by Holly Rayner
She grabbed several bills from her wallet and paid for the food and margaritas, yanking Willow to the parking lot. The girls raced toward the red truck and revved toward the square grey building near the river which they’d nicknamed the “prison.”
Willow brought her arms around her friend’s shoulders, hugging her close. The radio blared in her ears, a country tune that filled her with nostalgia. Suddenly, tears sprung to her eyes. But Summer had already sensed them, and slid her hand up and down Willow’s quivering back.
“It’s okay, hon,” she whispered.
“I just appreciate it. So much,” Willow sobbed. “The article. Your help. Everything…”
“You know we don’t have to say thank you,” Summer said. “I already know you feel it.”
“Okay,” Willow said, sliding her finger beneath her eye. “I know you’re right.”
After giving her friend a final goodbye, Willow scampered up the steps of her office building. Diving into the bathroom, she tugged off the running gear she’d worn for the photographs and re-donned her business suit, shoving her feet into her uncomfortable black heels. Glancing around the office, she noted that her boss, Tyler, was nowhere to be seen, giving her a moment’s reprieve to rush to her desk. Once there, she clicked on her phone.
Immediately, it began to light up, glowing orange. Another day, another caller, another complaint.
“Here we go.” Willow sighed inwardly, lifting the phone. “Hello, this is Willow. How may I help you?”
“Willow, huh? Like the tree?” the voice called back, from somewhere out in the world. “You don’t hear that every day.”
“I guess not,” Willow said, still managing to sound chipper. Her heart began its slow decline down her chest, toward the acid in her stomach. Every hour she spent seated in that chair, she felt hopeless, like a shadow of her former self.
As she hung up, after a particularly tiring conversation she already didn’t remember, she glanced down at her cellphone. There, a message from Summer: as if she’d known, without being told, just how desolate Willow felt after returning to work.
“Keep your chin up,” Summer had texted. “Things are going to be brighter now. The article will change EVERYTHING, you professional fundraiser, you. I’m so proud of everything you do. And Paul would be, too.”
Paul. Willow loved that Summer brought her brother up frequently, reminding her that he still lived on, in a sense. His curly head of blond hair. His eyes that glowed bright blue when he was telling a joke. Even in his last days, when the disease had ripped him of his last bits of energy, leaving him skinny and pale, he’d still had that lively personality. That big laugh, which reverberated through any space, no matter the size.
Jayne’s syndrome had taken him from Willow, and from the world. And Willow was determined to show the world just what they were missing, through raising funds in memory of him.
It was the least she could do. It was her reason for living. Even tucked away at a windowless call center in the middle of Houston, she could cling to that.
Chapter 2
Willow
The next morning, Willow awoke an hour before her alarm. Her legs already ached, but it was time for her last training session before her big run on Saturday. Stretching forward, she reached her toes and held the pose, blinking into the darkness of her studio apartment. And, with a jolt, she remembered: she’d awoken for a reason.
Reaching for her laptop, she quickly brought up the online edition of the Houston Star, clicking through to the local interest section. At the very top of the page was the headline, “Local Runner Raises $100,000 for Rare Disease.”
Her heart felt squeezed with excitement. But then she saw that, immediately beneath the headline, was a photo of a tall, tanned brunette, seated at a cocktail bar with her hand around a drink, pouting for the camera. Her hair hung in curls down her shoulders, and her body was turned in a movie-star way, assuring that the camera took in every curve of her slim frame.
Willow wasn’t sure what it was, but something about the photo made the woman look calculated, mean. What’s more, she looked absolutely nothing like Willow.
Annoyance crashed over her like a wave. Nostrils flaring, she scanned through the rest of the article. It was tight writing, one of Summer’s best pieces
Willow Hart’s younger brother, Paul, lost his life to Jayne’s syndrome ten years ago, leaving a large gap in his sister’s life. Using her little brother’s memory as fuel, Willow has been fundraising for over five years, working tirelessly to raise funds that will combat this ferocious disease. With just days to go before her next marathon, she’s reached the milestone fundraising total of $100,000.
