Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1)

by Venessa Kimball

As my father makes his suggestion and my mother re-arranges the seating to his liking, Zaid asks, “What about the Amir and his family? They need to be close to us.”

  “What about them?” My question has all of their attention, Zaid exchanging a glance of obvious proportions with my mother. “Well, the Amir and his family are dear friends of ours. We are practically family, Raj.”

  I want to shove the seating chart up his ass and curse him out of the fucking room with his overtone. I think again before saying a word, I would have more to worry about with him gone. I consider that’s what my mother and father are thinking too, as they are trying to gain control over both of our whereabouts.

  Zaid leaves my heavy gaze as he looks onto my father. “The announcement will come after dinner as you requested, Baba. Will there be any other necessary arrangements for this announcement?”

  My father looks at my mother, then between Zaid and me as he answers. “No, I have it under control. I am very excited to announce both of them tomorrow night.”

  Both of them?

  “There are two!” Zaid asks, then glances at me, smiling. Fucking asshole. I can see his mind working. Mine is already there. One will be the announcement of the heir to the throne, Zaid, and the other could only be the union between Kuwait and Jordan through the marriage of its royalty. I can’t fucking be in here right now.

  I rise from my chair, the sound of wood running against the wooden floor drawing my parents’ and brother’s eyes on me again. “I need to make a phone call to the center.”

  I exit out into the courtyard, unable to handle the claustrophobic feeling of the room. Marriage to a fucking princess I don’t even know. What? Have my father and the Amir contrived to skip my proposal and seal the ill-fated alliance, disregarding the entities involved in this matrimony?

  “Your mother has told me about the American girl at the center.”

  Surprised by my father’s presence and quickness of getting to his point, I turn to his voice, my hands tucked in my pockets.

  He moves closer, having my attention. “She tells me you are in love with her.”

  I don’t know why I drop my eyes from him. It isn’t from shame. I could never be ashamed of loving Ella. I meet his eyes. “Yes, I am.”

  He places his cane between us and rests both of his hands on top of the knob, his eyes not leaving mine. Stoically he says, “It doesn’t change my mind about my announcement on your behalf tomorrow, Raj.”

  I have never defied my father, but I am brought the brink. “It does not change my mind either, Baba. I love her and that will never change.”

  His nods and lowers his eyes, staring at his hands for a long time before looking back up at me. “I knew it wouldn’t.”

  Without another word, he turns and slowly walks back to the house as I consider the measures I am willing to take; rejecting my status, risking my allegiance, and opposing my duty for the woman I have fallen in love with.

  I slip the handcrafted, midnight-blue halter over my head, the sequins and crystal-like beading glimmering softly in the low light of my bedroom. I’m careful not to mess up my makeup and the up-do Jasara and Hoda have given me. The last three days have flown by between my girls keeping me busy, buzzing about their anticipation to see the palace, the King, and the Queen.

  “Ella, we will see Princess Tamanna!” Muna’s excitement was my entertainment and privilege. To see her eyes light up and her smile for the last three days was priceless. All of my girls would be able to meet a real-life princess, queen, and king, something they may have never had the opportunity to do in their lifetime if it wasn’t for Raj’s program. They have been able to see the very man who has brought hope to their eyes jumping rope for their entertainment in the courtyard, for God’s sake. Raj had been less visible at the center, but had made sure I saw him when he was there.

  Hoda and Jasara had arranged for the girls and me to go dress shopping the day after we received the invitation. Before leaving, Ismad handed her the money sent with the invitation. She took half from his hand and thanked him. For five women, I didn’t think it would be enough, but I misjudged Hoda ... Stupid of me, I know. She never ceases to amaze me.

  She took us to the woman who had made her wedding dress, Fidda the seamstress, al kyiyata. It boggled my mind that such a connection between her and the woman that made her wedding dress was kept sacred. Fidda’s store was a short bus ride from the Ba’ashirs’ and during the ride I wondered how a little old woman, obviously aged since making Hoda’s wedding dress, would be able to create five dresses within three days.

