"So," said a confident feminine voice, targeted to hit its mark.
Arya clutched at the bodice of her rumpled dress, trying to calm a heart rate that had jacked up to the point of pain. She gulped in a few noisy breaths and tried to zero in on where the voice had come from. It was one of her sisters, but which one? And what would she want in return for keeping this secret?
Except... Who cared? Her life was over anyway. She could see Javad's path forward clearly. Once, she might have worried about him using her and abandoning her. But the way he'd forced her to open up to him, to talk about her wanting him... He'd encouraged a dangerous emotional connection, at least connecting her to him. He would take that seriously. Him abandoning her? That would never happen. It might be better for her if he did.
In the meantime, she could deal with her sister. There, in the shadows. Daliya, the older sister who had always tormented her. Actually, she was curled up in the spot Arya thought of as her own. A soft light threw a glow on her face. Was that a Kindle? Daliya read? Books, not just Cosmo?
She had to laugh. She'd watched both her sisters sneak in exactly this way while she worked on her iPad. The role reversal was pure comedy.
"So," she answered, when she'd recovered.
Daliya looked at her, dark eyes flashing in amusement. "I guess the dress worked. Was he all you'd hoped?"
Arya swallowed. It was too bad. She wanted to talk to someone so badly, but Daliya was not safe. It hit her hard, then. She had no one in this place she could talk to about him. The few friends in her life were back in Ottawa. At least with the time difference, she could call someone right now without waking them up. Still, she wanted someone here to put arms around her, to console her for the wreck she'd made.
"I don't know what you're talking about." She lifted her chin and headed toward her room, and someone in another time zone.
"I'm not an idiot." She practically heard Daliya roll her eyes in the darkness. "I didn't think you had it in you. I mean, I suspected our stepmother was maneuvering to get you out of the house when she got those dresses made for you. I just didn't think you'd follow through."
Her throat closed. Daliya was right. She didn't have it in her. She never would have slept with Darius, she admitted to herself now. She had belonged to Javad for months, and after tonight, always would. Body and soul and poor, broken heart.
Her stepmother, Saminah, had been very encouraging about the two dresses she'd practically insisted Arya have made, even lending Arya her French designer. When Arya had pulled them out of the tissue, in the privacy of her own room, this one had been inches lower at the top, and inches higher at the bottom, than she'd discussed with Maxime. But actually wearing the dress, and on a night her father wouldn't be around to say anything, had been her own plan.
Her own dumb plan. That had worked, had backfired, and would now ruin her life.
"Hey." There was actual concern in Daliya's voice as she got up and came over, looking confident and elegant in turquoise satin pajamas with black lace trim.
Arya let herself be led to the rattan love seat where Daliya had been sitting alone. Her sister pushed down on her shoulders and Arya's knees gave way.
"Are you alright?"
It was only when Daliya handed her a tissue that she realized there were tears on her face. Was she alright? Probably not.
"Hey," Daliya said, as if reassuring a little girl who had fallen down. "I'm sure you'll see him again."
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and decided she was done crying. "I know," she told Daliya, holding her head up to face the future that she hated. "He'll ask me to marry him tomorrow. That's the problem."
Daliya shrugged. "Well, if you don't love him, say no. If he tells Dad about tonight, say you were with me. I'll back you up."
Arya stared at her. Daliya would back her up? The idea gave her a jolt of pure happiness. She'd always wanted a good relationship with her sisters, but Daliya had always hated her, and Komal had no time for her. They both thought she sucked up to Dad.
Maybe things were different now they were back in Ulai. "I love him," she admitted.
"Oh, I get it," Daliya said. "He doesn't love you."
Javad had been silent as a star in the desert sky as he drove her home, and as distant. Not purposely, she knew. He'd been catching up to the new reality of their relationship. She'd left him to his mental calculations as terrible fears ripped through her. A silent and thoughtful Javad meant a planning Javad. And huge problems barreling down the train tracks.
If only he'd explained to her that their encounter was one night only and they would go back to being friends now.
"I think he does," she said, all misery. "To the extent that he's capable of actual emotion."
"Okay, you love him and he loves you and him asking to marry you is making you cry. You avoided guys until now, but you're somehow making up for lost time. This is some crazy angst." Daliya had genuine confusion in her voice. "Help me out here."
She had to admit it didn't make much sense. She treated the dark to an ironic smile. What a nightmare this was all going to be. There was nothing to do now but follow through. "He's going to ask me to marry him, and I will say yes, and then I'll be the perfect diplomat's wife, and that's it."
The light bulb seemed to click on above Daliya's head. "Not much of a romance."
"Not much of a romance," she agreed. "But more than that, he's just like Dad. All tight inside. Locked up. I'm going to spend the rest of my life with a guy who hides all his emotions."
Daliya straightened in her seat, beautiful features solidified into defiance. "No, you're not."
"But I love him, and I can be with him." She accepted her defeat. She'd gotten exactly what she wanted, and exactly what she was afraid of. She should have stayed in her cocoon, clinging to her work and her books. Trying for the bigger pleasures in life had just cost her everything else.
