The Sheikh's Baby Bet

by Holly Rayner

But her father cut his hand through the air, shaking his head. “No. This is no time for tears,” he said.

  “But what are you going to do?” Tiffany whispered. “You can’t just go back to America. Not after all these years…”

  “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t return to the States,” her father said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll keep my job, either.”

  “What do you mean?” Tiffany asked. There was a collection of breadcrumbs on the table before her, now. A small mound had grown.

  “Tiffany, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not getting any younger,” her father continued. He scratched at the grey hairs on his cheek and chin. “I would be due to retire in the next few years, anyway. I’ve already discussed it with the people back in D.C.” He gave her his first soft smile since she’d given him the news. “And I suppose I could move that date up a little bit, for the sake of you and my grandchild.”

  Tiffany’s face crumpled with relief and she began to cry.

  “Unless you don’t want me to act as the grandfather here,” her father said. His smile continued to grow. He took a step forward and offered his free hand. Tiffany took it and walked closer to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She felt his grip on her tighten. This was it. He was accepting her, and he was accepting Kazra’s child.

  “I’m so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,” she whispered into his shoulder, feeling herself shudder with a strange mix of sadness and relief. “Everything is about to change for us both. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

  “Honestly, baby girl?” her dad began. He clutched her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “All I can feel, right now, is joy. Let’s figure out a way for you to contact the Sheikh. I’m sure I can get you an interview or something…”

  Leaving their dinner on the table, he fled to his computer. He began to leaf through his online calendar with a frown on his face. Tiffany hovered behind him, eyeing his strategic organizational skills. It was clear that she took after him. Everything was marked, color-coded. On the wall behind the computer was a framed photograph of her father and the former Sheikh, shaking hands. Grandfathers, together. This warmed her heart.

  “Aha!” Her father pointed toward an event the following week. “The Sheikh is addressing the nation this upcoming Thursday. A week from today. There’s always loads of press there. They’re coming in and out, interviewing people like me and the other ambassadors. I’m certain I could get you a pass.”

  Tiffany remembered the old Sheikh’s televised addresses. They were always stuffy affairs, with the Sheikh laying out the goals and challenges facing his rule for the coming year, hopes for the economy, and highlighting what had been achieved over the past year. Picturing Kazra standing in front of the press made her smile.

  “The playboy is giving a national address?” she said, grinning broadly.

  “The father of my grandchild is giving the national address,” her father corrected her. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, coaxing her. “We’re going to have to forgive him for his wrongdoings if he’s to be a part of our lives. Maybe, just maybe, he’s grown up a little in the past few weeks.”

  Her father’s eyes twinkled.

  “You’ve certainly changed your tune,” Tiffany laughed. “A few weeks ago you were sure that he wasn’t ready for this responsibility.”

  “Well, we’ll see how this speech goes,” her father said. He trudged back to the kitchen and poured himself a second glass of wine, chuckling. “I’m glad you can’t drink, darling. Because I’m going to need to drink this entire bottle myself to get through this.”

  “Have it all,” Tiffany said with a grin. After a long pause, she headed back to her seat at the dining room table, centered on the plan. As her father sipped his wine, she dove into her pasta, eating with purpose. She had a job to do. She had a child to nurture. And she wasn’t going to hold back, with people, with food, with life, on her path to doing it.

  When it got late, her father drew open the pullout bed in the couch, lining it with sheets and pillows.

  “I want you to stay here tonight,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

  “Dad. I can take care of myself,” Tiffany laughed, her heart swelling with love with the tender gesture.

  “Baby, I don’t want you to feel alone for a single minute,” her father said, insisting. “If I can help out with that in any way…”

  “Fine,” Tiffany said, grinning sheepishly. “I accept.”

  She found herself sleeping easier, deeper, than she had in weeks. She stretched out on the lumpy mattress and dove into slumber, knowing that her father was watching out for her. He was making the ultimate sacrifice, for her happiness, and for the betterment of her child.

