by Maren Smith
Chapter Ten
Mazi
My father loved Norah’s story, and the fact that he did made my girl extraordinarily happy. She’d worked hard on it, and I was proud of her achievement on her behalf. The mainstream press, however, was unaffected by the truth. They couldn’t care less about a human-interest, feel-good story in which I struggled to deal with the hardships I’d been dealt. They weren’t interested in the fact that stripping had actually been my redemption or that I’d done it to get on top of the bills my mother’s death had left behind. They didn’t even take note of the fact that my past field of study was economics, something that more than qualified me to tackle the leadership of a country struggling for economic stimulation and growth.
No, my scandal lived on, the flames of it perpetually fed by a two-minute Google search and a brand-new moniker: Mazi of Osei, King of the Strippers. The title didn’t bother me, not really. I thought it was funny actually, but it bothered the hell out of my father and he did his best to run damage control from his sick bed. And that meant that, in addition to learning about the culture and history of my new island home and spending quality time with my dying father, I now also had to make time for publicity appearances. Apparently, it was important that I show people I was more than King Ona-Mazi’s bastard son, who took his clothes off for money.
Every day I did something in the public eye. I visited the hospital, the local library, and the school. I read to the young and elderly alike, visited small businesses, and got to know the local farmers and ranchers. I even visited the local animal shelter. I almost inspired an adoption, my own. It was a damn cute dog, but Jax refused to allow it in the palace.
The only upside to the outings was that as the official reporter for the kingdom, my girl was required to go with me. These days, it was the only time I could get any time alone with her.
And then my father started acting funny. They say dementia can sometimes set in when a person is close to death, but that didn’t feel like what was happening. The king’s mind seemed sound. Every morning we met for breakfast, and he’d give me an impromptu history lesson, teaching me all about the island. Every day at lunch, we hammered through the list of duties and responsibilities I would have as king, and bounced around ideas for how we’d save the country he loved so much. At dinner, he would talk about his childhood, his parents, and sometimes, my mother. His stories were always perfect, with just the right mix of nostalgia and humor. I was enjoying spending time with him, something I honestly hadn’t thought would be possible when first I’d arrived here. I always left his presence with a smile on my face.
And then he decided to throw a ball. The last of his life, he’d said, and how could anyone refuse him when he phrased it like that. His idea from start to finish, he swore it was something he wanted more than anything, and yet from the moment it was scheduled, every time the subject was brought up, he started to act a little off.
For instance, over lunch after spending almost an hour going over ballroom etiquette and royal customs dating back more than two centuries, I asked him to send a dressmaker to Norah’s room so that she would have something to wear. He stared at me like he couldn’t remember who Norah was or figure out why she would need a dress. A silent shadow just beyond my father’s chair, Jax averted his gaze altogether.
Two days later, the very day before the ball was scheduled to take place, I stood at the foot of my father’s bed in front of the royal tailor getting final adjustments made on my very first formal suit. When he was done and about to leave, I asked again, “What about Norah? She hasn’t said anything about a dress. When is she going to get fitted?”
My father, who had been alert throughout my measurements, suddenly fell asleep.
That night, I finally just asked Norah. The royal family’s media consultant didn’t even know we were having a ball.
She not only hadn’t been invited, she hadn’t been told.
I found my father sitting up in his bed with his doctor taking his pulse and administering his nightly medications. A part of me felt guilty for marching in unannounced, but my temper was rankled. How could it not be? I’d just accidentally dropped a bomb on my girl telling her not only was she not invited to a family function that I couldn’t imagine attending without her, but that she had been cut out entirely from a royal event that her job should have required her to report on.
Her last words before I’d left her were, “Oh, my God, I’m getting fired.”
Those last words made my first words to my father a little sharper than they otherwise might have been. “Why has Norah not been invited to tomorrow’s ball?”
Having just finished what he was doing, the doctor bowed to my father, quietly packed his things and left, leaving my father, me, and the ever-present Jax staring silently at one another until we were alone.
“That is a conversation best left for private,” Jax tried to censure me.
Ignoring him, I glared at my father instead. “Is there a problem? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, one would think a royal family ball would be exactly the sort of event we would want our royal family media consultant to attend.”
Suddenly flustered, my father became preoccupied with smoothing the wrinkles from his bedding. He muttered something I couldn’t quite hear.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, and it wasn’t until I couldn’t take it back that I realized I was using my ‘Daddy is not a happy camper’ voice. Surprisingly enough, it worked on him every bit as well as it worked on Norah.
Lifting his chin to better be heard, the king repeated, “We have decided that she will not be attending.”
“We have?” I echoed, my disapproval deepening as my temper rankled just a little bit hotter. “Who is we?”
I glared at Jax, pretty sure I already knew. When the two exchanged looks, my suspicions were confirmed.