"Leave." Daliya grabbed both her hands, a little too tightly. "You have to leave. Get away from him. It's the only way to get over him. Listen, you can't settle for a life like that."
"But Father needs—"
"Damn right Dad needs you," Daliya said. "But you don't need him. You've done his job from the background since you were nineteen, and done it so smoothly that no one would notice."
"But you noticed?" Daliya's concern threw her off. Her sister had ignored her for years. Or so she'd thought.
Maybe she shouldn't trust Daliya. Then again, why the hell not? Even if she reported everything they talked about to their father, which didn't seem likely considering the epic fights the two of them had, why would it matter? This time of living with her family was over. In a few short months, she'd be Javad's wife. His unhappy, depressed wife, taken for granted just the way her father took her for granted.
On the other hand, if she left, she'd be alone and in misery. None of this was going the way it was supposed to. "I have to marry him. If I don't, I'll be—"
"Miserable." Daliya cut her off. "For a few years. Would you prefer being miserable for the rest of your life with him?"
She was right, Arya realized. It would feel like dying in the moment, but leaving would give her some hope in the future. Far, far in the future.
Her sister's unfocused eyes looked vaguely in the direction of the tinkling courtyard fountain. But she also seemed to be looking far away. Perhaps even into the past. "I watched Dad make you take care of him, and I was too young to do anything about it. And to be honest, I was jealous of you."
"Of me?" She didn't trust her ears. "You're kidding."
Daliya nodded. When she spoke again, her tone was desert-dry. "You had your mom. Mine left me. I was so awful back then that I was happy your mom died because it meant you had to feel what I did. Except I doubt Dad ever told you what a whore she was after she was gone.
"Oh, Daliya." Her heart burned with the pain of a little girl abandoned by the person in the world who was supposed to love her the most. If only she'd known back then. They could
have been wretched together.
Her sister seemed to come back into the present, her beautiful face hardened to stone. "You can't live with that again. I won't let you, even if I have to abduct you or something."
"Maybe you're right about leaving."
"Will he try to force you into marriage?"
She waved a hand in dismissal. "Javad isn't like that."
Daliya froze in place for an instant, and it hit Arya what she'd just said. His name. Shit.
"Javad? As in His Highness Javad Shirin? The King's brother? Three piece suit? Tie about to strangle him?"
She nodded after every question. What else could she do? Everyone had seen her talking to Javad these last few months. It wasn't much of a leap.
Daliya had a sparkle and a newfound respect in her eyes. "The effing prince. Seriously? Boy, you really go for it, don't you?"
She couldn't help but smile back a bit. She'd had the second highest ranked man in the land between her thighs, and she was about to turn down his proposal—if she could find the strength. She felt a little badass. It was kind of a great feeling. If she didn't think about how she was about to leave and never see him again.
"Go back to Ottawa," Daliya urged. "The king will send you if you ask. Make yourself busy, and eventually you'll meet someone else. One of us might as well be free from this place."
Arya looked at the home that didn't feel like hers. She'd felt far more comfortable at Javad's house, with its Western-style art and furniture, and that big, fluffy, dirty-thought-inducing bed. She wouldn't miss this place's hand-knotted silk carpets, the bronze-topped tables, or the mosaic floor tiles. Until a few minutes ago, she would have gladly left anything in Ulai but Javad. Now there was something else she wouldn't leave behind her.
She smiled at her sister. "You're right. So come with me."
Daliya's perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together. "Really?"
For the first time Arya had ever seen, Daliya looked unsure of herself. Her normally confident expression was gone as she searched Arya's face.
"Yes, really. You can't stay here with Dad." She locked her sister's hand in her own and gave it a supportive squeeze.
"Okay. I will." Daliya's whole face brightened with a glow of anticipation and mischief. "We'll find hockey players or something."
If only she could share Daliya's enthusiasm. There was hope for a decent life—but she would never allow another man into her bed. Not after all she'd shared with the only man she would ever love. And who, after tomorrow, she would never see again.
Chapter Seven
One day, and his whole world had changed. Javad swallowed his chuckle, but permitted himself a whisper of a smile as he strode into the official reception for the Orméan Crown Prince. Arya. Things had worked out so efficiently. The piece he hadn't known was missing from his life had fallen into place with no effort or concern on his part. Now all he had to do was assure her of her position with him and things would be complete between them.
Tonight, they would finally dance together, he promised himself, scanning the room for her.
This reception was more to his liking. It seemed the entire upper class of Ulai had accepted the invitation. He had arranged a twelve-piece band to play a mix of traditional Ulain songs and Western-style jazz. The music wafted down to the dance floor from the high marble balcony above. Servers with traditional, alcohol-free drinks quietly cruised the room, seeing to the needs of the guests.
He spotted a dark grey dress through the crowd. A shining metallic silver that again had every man's eye, he noted with irritation. At least it was suitably modest tonight. The front covered her to her collarbone. Then she and her dance partner made another turn, and his pulse ratcheted. His fist went into his pocket. Her entire back was on display, framed by a flow of silver material. No one but him had ever seen those particular freckles before last night, he was sure. No one else would see them again, he promised himself. Her partner had only two choices—put his hand on the bare skin of her spine, or too low on her back. Far, far too low.
