moment from a distant camera phone, and it doesn’t look remotely like what it really is. We were arguing…with him saying the most vicious things to me. But from the phone camera’s POV and without any audio, it looks like Zahir is talking to me intimately with his head leaned in close to mine…right before I pull him into my arms for what looks like a short but very passionate kiss.
For a moment, all sound disappears and all I can do is watch the video of us shrink as two official news commentators talk about the clip with dead serious faces. I don’t realize I’m not breathing until the program goes to commercial and a huge explosion of air leaves my body.
“What the hell was that?” Sasha says, coming to stand beside me.
“That was you, right?” Kasha asks on my other side, her voice breathless with delighted surprise. “That was definitely you! Kissing Sheikh Zahir!”
“Um…”
The answer gets stuck in my throat as I watch first one passenger, sitting in the rows beyond ours, then several more, turn to look at me. An excited murmur soon breaks out with a few of the waiting passengers even pointing at me.
“Excuse me, ma’am…”
A man in a ten-gallon cowboy hat approaches me. I recognize him as the one Zahir was talking to at the wedding. “You’re Princess Jones, right? My wife thought she recognized you at Holt Calson’s crazy wedding! She used to love that reality show of your daddy’s. And that was you there on the news, right?”
The only answer I can come up with is, “Most people call me Prin.”
“Alright, Prin it is. I’m Buck. And my wife, Jolene, is off powdering her nose. Do you mind waiting for her to get back here? I know she’ll be wanting to get a picture with you.”
“Um…” I say again. Not because I’m one of those D-listers who denies picture requests, but because I can now see a bunch of airport security guards headed toward me. And behind them, three men dressed in tailored black suits.
“Okay…is this the real reason you don’t want to be our manager anymore?” Sasha demands beside me.
Chapter Five
Less than an hour later, I’m back at the palace. Customs? Security checks? A double escalator dilemma? Nerp, not this time. The black suits throw a single nod at the custom officials who questioned me thoroughly earlier in the day, then I’m escorted into a dark Mercedes sedan that peels out of the airport going about 80 miles an hour. We barely slow when we get to the Jahwar collection of palaces. And the car doesn’t come to a full stop until we pull around to the back of Zahir’s palace. At the top of a set of sandstone steps, I see two jumpsuits flanking each side of a twenty-foot high set of arch doors, like they’ve been waiting for us.
The elite guard sitting in the back of the sedan with me jumps out and holds the car door open.
“Right this way, please,” he says in nearly accent-free English.
I step out with a careful, “Uh…thanks.”
The guards still haven’t answered any of my many, many questions from “Where are you taking me?” to “C’mon, level with me guys, am I in serious trouble here?”
But they seem to be a lot more deferential now that they’re not overseeing a teary goodbye between me and my sisters who I made get on the plane without me. They’re only eighteen, with their whole lives in front of them, and the last thing I want is for them to get caught up in the mess I seem to have made by daring to kiss Zahir.
The two jumpsuits at the top of the sandstone steps hold the door open for us and give me solemn nods as we pass through. “Hey,” I say to them with a wincing smile, not sure how else to respond. Things I’d never considered before tonight: should you act cool on the way to a possible execution or just completely freak the hell out?
“Right this way,” an elite guard says before I can give the question much thought. He directs me to an elevator that is much smaller than the one I saw at the front of the palace. But it’s plated with what looks like solid gold, so I’m guessing it’s a lot more VIP than the one in front despite its smaller size.
“One more question,” I ask the two guards who get into elevator with me. “Am I about to die? Are you taking me to some kind of execution room?”
Maybe because they’ve got me trapped, one of the black suits gives me a polite nod before answering, “We’re taking you to the sheikh’s office.”
Oh, so now I’m invited to the office, I think, but don’t say out loud. Because even a big mouth like me recognizes this situation is bad. Very, very bad.
I’m in a foreign country with a legal code I don’t understand—though I do clearly remember a law class that covered Americans getting in trouble in the UAK that basically ended with: you have no rights when you’re in the UAK, no matter how “fun and modern” it might look on travel sites.
I have no rights here, and I have no idea how to get myself out of this.
The furious flash of Zahir’s eyes after I pulled away from him hits me anew. And I realize, somewhat belatedly, that the guard answered my second question, but not the first. The one about whether I’m about to die…
The elevator whispers open on that ominous thought. And after a trip down a couple of wide hallways lined with portraits of male royals dressed in everything from silk robes to white kanduras to military uniforms, we come to another set of arched double doors flanked on either side by a black jumpsuit.
