ZAHIR_Her Ruthless Sheikh

by Theodora Taylor

  Playtime, I sense even before the guard deposits me back in my room less than ten minutes later, is definitely over.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Which is why I’m surprised when Nabida announces Zahir will be coming for dinner that night. And I mean really surprised. I’m still wearing a dress when Nabida suddenly rushes in, carrying the phone for my now daily call and one of the missing chairs. She places it on the other side of the table and hands me the phone before informing me the sheikh will join me for dinner.

  “Um, the twins had a show last night and they’re probably not even up yet,” I say, trying to process the second chair at the table. “Maybe I could call them after dinner?”

  There’s some consultation and a subtle call made by Raima, but then Nabida says, “Yes, you can keep the phone and return it to us after the sheikh leaves.”

  But she gives me a worried look like I’m skating on thin ice.

  “And you must remain in your dress,” Raima tells me.

  I look down at the black kaftan, which I’m now not allowed to take off. “Seriously?” I ask

  Yes, seriously. And so… I’m still in the dress a few hours later when I’m sitting across from Zahir at the table, in the formerly missing chair with my hands unbound.

  Strange, just a few weeks ago I dreamt about being able to sit in my own chair and eat with my own fingers and utensils. But tonight, feeding myself while sitting on a surface with four legs instead of two makes me feel anxious and unfettered…like I’m being punished. And though I didn’t eat much of a lunch, I find myself pushing food around on my plate with no appetite.

  “Eat,” he commands me.

  And I eye the suit he’s now wearing as I consider his order, and how much easier things will go for me if I just do as he says. As far as punishments go, this barely counts. He’s here, isn’t he? No two-day disappearance, just a slight deviation from our normal routine. And then after this meal there will probably be security sex, since he’s leaving for Asia in a couple of days. And that will make me feel all warm and glowy as opposed to someone serving out a prison sentence in the world’s most luxurious jail.

  Yes, that’s how I want tonight to go. How it will go, if I just put my head down and eat. I actually cut of a piece of succulent lamb and raise my fork halfway to my mouth, but then…you know… Jersey

  “So, what? We’re just not going to talk about your mother?” I ask, frank as all get out before I can stuff the lamb in my mouth

  Zahir goes very, very still on the other side of the table. “Prin. No,” he says, his voice dangerous and low.

  And it feels like I’m playing with my life as I tell him, “I liked her room. The record player—that was really cool. Did she grow up in India or here? I know Jahwar has a 60% Indian population, but—”

  I cut off when Zahir abruptly stands and flips the table. Everything goes flying, metal and porcelain crashing and breaking on the medallion patterned carpet. And Zahir stares down at me, breathing hard, the sound coming out of his chest somewhere between a wheeze and as hiss.

  We stay like that. Him standing and me sitting in my now tableless chair for a very long time.

  Then he says, “Cal-Mart.” His voice as hot with emotion as I have ever heard it.

  A few seconds later, he is gone and Raima and Nabida reappear to clean up the mess.

  Here we go again, I think as I watch them empty out the walk-in closet. Right in front of me, as if they’ve been specifically commanded to do it this way. Like the clothes are to blame for me finding out about Zahir’s mother, and then having the nerve to ask about her.

  I sigh and creep with the phone I’ve been given and still haven’t used to the much smaller coat closet in the main room. Once there, I close the door and hunker down to quickly dial Kasha’s number.

  “Prin!” Kasha yells. “Hold on, let me put you on speaker. We’re both downstairs eating breakfast!”

  Breakfast…well, it’s 9pm here which means it’s about 12pm on Saturday morning there. Sounds about right.

  “Hi, Prin,” Sasha says, as sedate as her sister is animated.

  “Hey guys,” I say, my heart squeezing at the sound of their voices. “I um…might not be able to call for a while, so I wanted to check in and see how your performance went last night.”