  Once there, I understood. She had a whole team of women in the back of her shop working on creating elegant dresses fit for royalty. Her shop had an ample amount of designer-quality creations ready to wear, and as I browsed with Ameena and Laila for their dresses, Hoda tapped me on the shoulder, handing me the two-piece dress I am putting on right now. Fidda said it would look beautiful on my skin, making the color of my eyes pop, and when I tried it on, it fit perfectly. The shoes she chose for me were black, strappy, with a low heel. She said it would be more comfortable, and being that I hadn’t worn heels since my debutante days, I figured it best as well.

  The boys had an easier time dressing since Ghalib and Rushdi wore similar-size clothing. Ismad had loaned Nazeer a pair of slacks, a button-up shirt, and a sports jacket that fit him nicely, with only a small amount of hemming Hoda took up for him.

  I suspected Raj would have Badir come to get me and when Tom told us all of the volunteers would be driven to and from the palace. I was relieved knowing I wasn’t getting preferential treatment over the others. Tom also said the host families and refugee families would be transported to and from as well. When I told the family yesterday, the girls squealed, while the smiles on Ismad, Hoda’s, Jasara’s, and Nazeer’s faces had not stopped since reading the invitation.

  I slip on the skirt and zip up the back. Feeling the hair on my midsection is strange and I feel self-conscious walking out into the room with Ismad and Nazeer exposed like I am. A knock comes at my door.

  “Come in.”

  As the door opens, I turn to see Jasara, Hoda, Ameena, and Laila entering in their dresses, the girls with a light brushing of makeup and Hoda and Jasara appearing even more like sisters with their hair done and the matching deep burgundy lipstick they have chosen. They all look amazing.

  Automatically, I cover my visible midriff, but Hoda pulls my hands away from my body gently, holding my arms straight out as Jasara brings me the midnight-blue iridescent shawl meant to wrap for flair while disguising some of the visible skin. I watch Hoda and Jasara adjust the wrap and tuck it in place as Ismad’s voice interrupts, telling us the trucks are here in Arabic.

  Hoda calls back to him as she continues to adjust my wrap, then looks up at me and smiles. “Beautiful.”

  “Shukran, Hoda.”

  She takes my shoulders and kisses me on each cheek, then leads the way out of my room, calling to us, “Yalla Yalla.”

  All three trucks are lined up in front of the house. The Ba’ashirs take the first one, while the Ahmadis take the second. I expect the third one is for me and the volunteers I will be riding with. I’m not surprised to see Badir as the driver when he gets out and opens the door for me. “Salaam anees,” he says with the smallest smile he can muster.

  “Salaam, Badir.”

  As he helps me in I notice no one else is in the truck. I didn’t expect a transport only for me, but I’m sure Raj made sure of it.

  As we enter the gates of the palace, my nerves pique just thinking about seeing Raj in this capacity. Meeting his mother the Queen, his father the King. Seeing Zaid again after our encounter at the camp has me on edge as well.

  As we pull up to the palace, its grand red-brick exterior is highlighted with lights as people gather at the steps to enter. I suspect it is the receiving line for the king, queen, princes, and princess. Badir opens the door for me and helps me exit. Thanking him, I join the Ba’ashirs and the Ahmad
is in line.

  It moves quickly, and as we step through the doors of the palace, I glimpse the royal family receiving everyone, focusing on Raj for only a moment, long enough to notice how sophisticated and regal he looks in his suit and royal attire. He is attentive to every single guest, smiling and welcoming them. He dips low for the children, making sure to look into eyes. He glances down the line every once in a while as we move closer, not seeing me yet. Once he sees the Ba’ashirs, his eyes seek me out instantly, distracting him from the line. Once his golden eyes find me, his smile meant for the public he is greeting lessens, becoming the grin he reserves only for me.

  Even though he continues with the receiving line, smiling graciously to the Ba’ashirs, thanking them for their service in the program in Arabic, my presence has distracted him. He glances at me between greeting every member of the Ba’ashir and Ahmadi family. Once it is my turn, Raj can’t help taking in my appearance, the dress, my face, my hair.

  He takes my hand as he has every other woman and holds it in one while placing the other on top. “Thank you for your dedication to your girls, Ella.”