Of the fundraising, Hart said, “It’s my dream to support as many families as I can. Paul’s diagnosis blindsided my parents and me. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through, and it was heartbreaking for my family. My life’s purpose these past five years has been minimizing that pain for others.”
Perhaps worst of all, beneath the photograph of the mean-looking woman with the cocktail were the words, “Willow Hart, activist raising awareness for Jayne’s syndrome, in honor of her brother.”
Reaching for her phone, Willow was surprised to see that Summer was already calling her. She lifted it to her ear, confusion making her tongue feel sluggish and weak.
“Summer. Who is this woman?” she asked, hating how hurt she sounded. She’d never been great at hiding her emotions.
“Babe, I’m so sorry!” Summer said, almost shrieking. “I have no idea what happened. I sent the photos over yesterday, after our lunch, but something must have gotten switched around. They still ran your photo, but it’s been all mixed up with another article, somewhere in the gossip section.”
“What?” Willow exclaimed. She clicked through to the next page, her fingers flying. Sure enough, at the top of the page was a photograph of her in her bright purple running gear, her hands on her hips and her blond bob shining. “Ah. There I am. I look like such a dork!”
“Stop it,” Summer commanded. “You see which article you’re in? It’s all so messy. I don’t know how they could have—”
“This is prime-time gossip, isn’t it?” Willow said, scrunching her nose. “Playboy Sheikh Gives Up Lifestyle for Houston Model,” she read out loud. “I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous in my life.”
“Well, some people in Houston are a bit more tuned into gossip than you are,” Summer sighed. “You’re out there fundraising while most people are on social media, swapping rumors about Sheikh Ibrahim Al-Deban.”
“Ibrahim Al-Deban?” Willow echoed. “Am I supposed to know who this guy is?”
“I did a few pieces on him last year, before I got the heck out of the gossip section,” Summer said. “He’s probably one of the most famous people in Houston. Although, for you, I guess that doesn’t mean much.”
“Ha. It’s not like I live under a rock, Summer,” Willow sighed.
“He’s from some tiny Middle Eastern country…Rebai, I think it’s called? But he’s not directly in line to the throne, and he moved here a few years ago to start his business. We saw him when we were in college, actually, at some sports bar. He was making out with that redhead friend of yours. What was her name?”
“Cynthia?” Willow asked, frowning. “Why don’t I have any memory of this at all?”
“Anyway, since his hotel business went stratospheric, he’s mostly been partying and making his way through our great nation’s hottest celebrities. I’m surprised he’s settling down. And, apparently, the rest of the world is going to think he’s settling down with you!”
“Ha. Imagine that,” Willow said softly.
She leaned closer, eyeing the photograph of the Sheikh, alongside the one of her at the park. Ibrahim was pictured in what looked like his penthouse suite, a glass of what looked like Scotch in his hand and a smirk on his lips. He was broad-shouldered, handsome and wearing an immaculate suit, perfectly cut to highlight the strength of hi
s body.
He was standing in the photo, showing his height—at least 6’2. He seemed the right level of careless, and suave. Entirely rich. Entirely arrogant. Entirely someone Willow had absolutely no respect for.
“There’s no way anyone would think this was anything but a mistake,” Willow said, comparing the two photographs. “He’s, well. He’s probably the most handsome person in Houston. And I’m very clearly a twenty-five-year-old loser who works at a call center.”
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Summer said sternly. “They mixed up the photos for a reason. Someone in the editing department clearly thought you two belonged together.”
Declining to dignify her friend’s comment with a response, Willow began to chew at her bottom lip, apprehension filling her.
Suddenly, it all felt like too much. Foolish, even, that she was preparing to run twenty-six miles the following morning. And now, she’d been mistaken for the Sheikh’s fiancée. Was her life really filled with purpose? Or was it more of a joke than she could possibly realize?