  “Oh, my God…sooooo good!” Kasha answers, and I can just imagine her happy smile. And Sasha’s curmudgeonly one as she says, “She’s actually not exaggerating this time. It went really well. There were a lot of industry people there.”

  God, I miss them…

  This thing with Zahir. It’s unhealthy. It’s not real. And most of all it’s crazy. It feels like I’ve been deluding myself, that the warm feeling I feel when we do what we do is a byproduct of me going insane while trapped in this room under his command.

  The twins are my family. They’re my touchstone. They’re my real. And I vow then and there to put everything I’ve got into getting them a good deal at another record label as soon as I get home.

  But then Kasha says, “And you’ll never guess who gave us his business card! Darius Ross!”

  Darius Ross?

  I damn near drop the phone. “Darius Ross. The rapper?”

  “He produces, too,” Sasha says in the same chiding tone as Aisha’s mother.

  “He says we’ve got ‘it’ and he wants to meet about signing us to his label now that you’ve gotten us out of the Majesty deal. We might have a contract before you get back!”

  What? “No,” I say. “You can’t meet with him.”

  “Why not? Sasha thinks it’s a good idea,” Kasha points out, her normally bubbly voice taking on a pouting tone. “She’s our representation now that you’re not here.”

  I can hear Raima and Nabida outside the door, talking to each other in Arabic, obviously looking for me. And their voices are getting closer.

  “Look, can you just wait until I get home before meeting with anybody or signing anything?”

  “You don’t get home, until, like September,” Sasha answers, as if September is a thousand years away. “And it’s not like hip hop stars are giving us their cards and asking for a meeting every day.”

  “I know, but—”

  Before I can finish that sentence, the door suddenly opens and there’s Raima and Nabida standing on the other side.

  “Hold on, guys—” I say to the twins, so I can make my case to the two women.

  However, before I can even open my mouth, Raima snatches the phone away and Nabida hits me with an apologetic look.

  “We are very sorry, but we must take this,” Nabida says as Raima succinctly ends the call and pockets the phone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the next morning, I’m back to square one. No clothes, no daily phone calls, and no second chair. My room has pretty much been stripped of nearly everything but the bed sheets.

  It’s obvious Zahir plans to teach me a serious lesson this time. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he really does make me sit by his legs like a dog, as he threatened to do after the Holt call.

  I don’t care.

  Darius Ross…he is the only thing on my mind. Not Zahir. Not the mother he refuses to talk about. Not even myself.

  Which is why I drop to my knees into a full-on kowtow as soon as I come out of the bathroom and find him waiting for me at the breakfast table. Lowering not just my eyes and head, but my whole damn body. I prostrate myself with my bound wrists out as I say, “Oh great, sheikh, please hear my plea.”

  He doesn’t answer, and though I can’t see him, I can feel his confusion. This wasn’t what he was expecting from his prideful consort. That’s easy to guess. And I don’t care how it makes me look. That I’m begging again before he’s even truly started my punishment.

  Darius Ross…the name crackles in my ears like ominous thunder.

  I want so badly to look up, to start making my case in a rush of desperate words. But the stakes are too high. Darius Ross… fuck… I force myself to wait Zah
ir out, to keep my body bent over and my mouth closed as long as it takes.

  “Stand up,” he says after many, many moments.

  I immediately do. Careful to keep my eyes lowered.

  And he comes to an irritated stand before asking, “What is this about?”

  “I know you’re scheduled to leave for Asia tomorrow, but I need your permission to leave before you do. I have to return home to New Jersey. The twins need me.”

  “The twins…” he repeats. “You are speaking of the half-sisters you were tasked with raising after your father’s death?”

  I bite back my first response. That they’re my sisters. Period. And he shouldn’t talk about them like they’re burdens I’ve been required to carry. Instead I repeat, “They need me.”

  “What has happened to require this need?” he asks, glancing at his watch.

  I breathe hard, swallowing back the panic that still rises in my throat at the thought of his name. “There’s this rapper, who decided to become a producer, and he wants to meet with them and possibly sign them to his record label. The twins are thrilled. But he’s…he’s a predator and they cannot be alone with him.”