“In the morning,” I told them both, “I will be taking Norah to the village and I will find her a dress suitable for tomorrow night. If I cannot find one there, then I will take her to the mainland. And lest you two take it in your heads to guarantee it, if I can’t find Norah a dress, I’m fine with her attending in her normal schoolgirl uniforms. That doesn’t bother me at all. But she will be there, or I won’t be.”
Turning, I started to leave, but Jax stopped me when he snapped out an irritated, “Of course you will attend, young prince”—he said ‘prince’ the way anyone else would say ‘you little shit,’ but I was picking my battles and I let that part go—“and of course she will not!”
“Why not?” I demanded, marching right back up to the foot of the bed.
“Mazi,” my father sighed, shaking a hand to silence the fight before I could really let loose. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Why not?” I demanded again.
“Because,” Jax snapped back, “you cannot have your paramour at the same ball in which you meet your future wife.”
He could have knocked me over with a feather. Eyebrows arching high, I stared at both men, absolutely certain that I’d just heard them wrong. “The next words out of your mouth had better be ‘just kidding, ha ha ha’ or I’m out of here,” I finally said, surprised at how calm I sounded.
I was not calm. Not even a little.
“Mazi,” my father finally said, picking his words carefully, though they still left me reeling. “You are the crown prince. You must have a bride and you must have an heir. I will not live to see the latter happen, but I will see you settled with the former. It is not just tradition, it is expected and necessary for the stabilization—”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door.
“Mazi, wait!” the old king called in despair.
But I was not about to wait. Angry as I was, I didn’t realize Jax was chasing me until I was at the door with the handle in my hand. I wrenched it open, but everything stopped when Jax suddenly caught the door and promptly slammed it shut again.
“No one is saying she has to leave,” he told me, his
voice soft and yet shaking with anger. “You have no idea the exceptions that have been made for you already or what your father has had to do in order to find someone willing to wed his daughter to the Stripper King. What’s done is done. She holds your heart? Fine. Great exceptions shall be made for her as well. She may stay at the palace, even after the wedding if that is what you desire, but you must have a wife. You will meet her tomorrow at the ball, and thereafter you will be wed as soon as can be arranged.”
Oh, he did not know me well at all.
“Mazi,” my father called, his sickness and frailties clear in his shaky voice. “I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry, but every king needs a queen. With a good woman by your side, you will thrive as ruler of your kingdom and restore this country to greatness. It’s not that anyone dislikes Norah, son. It is just... she is not...”
“Princess material?” I caustically filled in the blanks when he faltered. “Yeah. You know, you’re the second person to say that to me, but the thing is, I don’t care.”
We were in the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages. Arranged marriages couldn’t possibly still be a thing, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to be dragged into one. “No,” I said, first to my father and then again, even more strongly to Jax. “N.O. I will not marry just to appease you and your constituents. I will not have these major life decisions made for me as if I am a child, or worse, a pawn on your chessboard. I will not marry a woman I have only just met, and my father, who, mind you, barely knows me, will not be the one to pick her out for me. Marriage is not a business merger.”
Jax all but rolled his eyes.
“Of course it is,” my father muttered. “More than that, son, we have been doing it this way in Osei since long before there was a written word. Zahra is a lovely girl, and a union between the two of you will go a long way to solidifying an alliance between our kingdom and Nigeria.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t really give a fuck.”
My father slapped the blankets across his lap. “It is already done,” he wheezed, as close to yelling as he could weakly come to it. “Osei is your future! I have given you everything!”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t tell me there were so many strings attached,” I spat.
He had in fact, told me the opposite when he asked me to come. No strings attached, that was what he’d written in his letter.
He sobered, apparently remembering the same thing. “A king must have a proper queen. I did not expect the media storm surrounding your arrival, and I have done my best to counter the damage it has caused. Marrying Zahra will not only do great things for the kingdom, but it will strengthen your image as future king. One who takes his role seriously. This is not America. The people of Osei don’t want a playboy king. They—” Breaking off with a sigh, my father sank into his pillows and finally just shook his head. “The least you can do is go to the ball and meet Zahra. Give her a chance. She’s a wonderful young woman, and if it’s any consolation, I didn’t take her because she was the first applicant to respond to my letter. I picked her because I honestly think the two of you will suit.”
“She could be Mother Theresa in a supermodel’s body,” I countered. “It wouldn’t matter, because I’m in love with someone else.”
My father closed his eyes with a wince.
Behind me, Jax said again, “Great exceptions will be made.”
I didn’t want exceptions. I wanted Norah.
This time when I yanked the door open, Jax allowed it. I left the king’s room in a snit and for the next hour or so, I stomped around the palace, pacing the halls blindly, not really sure where to go to expend this angry energy. The only thing I did know was I didn’t want to dump it all on Norah. She had that ‘I am not princess material’ speech down damn near word for word with the king. Hell, for all I knew, she’d written his argument for him.