“Listen, I’ll get this cleared up,” Summer promised. “The mistake will be corrected before the end of the day. In the meantime, enjoy your status as future wife of the Playboy Sheikh. It’s not every day you’re poised to be a billionaire!”
“Sure,” Willow grimaced. “Whatever you say.”
After hanging up, Willow read the gossip piece more closely. According to the article, Sheikh Ibrahim was supposed to marry the gorgeous Texan underwear model, Eva Brooks-Hernandez, in his home country of Rebai in just a few months.
Apparently, Eva had announced the engagement just the previous day, despite the world knowing nothing of the Sheikh’s “incredibly private, yet fiery affair with the model.”
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t hold it in any longer,” Eva had explained to the press. “It’s just that Ibrahim and I are in love, and I’m tired of keeping it a secret. We’re getting married. And I want to scream it from the rooftops.”
Willow tilted her head at the words, surprised at how insincere they sounded. She scanned back to Summer’s fundraising article, glaring at the photo of Eva which had taken her spot.
With this backstory, Willow considered the woman with fresh eyes. A gold-digger, perhaps, at the tail-end of her modeling career? Or a woman completely in love, without the literary words to describe it?
Sunlight had begun to stream in through the window, alerting Willow to the lateness of the morning. Jumping out of bed, she dressed quickly in her running clothes and then raced out the door, attempting to loosen up. With only twenty-four hours left until the race, she knew she had to forget about the newspaper flub-up and focus on the task at hand.
So what if her photograph was alongside that of the Playboy Sheikh? It was a humorous mistake. One easily rectified, in just a few hours.
Once out the door, she began a slow jog, feeling her muscles awaken. On either side of her, Houston had begun to awaken, too: mothers opening car doors and placing their babies in car seats; fathers donning baseball hats and leaping into pickup trucks, ready to face the day ahead. Young children bounced backpacks on their shoulders, attending the last few weeks of school before summer break.
Everything around her was filled with memories, the world in which she and Paul had grown up.
That last summer with Paul, Willow had spent nearly every afternoon at his hospital bed. The air conditioning had been turned off, since Paul had had trouble retaining heat. This had left Willow sweating copiously beside him, flipping through comic books and reading to him when his eyes had grown too fatigued.
She remembered that often. She’d awaken him when he’d begun to drift off—telling him they were nearly done with the story. “Don’t sleep now. We’re so close.”
But her parents had told her, each and every time, that he needed his rest. That it was going to help him get better.
As thoughts of Paul spun through her brain, Willow sped up: faster and faster, until she had to screech to a halt at the next stoplight.
Panting, she leaned her hands heavily on her knees, staring up at the shining high-rises that made up the Houston skyline. She wondered, somewhere in the back of her mind, if Sheikh Ibrahim lived in one of those luxury penthouse suites.
Certainly, he’d had no tale of misfortune. He’d had years of money, of cocktails and good luck. And now, it was coming to the penultimate moment: the arrival of his drop-dead gorgeous, underwear-model fiancée.
He wanted for nothing. But Willow was left missing everything, knowing only that she could remedy other people’s pain, if she fought hard enough. If she ran fast enough.
Chapter 3
Ibrahim
On the highest floor of the downtown Houston high-rise, Sheikh Ibrahim sat on his balcony, his legs stretched out and his white button-up splayed open, revealing his six-pack abdomen. The early morning sun beat down upon his brown skin, glinting on his two-thousand-dollar sunglasses.
He sipped his coffee slowly, savoring the intense flavor. He’d had the coffee beans shipped in from South America—a tiny beanery in rural Argentina, which he’d discovered on vacation three years before. It was important to him to have things in life that no one else knew about.
Money wasn’t everything, no. But the niche things he could buy with it? Perhaps they were the “everything” that life was truly about.
Back inside the penthouse apartment, Eva Brooks-Hernandez was destroying his bedroom, trying to find the last of her things. She tore at the closet doors, reaching inside and muddling his shirts as she brought the last of her dresses from their hangers. She was sobbing loudly, a sound that gave Ibrahim chills.