Her dance partner's face came into view. A face he knew like his own. Darius. With his Arya. He had never been jealous of his brother until this moment, but now the feeling was all-consuming. Darius was expected to marry a foreign princess, but if he desired the daughter of an ambassador, it was not out of the question. Especially if love was involved, and with Arya, it would have to be. But who would not fall in love with her when he took the time to know her?
His rage blew through him like a hot desert wind. He fought for control, and only won by telling reminding himself who she was. Arya, who gave herself to him, and no one else. Arya, his sweet friend he had ignored for too long. Now she would have all his attention.
To calm the strange whirlwind inside him, he planned, as usual. Truly, Arya might be in Darius' arms, but it was only a dance. They were in public, and there was a suitable three inches of space between their bodies. Nothing to worry about.
Across the room, her father spoke to a member of the Royal Cabinet. Good. He'd been hoping the man would be present tonight. It made things simple and smooth.
He accepted the glass of hibiscus sharbat a waiter offered him and took a sip. The sweet, flowery drink kept his teeth from clenching. The plan was this: he would wait until Arya and his brother finished the dance, and whisk her into a private corner. There, she would accept his proposal. He knew she would. She saw things so clearly. She had known he was in love with her before he had himself. The whole idea of her sleeping with Darius was nonsense, had always been nonsense.
It had simply taken that naked dress to put his body in tune with his heart, where she had been the only woman for months now.
After, he would speak to her father, who would delight at a closer alliance with the royal family. She would be the perfect diplomat's wife. Hadn't her father trained her for just such a thing, as his own father had trained him to serve the Crown?
It all made so much sense. Flawless, perfect sense. A mosaic with tiles that fit together snugly, each piece contributing its own flash of color to a cohesive whole. Similar to the floor on which he stood, which depicted the famed battle of Ulai that had won the country's freedom from the juggernaut of the Persian Empire.
Yet the sharbat tasted like vinegar to him. The music rang off-key in his ears. There was nothing wrong with any part of his plan, and it would make every person involved happy. However, something about it irritated him immeasurably. He simply could not identify what it was.
She and his brother twirled past him. She pretended not to notice him watching her, but he knew she was as aware of him as he was of her. Yet she spoke to his brother intently. Yesterday she had barely been able to look the king in the eye. Now it was almost as if she was in deep negotiations with him.
What could she have to discuss with his brother after last night? She should be concentrating on their new-born relationship.
Unless. If she regretted being with him—which wasn't possible—she would be making arrangements to leave Ulai. Her father would never permit that, and no one could overrule her father.
Except Darius. The king could assign her to, say, the Ottawa Embassy. In that case, her father could say nothing. Arya currently danced with the person who could solve her dilemma.
Javad inhaled sharply before he realized he was doing it. He had not considered this. He loved her. She loved him. Despite that, he might lose her.
Over the noise of the band, the conversations of the other attendees, the swish of luxurious fabrics swirling across the dance floor, he heard her laugh. Not loudly. In fact, she nearly swallowed the sound. But he had heard it. Darius had made her laugh. Had she laughed when they were together last night? Not at anything he'd said, at least.
He watched her face over Darius' shoulder as her smile fell, her features once more becoming sober and restrained. She'd seen something that made her stop. He tracked where she'd been looking. Straight at her father, whose eyes burned hot lasers in her direction. Remem
ber who you dance with, his pointed gaze said. Don't embarrass me, it warned.
Sudden, unfamiliar rage thundered in his ears. That attitude had made Arya into little more than her father's servant, had praised her silence, and put her in beige dresses for nearly thirty years. Placed her in the background while her sisters rebelled. Perhaps even kept him from noticing her, and so kept them apart for far too long.
And he, just yesterday, had thought exactly like her father, of matching her with old Sheikh Zakharias. The idea enraged him now, both the possibility of her union with the man, and that he had thought of it. For her. For Arya, of all people. She was—would always be—the most important person in his life, and he had felt she deserved no better than an old man in a wheelchair.
Fuck that. The words shot thought his mind, leaving Javad shocked at his own mental swearing. And he knew then what was wrong, why he was so disturbed by the idea of quietly arranging their marriage.
Fuck her father, he thought, for once relishing the way the foul word unleashed his emotions. Fuck everyone in the room, and what they thought. Fuck quiet and restrained, and fuck anyone who made Arya stop laughing ever again. Fuck them all.
"I beg your pardon?" Javad's mental rant was interrupted by a small, aged voice at his elbow. A white-haired woman in a rust-colored dress looked up at him with a flash of fire in the set of her mouth. "What did you say, Your Highness?"
His fist was no longer in his pocket, he realized. He knew he should recover himself and say something diplomatic to her. But his fist was out of his pocket. The spirits of his ancestors, the rebels who broke the republic from the empire whispered in his mind, telling him to take what he wanted and to make it his own no matter the cost.
"Ma'am," he said with great politeness. "I believe what you heard was, 'Fuck them all.'"
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