Well, all right. I knew that wasn’t true, but hearing the same argument twice now from both of them had affected me, and more than I expected. Being a king was all about duty, country, and roots, and a woman who would understand the importance of those things. The only thing my father hadn’t said but which was every bit as painfully obvious to me was that I hadn’t been raised to be a king. Zahra would come to me already knowing everything I didn’t. Looked at that way, I could see the sense in marrying her. Partners were supposed to help one another; that she would definitely help me navigate the unfamiliar territory I was sure to encounter as king was more than obvious.
With Norah, it would be the blind leading the blind in that regard, but I loved her. And with all my heart I knew she would take the duties of the kingdom seriously. Probably even more so than I did. And yet, softly whispering doubts refused to be silent as I considered each time she’d repeatedly told me she wasn’t princess material, couldn’t be with a king, and didn’t see a future for us.
But she loved me. I knew she did. I knew it without a doubt in my mind.
Marriage was a thing that needed to happen. If nothing else, my father had managed to convince me of that, and I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I couldn’t imagine trying to find the time to date after I became king. Perhaps that’s how the tradition had started.
Plus, I did want to have my father there. I’d missed having him at every important milestone thus far in my life, if I could have him at my wedding, I wanted him there. That alone meant I had to hurry up and have one. My father did not have much time left, weeks at best.
I was stuck. The only question that truly remained was this: Would I marry for duty or for love?
Zahra, or Norah?
The woman I’d yet to meet, or the little girl who made my daddy’s heart pound harder just at the thought of being with her?
Did I even really have a choice? I guess I had until tomorrow night to figure it out.
Chapter Eleven
Norah
I was sitting on the sofa in my apartment, chewing my nails to the quick and wondering if I ought to start packing, when Mazi showed up at my door. He must have been to see his father, because there was a fierceness about him that caught me off guard. My heart stumbled, my already knotted stomach tightened so fast that it hurt, and I briefly wondered what I had done to set him off.
But then he smiled and, although still obviously irritated, if he was smiling then that meant I probably wasn’t fired.
“Can I come in?” he asked and I quickly jumped back, opening the door that much wider.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. You just looked super annoyed there for a minute. I’m almost afraid to ask what happened.”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you,” he said, rolling his shoulders as he walked past me.
Conversations that started that way did not settle well in tummies already as tense as mine.
“Am I fired?” I asked, following him as far as the archway that separated my bedroom from the rest of the apartment.
“Nope.” Sinking down to sit on the foot of my bed, he tsked as he said, “They are prepared to make great exceptions in regards to me and you.”
My stomach sank even further. “I don’t know what that means.”
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, because he wasn’t even looking at me.
“What would you do if I asked you to marry me?” he asked.
My startled laugh came out more like a scoffing bark. Regardless, it pretty much answered his question.
“Are you serious?” I asked, not yet sure how appalled I ought to be.
Drawing a deep breath, he looked at me for the first time.
“Oh, shit,” I heard myself say, my knees turning instantly watery and weak. “You’re really serious.”
He beckoned to me. Six steps was all it took to close the distance enough for him to hook his arm around my waist and draw me in to stand between his slightly spread feet. He hugged me, and it felt so sad and yet so natural to wrap my arms around his shoulders too as he buried his face between my breasts. My fingers played in the tight curls at the nape of his neck. Nobody, n
ot even daddies, could be strong all the time. I was more than willing to be here for him in this moment of fragility, but it scared me too, because I was starting to suspect I knew what had spawned it.
“They want me to get married,” he finally said, leaning back enough to look at me.
“I see,” I said, and I could. What I couldn’t do was breathe. “Did they say to who?”
“A Nigerian princess.” He looked at me. “Which brings me back to my original question, baby girl.”
The endearment felt like a sucker punch. Now not only could I not breathe, I couldn’t think very well either. My thoughts were a whirlwind, swirling wildly between ‘I can’t be a princess’ and ‘I’m losing my daddy.’ When I let go of his shoulders, he let go of my hips.
“What would you do,” he repeated, “if I asked you to marry me?”
What, and never go back to the States again? Never see my friends or my family? Live for the rest of my life in a beautiful palace, on a beautiful island, as the wife to a beautiful, dominant man who knew how to comfort me, and punish me, and who broke the bed with me more nights than not—all of which, on the surface of it, should have been all the reason I needed to say yes. But I wasn’t looking at the surface of it. I was looking at the shit underneath.
This was not a fairy tale. This was reality and the reality was that one wrong move on Mazi’s part could forever ruin his already struggling country. Marrying me was that wrong move.
I was not a princess.
I didn’t know the first thing about being a helpmate to a king.
I was a journalist, and while my job title was kind of prestigious right now, who was I kidding? My biggest achievement before this was writing about bake sales and road construction awareness and, ha, about strippers in months-old night clubs that barely warranted more than a tongue-in-cheek nod at the guys shaking their tackle on the stage.
But this man was my daddy, the first I’d ever been free to truly be myself with. He didn’t make fun of me when he saw me hugging on Ms. Beatrix on the plane. He didn’t take advantage of me when I was coming onto him like a randy moose in the stateroom.