“Thanks,” I say again when one of the jumpsuits opens the door with a polite nod.
But as soon as I walk through, instead of my escort following me through to the office, the door closes behind me. Leaving me alone with…
“Holt!” I say, my eyes widening when I find my best friend’s husband, still dressed in his wedding tuxedo and sitting on the edge of a dark, intricately carved desk.
“Prin,” he says, coming to a full stand. He doesn’t sound or look happy.
“What are you doing here?”
/>
“That’s what I kept asking myself while I was waiting for you to arrive,” he answers. “One minute, I’m talking to Sylvie about the logistics of our sailing trip to Jamaica with the boys, and the next, I’ve been called in here to consult on an international incident.”
“International incident,” I repeat. “It was just a kiss!”
Holt rubs his nose as if he’s been locked in a room with an idiot. “Sylvie and I both understand you had work to do and couldn’t come before today…but if you had arrived yesterday as opposed to this afternoon, you would have been at the wedding orientation where we went over all of this. Touching between unmarried people is illegal here. That means kissing is illegal. Prin, you’ve done something illegal to the King of Jahwar. Something that was filmed and leaked to both English and Arabic news sources, and now everyone knows it. What could you have possibly been thinking?”
“Obviously, I wasn’t thinking,” I answer miserably. “He just made me mad. I wanted to punch him, but I kissed him instead, so his guards wouldn’t, like, you know, shoot me.”
“You kissed him instead,” Holt repeats, his voice flat with disbelief. “In public where everyone could see.”
I blink at his tone, but every defense I can come up with sounds incredibly stupid. Yes, I kissed him instead because he was being such an asshole…and he pissed me off…and he made me feel like scum beneath his shoe…this is all his fault.
God, I wish I could say that last one. But it isn’t his fault. My Jersey got away from me. Again. And this time, I hadn’t just flipped somebody off. I’d caused an international incident and possibly ruined my best friend’s wedding night.
I don’t just remember what Zahir said about me ruining everything just like my father, I feel his words in my bones. As if I am a toxic mess that keeps unintentionally hurting the people I love most.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Holt. “You’re right. This is my fault. Please don’t let this ruin your wedding night or your post-wedding trip with the boys. Leave me here. I’m a big girl and a lawyer now. I can deal with this on my own.”
“Damn, I was afraid you’d say that,” Holt answers with a heavy sigh. “Now I have to stay.”
“No, Holt, don’t…it’s your wedding night—!” I begin.
But he cuts me off with a brisk, “Since you have no male relatives here, Muslim or Christian, I’ll be acting as your wali…that’s kind of like a male go-between who can negotiate terms between you and another party as we try to figure out what to do about that kiss…”
He lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head at me. “You do understand that you have put Zahir in a very bad position, right?”
“Yes, I do…” I answer soberly, right before I grumble, “…especially now that it’s all over the news.”
Holt shoots me an annoyed look, but before he can say anything about my attitude, I return to earnest mode, adding, “And I’m more than ready to make a public apology or walk through the streets naked and let people throw rotten eggs at me like I’m Cersei Lannister. Whatever it takes.”
“Sorry, but this is going to take more than a public apology or an act of contrition,” Holt says, grabbing a manila folder off the desk. “Kissing is hugely taboo in this kingdom. Punching Zahir would have ended with your hand cut off, by the way, but kissing him…there’s no way for him to explain that. If he tells the truth about you attacking him, then he looks weak, which is the last thing he needs his people to think of him while he’s trying to brand himself as a king who will lead Jahwar into the future better than his father did…”
“Okay, I get it. I get it,” I say, cringing at the thought of how badly I’ve messed everything up for everyone. “An apology isn’t enough. Got it. So again, what can I do to fix this? Just tell me and I’ll do it.”
Holt levels me the kind of frank look I imagine he usually reserves for the boardroom, not one-on-one conversations with his new wife’s best friend. Then he hands me the manila folder.
I open the folder and find three sheets of paper inside. It’s a contract, I realize immediately, though it’s written in super simple English without many of the complicated legalese I’ve become used to after typing up first drafts at Liederman-Frankel for two months, and during three years of law school before that. But I begin to doubt the strength of my own legal knowledge as I skim the three pages…because I just know this cannot possibly be what I think it is…
“Is this some kind of back dated temporary marriage contract?” I ask Holt, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Like, I’m supposed to marry Zahir for six months exactly, ending in an automatic divorce… and that marriage can only be voided before six months if he gets engaged to a Muslim woman?”