  I notice the Queen glance over the princess’s head at me and wonder if my name has struck a chord in her. I slip my hand from Raj’s and lower my eyes. “You’re welcome, Prince Rajaa.” He does the same, the need for discretion coming back to him as I move to the princess to his left. She is younger than Ameena and Laila. “I am Ella Wallace. It is an honor to meet you.”

  She extends her hand first, letting me know a handshake will suffice for a more traditional greeting, like a curtsey or the like. “I am Princess Tamanna. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Her soft voice mixed with her well-spoken English is adorable and lightens my nerves, which I totally need before meeting the Queen who is next in line.

  Standing before her, she radiates elegance, beauty, and an aura of power I suspect is both status and the fact she is the mother of the man I have fallen for.

  As I peer into her eyes, the resemblance to Raj is obvious, her honey-hued eyes lined beautifully with perfectly placed makeup. She extends her hand to me and I do the same. I am about to speak, tell her how honored I am to meet her, when she lessens her smile and says, “Ella Wallace. It is a pleasure to finally put a name with a face.”

  Her voice is seems tender, but her knowing who I am makes me wary of what she thinks of me. In what capacity has my name come up? Has Raj spoken to her about me? Zaid? “I hope to speak with you tonight, know more about you, Ella.”

  I can’t help being thrown off by her pursuit of me. I lower my eyes and bow to her. “Shukran, Your Highness.”

  I find my footing through all of my heightened nervousness as I stand before the King now. He takes my hand in his and looks down at me from a height similar to Raj. His hand trembles under mine, but it is only brief as he covers his other hand over mine just as Raj had done. Transparently smiling he says, “Thank you for your service at the center, Ella.”

  “It is my pleasure, Your Highness.”

  While I’m still speaking, he releases my hand quickly, moving his eyes from me to the next family, his smile more valid than the one he shared with me. I move forward and am face to face with Zaid. Now I am the one who can barely muster a transparent fucking smile as I look up at him. “It is an honor to meet you again, Prince Zaid.”

  The disdain in my voice is obvious, but isolated only between him and me. He doesn’t seem to notice, his smile wide and his voice as pleasant as can be. “Ella Wallace. I am so happy you are here. It is truly a pleasure to see you again.”

  I place my hand in his. “Shukran.” As his grip tightens like a noose around my hand, the other comes over it firmly, keeping me from moving on even though I try. He leans closer, his false smile still wide. “And tonight will definitely be memorable. Can’t you feel it in the air?”

  I twist my hand out of his grip and stare into his maddening black eyes. I notice the King glance at me, so I plaster on a smile as I look into Zaid’s evil eyes. “I’m sure you have made it so.”

  He bows his head as he folds his hands together. “Yes, well, it is an important evening.”

  I move away quickly, following the Ba’ashirs and Ahmadis when I hear my name

  “Ella!”

  Ana has spotted me and is making her way toward me with David and Laura following behind her. “The volunteers are sitting together.”

  As she beckons me to come, I glance at the Ba’ashirs, not wanting to leave them so quickly. Hoda smiles and shoos me along. “Go, go.”

  “Oh my God, El, your dress!” Ana takes my shoulders and turns me around.

  “Thank you.”

  She had on a black satin maxi dress with bell sleeves and the most beautiful sequined tie around her waist, cinching it to her shape. “You look beautiful, Ana.”

  She smiles somewhat self-consciously “You think?”

  “Yes, absolutely!”

  Ana leads us to the open doors of what appears to be a grand ballroom where tables have been set, servers are awaiting us, and the sound of woodwind instruments and drums announce the beginning of the celebration. The voices harmonize and resonate through the room as I follow Ana, David, and Laura to the tables.

  “You are sitting there, El.” She points to a spot on a table we approach. There are cards with our names at each place setting and as I look among the other tables, it’s the same. I lower my veil from my head to my shoulders, noticing two large round tables with two guards stationed by them. I assume that is where Raj, his family, and any other royalty will be seated.

  Many of the guests have either already taken their seats or are proceeding to them as the volume of the euphony escalates and a large group of brightly dressed women come through the door I had just entered. I take my seat and find where the Ba’ashirs and Ahmadis are sitting. I watch the expressions on their faces as they take in everything around them: the room, the music, the dancers. I take joy in watching them more than taking in the surroundings myself.