  Now, all she had to hope was that the Sheikh would have a similar reaction.

  But as she remembered him for his “true colors,” Tiffany wasn’t sure how much hope she had.

  Chapter Ten

  “The national address?” Zarina repeated, aghast. “He got you a press pass?”

  “It was the best plan he could think of,” Tiffany said. They were perched over their lunch, speaking conspiratorially in an empty restaurant.

  “You have no idea how the Sheikh is going to react to this news,” Zarina said, hanging her head. “What if he reacts poorly? Or has you thrown out?”

  Tiffany’s smile fell. “When faced with the mother of his child?”

  “You don’t have any real proof that he’s the father,” Zarina reminded her.

  “I haven’t slept with anyone else,” Tiffany affirmed.

  “I know that. You know that. But that’s not how the Sheikh’s world works, and you know that.”

  “Stop,” Tiffany whispered. She drew her hands over her ears and shook her head. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Zarina dropped her fork into her salad. Her bottom lip quivered with anger. “I just don’t want him to mess around with you anymore, is all.”

  “I know. I know.” Tiffany wrapped her hand around Zarina’s, holding it tight. “You saying that means more than you could ever know. But right now—”

  “You have to. I get it.” Zarina’s jaw was set, determined. “But so help me God, if he does anything rude to you after you tell him…”

  “What? You’re going to hurt the Sheikh?” Tiffany laughed.

  Near the register, the server glanced at them, giving them a burning look. Tiffany smacked her hand on the table, trying to play it off as a joke. “Of course, if only we could meet him just once. What great work he’s doing with this country.”

  “Right. Great work,” Zarina muttered. She stabbed her fork back into her salad and began to crunch hungrily, allowing bits of spinach to fall to the table.

  “You’re eating like an animal,” Tiffany said, eyeing her. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “If you say so,” Zarina sighed.

  But honestly, Tiffany wasn’t so sure. She felt apprehensive during the days leading up to the grand event. She kept the press pass on the kitchen counter, touching it every time she passed it. It was a reminder to stay focused. This was her ticket to telling the Sheikh the truth.

  The day of the national address, Tiffany took the afternoon off work. Slipping the press pass lanyard over her head, she walked from her office building and hailed a cab. “The palace,” she told the driver, flipping her long locks over her shoulder.

  “It’s going to be tough getting anywhere near,” the driver said. “There’s that national address today. Tons of security.”

  “Just get me as close as you can,” Tiffany said. She kept her hands on her stomach and stretched her fingers wide. Her nausea had been flaring up all morning, making her lock her jaw tightly closed. She refused to vomit in this taxi. Her body just had to obey her.

  The taxi stopped about five blocks away from the palace in thick traffic. Cars around them honked their horns, and drivers cried out at one another. Traffic was at a standstill, and after ten minutes, it was c
lear that a better path wouldn’t open up any time soon.

  Tiffany reached for her wallet, paid the driver and got out of the car to walk through the gridlock. She felt out of place, wearing a sleek black dress under her blazer, and a wide belt covered the small swell of her stomach. She looked crisp, businesslike and definitely not pregnant. This was what she wanted. She wanted the Sheikh to look at her warmly and to remember the pleasure they’d given one another.

  The press area was a complete mess, with people skirting in and out, clinging to microphones, their eyes flashing with excitement. Walking alongside the other journalists, Tiffany tried not to feel like a complete imposter. For clues to how she should behave, she listened in.

  “He’s having a press-only talk in about ten minutes,” one of them whispered to another, her eyebrows high. “If we don’t get this recorder up and running…”

  “Can’t you just use your phone?”

  “It’s dead.”

  Ten minutes. Tiffany watched as journalists began to swarm toward the right of the stage, which was suddenly illuminated by spotlights. The podium glowed. She headed toward the stage, glancing toward the back of it, where a red curtain fluttered between this world and the backstage one.