  “He’s a predator, so you must rush from your punishment here to deal with him yourself back in New Jersey where my rule does not extend?” Zahir repeats, his voice laced with hard suspicion.

  “You’re going to Asia anyway, right? Just let me go while you’re away on business. I’ll come back as soon as you do, I promise.”

  “You promise,” he repeats, as if he’s chewing on my vow and it tastes like poison. “You would like to go to New Jersey where my rule does not extend for a week or two to deal with a man you believe might be a predator?”

  “I know he’s a predator,” I correct, my throat constricting.

  He shakes his head at me. “But how do you know this?”

  “I know,” I repeat, nothing but conviction in my voice.

  “You may look at me, Prin,” he says.

  I raise my eyes and immediately wish I’d kept them down. His face is cold, disconnected, like nothing I’ve said has registered at all.

  “That was not my question,” he says, his dark eyes hard as beads. “I asked how you know.”

  And this time it’s my turn to whisper, “Cal-Mart” not because I’m being stubborn or prideful, but because I honestly don’t think I can tell him this story. I’m still not capable of speaking it out loud. Even after all these years.

  “But I’ll do anything,” I tell him. “Anything you want. Just please let me go home while you’re in Asia. Please.”

  He stares at me for a very long time, his face as expressionless as mine is emotional. Then he says, “No” and walks out without a further word.

  I sink back onto the floor in his wake. Trying to decide what to do.

  Act good? Be docile? Prove I’ve changed, and I really will come back if he lets me go?

  But he’s leaving for Asia tomorrow. That means almost three weeks before I can plead with him again, and who knows how long I’ll have before Darius decides to strike? I could try to convince someone to give me a phone, so I can call the twins and try to convince them to turn down a meeting with one of the biggest names in the music business. But yeah, right on both fronts. I’ve grown to care for Nabida and Raima, but they’ve already proven a few damn times over that they’re straight up soldiers when it comes to following Zahir’s orders. And as for the twins, it’s hard to convince two teenagers with stars in their eyes not to be blinded by a huge name.

  I stay on the floor. Trying to think, trying to come up with a plan.

  Raima eventually comes in and unbinds my hands. “Is fruit acceptable for breakfast?” she asks, her voice much gentler than usual. “If you would you like, Nabida can warm up something else.”

  “Leave me alone,” I mumble, unable to move off the floor.

  She does. And I stay where I am, staring dully into the distance.

  Eventually, a new tray is brought in and uncovered, and the scent of sfeeha fills the air. Nabida bends down in front of me. “Lunch is ready for you,” she tells me. “And you have permission to eat.”

  “Leave me alone,” I answer, barely moving my lips.

  “You should eat,” she says.

  “Leave me alone,” I answer again.

  “But it is your favorite, sfeeha and dates. And who knows what they’ll be serving on the plane to New York.”

  “Leave me alo—” I start to answer, only to cut off and say, “Wait…what?”

  HIS TO SURPRISE

  Chapter Eighteen

  After I finish lunch, Raima presents me with a new dress. Not a black kaftan like before, but a silk turquoise maxi dress with long sleeves, a pearl button-up front, and a peter pan collar that takes the outfit from conservative to cute.

  Raima tuts at my three-month-old weave. “It is not for me to say, but perhaps you could request a salon appointment with your regular stylist while you are in New Jersey.”

  “But do not take it out completely,” Nabida advises. “Sheikh Zahir prefers you with long hair.” She gives me a small smile before returning to my peach gel manicure.

  I suppress a snort. They can keep assuming Zahir’s “preference” for long hair is all about the aesthetics. But I know the truth…Zahir prefers me with long hair because he likes pulling it when he drives into me.

  I decide to keep that to myself. The truth is, I’m too worried the dress, the advice, and the travel hair and nails are all part of an elaborate dream. Or maybe a desert mirage. I just can’t believe I’m really going home.