  I scan the room for my girls. I find it hard to recognize some of them with the elegant dresses they are wearing. A small hand rests on my arm. “Miss, Ella.”

  I don’t recognize this beautiful little girl right away, used to her wearing daily clothes as she clings to me on bad days and stays close on good ones. “Muna?” I turn in my chair and scoop her up in my lap and scan her dress, her curled hair, the tint of stain on her lips. “Is that you? Oh my gosh. You are so beautiful!”

  She giggles. “You didn’t know me!”

  I laugh, conceding to her truth of my not recognizing her. “You are right! I thought you were a princess!” I hug her close as she giggles more.

  “A princess! Like Tamanna?”

  “Yes, just like Tamanna.” I kiss the top of her head and set her down just as her aunt comes to take her hand, leading her back to their table.

  The servers make their rounds, offering tea and water as the music continues on and the dancers sway and shimmy, calling on the children to come to the dance floor and dance. Ameena and Laila even get up and dance as I watch Hoda and Jasara rise from their chairs and clap for them in time with the music, Ismad and Nazeer clapping and smiling from their seats.

  As I continue to watch, I notice one of the guards leave the isolated round tables. I follow him with my eyes, wondering if he is going to escort the royal family into the ballroom. My eyes move ahead him to the open doorway, where a man and woman stand with a younger woman, possibly my age, by their side. Their elegance and mannerisms show all the signs of royalty and I wonder if they are relatives of the King and Queen. I lean over to Tom, who is sitting on my right. “Who are they?”

  He glances back in the direction I am looking, distracted from the dancing. “That is the Amir of Kuwait and his wife.”

  I watch the guard lead them through the room, all of the guests watching in awe just as I am.

  The younger woman appears to be their daughter. The smoothness and charm she exudes is mesmerizing
to all, including me. Her skin is flawless, a golden bronze. The pale-pink dress billowing chiffon overlay and crystal beading beneath is the perfect color to highlight her features and petite frame. As the Amir, his wife, and daughter arrive at the table, they turn toward the back of the room. The music and dancers clear the dance floor along with the children having joined them, scurrying back to their chairs. A few of the girls look upon the young woman, in awe of her. Obliging them, she bows to their level and offers her hands to them. The girl’s eyes widen as they touch her hands then rush back to their families.

  I am so struck by her I lean over to Tom and ask, “She is their daughter. A princess?”

  “Yes, Princess Daya of Kuwait.”

  I feel like I have been stabbed in my chest, my heart bleeding out onto the table.

  Tom continues to speak, “There are rumors that Prince Rajaa is to marry her.”

  Unable to stop staring at her as she rises from the children and stands regally next to her parents waiting to receive the royal family, my heart slowly compresses, the vice tightening as my stomach twists in knots.

  I can’t deflect that she is gorgeous, perfection in every way; pure, kind, compassionate, and royal ... meant for a prince. Meant for Raj.

  I tighten the vice even more, envisioning the beautiful children her and Raj will make, needing the torture to quicken and pulverize my heart.

  With the Amir and his family still standing, everyone slowly rises to join them in greeting the royal family.

  A man’s voice speaks over the guests’ hushing voices, bringing further silence to the expansive room. “Your Highness King Ammaar Bin Qadir, Her Majesty Queen layaali Al Hashemite, Prince Zaid bin Ammaar, Prince Rajaa bin Ammaar, and Princess Tamanna bin Ammaar. The Royal family of Jordan!”

  I’m not sure what formal welcomings of royals looks like in the Middle East, but being the room has more commoners than royalty, the cheers and applause begins and I manage to put my hands together as well as the doors open.

  The King is the first to appear, followed by the Queen, Zaid, Tamanna, then Raj. Ignoring all else I watch Raj take in the guests, the smallest touch of a smile on his lips. He doesn’t wave like the rest of his family. Instead, he searches the crowded tables, I assume searching for me. As his eyes move toward our side of the room, a sudden fear of him seeing me washes over me and I shift into the space behind a man in front of me, keeping Raj from sight as I continue to clap.