  With a sudden jolt, she realized that the Sheikh was standing a mere ten feet away, positioned directly in the gap between the curtain and the wall. Shocked, her breath caught in her throat. He was speaking in low tones with an advisor, a man with a thick red shawl wrapped around his shoulders. Despite his somber expression, Tiffany recognized how completely bored Kazra was. He was no longer the witty playboy, blasting through the city with pretty models by his side. He was an unwilling ruler preparing to address the nation. And he was horribly alone.

  As the minutes ticked by, Tiffany realized that this might be her only chance. Lifting her press pass high, she bounded up the steps of the stage and toward the gap in the curtain. As she swept forward, the advisor held up his hands, his eyes growing wide.

  “Miss! You’re not allowed up here. I’m terribly sorry. But stay back!”

  But Tiffany had gone too far already. She pushed forward, making direct eye contact with the Sheikh. As she grew closer, her smile widened. And when she was just a few feet away, she saw that twinkle in the Sheikh’s eyes. He recognized her, too.

  “It’s quite all right,” Kazra told his advisor. “This is an old friend.”

  “We’ve discussed your need to limit your interaction with old friends,” the advisor snapped, his eyes sharp and eagle-like. “Your father would not approve… It is unhealthy to dwell…”

  At this point, Tiffany was directly in front of both of them. The excitement had caused her to lose her breath. She gasped slightly, but still wore a smile, reserved only for the Sheikh. She was surprised that, despite having held contempt for him the past few months, she was still attracted to him. Her ears perked up at the sound of his voice. Her heart quickened, and she licked her lips, wondering if she should shake his hand or not.

  “It won’t take long,” the Sheikh told his advisor, still holding her gaze. “I’m assuming it won’t?”

  “If I could just steal you for two minutes,” Tiffany said, her voice light and unrushed.

  Kazra led her toward the far end of a dressing room. He motioned toward the advisor, whom they left tittering near the stage. “He’s just anxious about this first national address,” he sighed. “Doesn’t trust me, I’m afraid.”

  “Should he?” Tiffany asked, her tone light.

  “I suppose not,” Kazra laughed. “Although I must admit, I’m a different man than I was when I knew you, Tiffany.”

  Her heart leapt at the sound of her name on his lips, and she forced herself to stay composed.

  After a pause, the Sheikh stopped and leaned heavily against the wall, his eyes falling. “I don’t just remember your name. I was always going to remember that, anyway. I also remember what I did to you.”

  Tiffany waited, feeling apprehensive. What did he mean?

  “I remember that I wronged you,” the Sheikh continued. “I was an arrogant boy, with arrogant ideas about the world. And for that, I’m sorry.”

  Tiffany glanced past him, feeling that the moment was too intense to hold his gaze. She swallowed, feeling the tightness in her throat. “You’re becoming more like your father, aren’t you?”

  The Sheikh’s smile broke. “I like to think so.”

  Tiffany felt the moment approaching. She couldn’t allow him to escape before he learned the news. Bringing her fingers through her hair, she stuttered slightly, feeling terribly small.

  “Kazra, the thing is…” She trailed off, biting her bottom lip. “The thing is…something happened the night we were together.”

  The Sheikh tilted his head, assessing her. His eyes shone with curiosity.

  “I guess I’ll just say it. I’ll just come out and say it. I’m pregnant,” Tiffany said, her voice cracking. “And it’s definitely yours. It can be no one else’s.”

  The Sheikh’s lips parted. The next few moments were horribly silent. Tiffany’s heart quaked with fear in her chest. But before the Sheikh could respond, could even smile, could tell her his thoughts—the advisor appeared in the doorway. He grimaced, and gave Tiffany a sour look.

  “They’re ready for you, Your Highness,” he said.

  “Just a minute,” the Sheikh said, clearing his throat.

  “No. Not just a minute.” The advisor burst forward, gripping the Sheikh’s shoulder, and yanked him back toward the stage. Suddenly, Tiffany found herself completely alone, the secret out. As she stood, shocked, her eyes stung, and she felt tears begin to course down her cheeks.