I feel sure I’m mistaken, but Holt nods as if I’ve hit the nail right on the head. “Yeah, it looks like the only way out of this is for you is to agree to marry Zahir. The concept of temporary marriage is a very controversial one among Jahwar’s seventy-percent Muslim population, but…”
He goes on to explain how the Jahwar royals have used temporary marriages to do everything from making wartime alliances to taking on illicit lovers and sealing business deals. From what Holt’s been told, it had almost been a royal tradition pretty much all the way up until the 80s when Zahir’s father decided to give Jahwar a cosmopolitan makeover. And he finishes with, “Though this is for all intents and purposes a fake marriage that we’ll back-date to minimize the scandal, you’ll need to stay here in Jahwar for the duration of the contract’s six-month term. And of course, Zahir will need you to sign both the English and Arabic versions of this contract. Any questions?”
I blink, so confused. But then I have to point out, “There’s nothing in here about sex…Will I have to…I mean, does he expect us to…”
Holt shifts uncomfortably. “The reason it’s not in the marriage contract is because technically it’s against the law for a wife to deny her husband sex here. But Zahir isn’t a monster and this marriage is only for show. I’m sure he won’t expect you to do anything but wait out your six months.”
I bite my lip, not feeling quite as confident as Holt because I remember what I felt during the kiss…
Possibly mistaking the look on my face for something else, Holt leans forward to say, “Look, Prin, I know it’s six months of your life, but honestly there are worse ways to spend half a year. Zahir will keep you in the lap of luxury while you’re here. There’s 24/7 maid and food service. Prin, I can’t even imagine a better place to study for the bar. I’ve already talked to Sylvie about all of this, and we’ll check in on the twins—they can even come live with us after their school year’s done if they want. Plus, I’ll make a few calls for you when you get back to the States, so that you can find another job. Six months won’t ruin your life. I promise.”
Ruin…
Strange how much that word has come up today.
“So, what do you say? Will you sign the contract?” Holt asks.
I think about Holt’s question and I think about it some more. Then I say, “Okay, but I have a condition. He has to let the twins out of their contract with Majesty Records.”
Holt stares at me shocked, then he all but yells, “Seriously, Prin? He’s only in this mess because of you and now you’re putting conditions on how to get him out of it.”
“No, I’m not kidding,” I answer, drawing myself up to my full height, even though I changed out of the bridesmaid’s dress and am no longer in heels. “I’m all the twins have. If I don’t look out for them, no one will.”
I say my piece and then cross my arms over my chest, letting Holt know I’m not going to budge…
He stares at me for a few more irritated seconds, then grumbles, “Hold on…”
I watch him go not toward the doors I came in, but to a single unassuming door on the back wall of the office. He knocks once, then walks through, closing it behind him.
This place must have some pretty major sound insulation, because I don’t hear a word from what the inne
r office, even when I press my ear to the door. In some ways the silence is more eerie than raised voices or shouting would be. Kind of like Zahir, I think, remembering how he watched me with cool eyes as I fumbled to explain why he should let the twins out of their contract.
Holt is gone for a long time. Long enough for me to explore the office which, like Jahwar, is a mix of traditional and ultra-modern furniture and art. But two items catch my eye. One is an old, black ink-line drawing on parchment. A plaque beneath proclaims it a rendering of the Kingdom of Jahwar in 1752…well before the discovery of oil in the region. To me, Old Jahwar looks like a tent city, with camels and donkeys moving through the narrow streets instead of cars.
I then turn to a portrait hanging beside the line drawing. It’s a hyper-realistic rendering of Jahwar’s futuristic skyline with nothing but the multiple palace domes and a couple of mosques indicating it’s a Middle Eastern city. The painting is signed by a modern artist whose name I recognize from my mandatory Art History classes at Beaumont. And I wonder if this could be a private commission, one that only those who step foot in this office have seen.
After my self-directed tour, I end up plopping onto a leather couch and soon my eyes start drooping. Between the jet lag and all the high-octane interactions I’ve had since I arrived, I’m all the way wiped out.
I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep, until eventually, a hand shakes me awake.
It’s Holt…and he’s laid a dress bag over the couch.
Twenty minutes after I make an inner palace phone call to Sylvie, assuring her I’m okay, I am standing next to Holt in a long white dress. This wedding gown, much like the bridesmaid’s dress I wore earlier, is conservative in cut but has an additional poetic touch of bell sleeves. Which gives me something to fidget with as several grave-faced men I have never met file into the room through the small inner office door.
By the time Zahir and his personal detail come through, I’m super tempted to break up all tension with an inappropriate joke like, “Two weddings in one day! Crazy, right?!”
Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3) Page 30