  But if this a dream, it’s pretty damn convincing. Nabida and Raima kiss me on the cheek before handing me over to the female day-shift guards whose names I still don’t know. The women escort me down a series of hallways to another elevator where we descend to the very bottom floor of the palace. The doors slide open to reveal a well-lit cavernous underground parking structure. My eyes grow wide…

  There has to be at least a hundred luxury cars in here. No one could ever mistake this place for the staff parking garage. I spot brands from all over the world in a variety of styles: armored SUVs, slinky sports cars, Jaguars, Rolls Royce’s, Aston Martins—vintage and new. There’s even a fleet of what look like Formula 1 race cars with the sponsor decals still attached.

  However, I don’t have much time to admire the cars. My guards make a beeline for an idling motorcade. There are two Mercedes sedans at the front and back, and a bright white SUV in the middle. All the vehicles have dark tinted windows. I’m not the car aficionado my dad was, but the SUV screams money with its Mercedes logo plastered across the front grill and “MAYBACH” written out in simple caps on the back.

  A male guard in a black suit jumps out and opens the door for me. When I climb in, I’m shocked to find Zahir waiting for me in the backseat. He’s dressed in traditional clothing again…a floor-length white button-up tunic—which I recall Nabida referring to as a kandura—and a flowing patterned black-and-white headdress secured by a black band.

  “Hey! What’s all this?” I ask him as the guard closes the door behind me. “I thought you were supposed to be in Asia or, like, on your way there!”

  “Yes, that was the original plan,” Zahir replies, acknowledging my surprise with a nod. “But my plans have changed. I am going to New Jersey with you.”

  “But…why?” I ask, unable to believe he would cancel his long-planned business trip to Asia to go with me to New Jersey, of all places.

  “Because you are my wife,” he says, as if that reason should be more than obvious.

  “Yeah…but not, like, for real,” I remind him.

  “We both signed a marriage contract that was witnessed by your wali and my family. Therefore, we are married in every sense of the word.”

  “Well, yeah. But only for now. The contract dissolves in September,” I remind him.

  “Now is where we are,” he replies. “And we have not yet reached September.”

  Wit
h that, Zahir raps on the console to signal our departure. A few minutes later the cars drive forward, making it official. I am on my way to New Jersey. And so is the King of Jahwar.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There’s no way this is really happening, I think as the motorcade speeds at what must be at least 100 miles per hour toward the airport.

  We reach the Jahwar airport less than twenty minutes later. But instead of pulling up to the front entrance, we continue around the back and down a service road until the cars stop outside a full-sized Boeing jet.

  Wow, I guess even commercial airlines let this dude board at his own royal convenience, I think as I follow two of the suited guards up a huge set of air stairs with Zahir and another set of elite guards behind me.

  But my mouth falls open when instead of walking into the first-class section of a plane, I enter the foyer of a three-story entrance hall with—I shit you not—a spiral staircase.

  The full-sized Boeing isn’t a commercial jet at all. It’s a private jet. And just like that, my Jersey is back.

  “Da fuck…?” I whisper.

  There is no way in hell any of this is a mirage. Or a dream. Because I would never ever imagine myself onto a private plane. That would only happen in my worst nightmares.

  I don’t realize I’m frozen in place until Zahir very nearly rear ends me.

  I hear him speaking in hushed Arabic behind me. A few seconds later, the guards vanish and it’s just the two of us at the plane’s entrance.

  “I…I don’t travel on private jets,” I eventually tell him, my voice weak with fear. “Ever.”

  “Yes, Sylvie explained this to me when you were late to the wedding. I had wondered why you refused to accept Holt’s offer to fly you here on his private plane. It is understandable that you would suffer from severe anxiety about private planes because of your father’s crash. But habibti, it is not safe or convenient for me to travel on a commercial flight. If I am to come to New Jersey with you, this is the only way I can do it.”