  It was over.

  She remained frozen in place for several minutes as her heart grew heavy in her chest. She heard the speech begin in the next room, for press only, and she felt, all at once, that she couldn’t bear to be in the same vicinity as the Sheikh; not for a moment longer. Finding a side door, she burst from the press area and into the sunshine, unable to catch her breath. Inside, she heard the fake titters of the journalists, trying to create a rapport with their new leader. His fake laughter followed. God, nothing was real. Nothing except the child growing inside her.

  Minutes crept on. She couldn’t find the strength to leave, not without hearing word from the Sheikh. She leaned heavily against the palace wall, listening as the Sheikh fielded questions from the journalists. He bid them goodbye, saying, “And wish me luck on that national address. As many of you know, I’m not terribly used to this yet.”

  The journalists chuckled in return, as if they were sharing a joke. Tiffany realized that they were probably the men and women who had clamored for paparazzi photos and written about the Sheikh when he’d been a party animal, racing from one rooftop party to the next and scandalizing the entire country with his antics.

  Several members of the press joined her outside, then, lifting cigarettes into their lips and speaking in dull tones. Not wanting to inhale the smoke, Tiffany returned inside. In place of the pulpit, a large screen had been drawn, and a live broadcast of the main event flashed across it. Thousands of people surrounded the main stage, roaring for their new leader. Tiffany remained in the center of the room, her chin high. She couldn’t look away.

  The Sheikh appeared on stage. He raised his hands, making his robes ripple through the air. The crowd roared louder, making him pump his arms up and down with excitement. Perhaps he was the rock star Sheikh they wanted. Perhaps he was one they deserved, after years of stuffiness. After years of living in the past.

  “Hello!” the Sheikh cried out over the microphone, greeting his people. The camera flipped downward, meeting him at eye level. “It’s so wonderful to be here for my first national address.”

  The crowd roared back.

  “I must tell you,” he said, reaching up to rub his carefully sculpted stubble. “I must tell you that I’m going to be going off script with this speech. My advisor is going to be terribly upset with me. But
that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.”

  The crowd giggled, loving his fresh, humorous patter. It fell unnaturally from the Sheikh’s lips. Tiffany’s heart hammered, suddenly fearful. Why was he going off script?

  “I’ve just learned something rather remarkable,” he continued. “Something that will dramatically change my future, and the future of this country.”

  No. He wouldn’t. Would he? Tiffany crossed her arms over her chest, feeling every cell within her quaking with fear.

  “I have just learned,” Kazra continued, “That I am going to be a father.”

  In the wake of his words, the world seemed to explode. Tiffany fell to her knees, aghast that he would have revealed such a secret to the world without consulting her first. Around her, the journalists shrieked. This was huge news. And they were learning it alongside everyone else.

  “Why hadn’t that leaked?” one journalist asked another, her eyes wide.

  “Surely he’s making it up.”

  “Who do you think the mother is?” another asked, his voice high-pitched and strained.

  “We have to find her for comment. Immediately. Before anyone else.”

  “No, no, no,” Tiffany whispered.

  She began to back away from the rest of the journalists, suddenly feeling like the target of a witch hunt. Ripping her hands through her hair, she listened as the Sheikh tried to go ahead with his regular address. But he found it difficult, with the crowd screaming his name. An heir to the throne! This was huge! Tiffany knew it to be true. But what the entire world didn’t know was that she held that heir in her belly. It was private. It kept her awake at night. It wasn’t their business. Not yet.

  Finally, Kazra gave up. He lifted his hand in a final wave and walked off the stage. He looked proud, confident, his chin held high.

  Tiffany’s forehead creased in anger. With a jolt of energy, she burst onto the side stage and went toward the dressing room. Her hands were tight fists. As she approached, she saw the Sheikh, followed closely by his advisor. The advisor was trying to reason with him. “Highness. You know you have to go back out there. The people deserve to hear what you have to say…”