He knew that Eva didn’t care about him. He knew this was all an act, one meant to draw him back to her. One meant to reignite their “engagement.” Ibrahim couldn’t allow himself to fall for it.
Eva appeared in the doorway to the balcony, wearing only a robe that fluttered around her expensive bra and underwear. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and her lower lip bounced up and down, making her look like a petulant child. She held a suitcase in her hand, gripping it tight.
“That’s it, then,” she said, her voice hard and angry. “I’ve collected my things. And, now, I will ask you again. Are you really going to end what we have, all because—”
“Eva. Eva, Eva,” Ibrahim sighed, standing up from his balcony chair. He flashed his white teeth in a sad smile at her. “You know as well as I do that you never loved me.”
Eva pressed her lips together tightly, scowling at him.
“Darling, that’s simply not true.”
“You mean that after we’d slept together only once, and I asked you to marry me to solve the issue of my mother’s meddling in my life, you actually decided to fall in love with me?” Ibrahim asked, pausing to take a sip of his coffee.
Eva had no answer to that.
Ibrahim shrugged, continuing. “Or did you decide to fall in love with me after you demanded that I pay you four million dollars in return for marrying you? And I agreed to it, like an idiot?”
Eva slammed her suitcase to the ground, looking haughty.
“Why would I have married you for free?” she demanded. “You’re not even in line for the throne.”
“Ah. So it comes down to that, does it?” Ibrahim asked. He felt almost like laughing, but wanted to proceed delicately. The woman was clearly a loose cannon. One he had been foolish enough to trust.
“And yet, when I asked you to keep our engagement to yourself, at least for the time being, you were unable to. You call the newspapers, airing our apparent love to the world…”
It was true. He’d heard her just the day before, whispering conspiratorially with a journalist when she’d thought he couldn’t hear.
Rage had flown through him, along with a realization that he’d bungled up this chance. His plan—to fool his mother that he was getting married, and then part ways with Eva forever—was officially scuppered. Eva wanted more than just the four mill
ion dollars. She wanted the fame and recognition that went with being his bride.
“What will you do without me, huh?” Eva asked, sniffing. She tossed her head, making her long, dark locks fall over her scantily-clad breasts. “What are you going to tell your mother when you arrive in Rebai without a bride? Isn’t she preparing everything for your big, fancy wedding? Bet you didn’t think of that, did you?”
Ibrahim had thought of this. It angered him to the core, knowing that his plan couldn’t go through. But he placed his hand lightly on Eva’s bony shoulder, tilting his head calmly.
“Eva. Baby. Please.”
“What is it?” Eva asked, blinking wildly.
The Sheikh sensed that her gold-digging mind was attempting to patch up the pieces of her mistake. She yearned to be his fiancée again, in any sense. If only for the tabloids. If only so people would never forget her name.
“Please, get out of my house,” Ibrahim said coldly. “I don’t want to hear from you again.”
Eva stormed from the balcony doorway, taking her suitcase with her. Without bothering to don a shirt, dress, or even a pair of pants, she shoved the stilettos she’d left by the door onto her feet.
“You’re going to be alone forever, Ibrahim,” she yelled from the doorway. “Don’t think for a minute that anyone will ever marry you, if not for your cash. You’re a cold, arrogant jerk. And you never meant a thing to me!”
Even after the door slammed, Ibrahim remained at the center of his apartment, his arms crossed over his chest. After a pause, the elevator dinged in the hallway, sending Eva off into the ether, and Ibrahim took a deep breath, consigning his one-time fiancée to a bad memory.
“You’re going to be alone forever!” The words echoed through his mind.
But that wasn’t true, now, was it? Ibrahim hadn’t been alone since he’d been a teenager. Women had chased after him for years, spellbound by his good looks, his royal title, his muscles, and—especially now that he’d built up a hotel empire in the United States—his money.
