The Sheikh's Destiny

by Olivia Gates

  The women looked among themselves then snorted a collective, “Nah.”

  Roxanne, Haidar’s wife, chuckled. “Those men of ours end up crowding us for time no matter what we do.”

  Lujayn, Jalal’s wife and the most recent bride, though she had a two-year-old with Jalal, raised an eyebrow at Laylah. “But for a change it was Laylah who squeezed us for time.”

  “Two days is not a squeeze,” Aliyah lamented. “It’s cruel.”

  Maram laughed. “Talk about leaving it to the last moment, then wham.” She gave Laylah a shrewd look. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for making those impossible and impossibly luscious men sweat it. It can only do their overriding souls good. But you could have given us some advance notice so we could restart preparations discretely while he stewed—as he needed to.”

  Laylah sighed, deciding to come clean. “I couldn’t really. Strictly between us please, ladies, but the pink strip only appeared yesterday.”

  Gasps of delight echoed around her room, followed by cooing, if uncomfortable, congratulations. They could see she wasn’t happy about the pregnancy, that it made necessary a marriage she didn’t want.

  All of the ladies had been in varied positions of reluctance during their weddings, too. But the problems and misunderstandings in their relationships had been resolved. Hers wouldn’t be.

  From then on, the women did all they could to reinstate the cheerfulness of the proceedings and lift her spirits.

  She cooperated, pretended interest as they talked color coordination, bridal procession dresses and table trimmings. She kept up her pretense until they took her around the royal palace of Azmahar, deciding decorations.

  Knowing this place, and the power it signified, was what Rashid really wanted and not her was suffocating, literally, and the world started to fade. Cries rang out in the dimness before everything turned to black.

  * * *

  Exiting a dark tunnel filled with sounds of distress, Laylah opened her eyes to see beautiful faces coated with concern.

  She’d fainted. And the ladies had taken her back to her room.

  “How are you feeling now, Laylah?” Maram asked, her voice soft and soothing as she continued to massage her hands.

  Laylah tried to sit up, found Johara and Aliyah helping her. “I’m fine. Sorry for that.”

  “That first trimester can be a pain,” Roxanne said, shuddering, no doubt remembering her own. “Good news is, you’ll feel the best you ever did during the second one.”

  Not wanting to inform them her fainting spell had nothing to do with her pregnancy, she went along. “Can’t wait.”

  “Wait until you see what we came back to the room to find!” Lujayn exclaimed as she rushed away.

  Laylah’s eyes widened as she saw what she came back holding.

  Johara sighed. “You remember when Shaheen did this for me? Rashid, even though you’re not ready to forgive him yet, is certainly as thoughtful and his choice is as perfect for you as Shaheen’s was for me.”

  Laylah gaped at Rashid’s “choice.” A creation the likes of which she’d never imagined.

  A one-piece Arabian/Indian masterpiece, it had a sleeveless bodice that nipped to a waist she was certain was the exact size of hers, with a décolleté that would emphasize her breasts and expose her neck and most of her shoulders and any necklace she would wear. With its base a golden mahogany the exact color of her hair and eyes, it was almost covered in breathtaking hand-embroidery of sequins, beads, pearls, crystals, semi-precious stones and appliqué, from the lightest coral to the deepest vermillion to the most vivid crimson, all intertwined with gold.

  A skirt in hues echoing the top’s embroidery cascaded in multiple layers of tulle and chiffon over a shimmering mahogany silk taffeta lining, its embellishments in the range of gold and russet, with ingenious scalloping at the hemline. A veil with heavily embellished borders was crimson where it would rest on her hair, gradually transforming to a luminescent golden-brown where it would trail on the floor.

  But it was the patterns covering the whole outfit that robbed her of breath again. Those of Rashid’s house.

  It was as if he was...putting his brand on her with that dress, just like he had branded her body and soul.

  The ladies interrupted her heavy-hearted musings, clamoring for her to try on the outfit at once. Just as she’d expected, it fit her perfectly. Rashid always knew exactly what he wanted, down to the last detail.

  As Maram and Aliyah contacted their husbands to demand jewelry that would match the outfit, from Zohayd’s and Judar’s royal collections no less, Laylah watched the other ladies flipping through catalogues to pick their complementary dresses, and wondered.

  If she felt this terrible just preparing for this farce, how would she feel on the day itself?

  * * *

  The day was here. The minute she had to marry Rashid. And not really marry him.

  The distinctive percussive music of her zaffah—her bridal procession—was already reverberating through the palace. Hundreds of voices were raised in the traditional congratulatory songs.

  Aliyah and Maram were adorning her neck, arms and head in legendary jewels while Johara, Talia, Roxanne and Lujayn fussed with her veil, hairdo and makeup. They all looked stunning with their glowing beauty and bright spirits, their lithe bodies wrapped in sarilike dresses as exquisite as they were, in reds and golds to complement her own gown.

  She almost didn’t recognize the splendid creature staring back at her in the mirror.

  Rashid knew just how to package the royal acquisition he’d flaunt to the world tonight. The last piece in his master plan.

  Her heavy-hearted musings halted as everyone rushed her out to lead her procession to the ballroom where the ceremonies were to be held. She hadn’t seen any of the preparations as she’d been holed up in her quarters for the past two days. Now she felt she had entered a fantasy setting from Arabian Nights.

  Brass lanterns and torches blazed everywhere, infusing the palace with a mystic ambiance. Every other decoration, from banners to veils to flowers, was color-coordinated with her gown and jewelry. Not that she could find any pleasure in her surroundings. Not when she couldn’t forget why Rashid had “rented” the palace for their wedding. Not so that she could reclaim that part of her heritage, as he’d claimed, but so he could rehearse being its liege.

  Even in her previous obliviousness, it had pained her knowing so much would be missing on this day—her mother there for her, her father giving her away. Now she knew her groom didn’t really want to receive her, and this wedding was a charade, a sacrifice of her heart and dignity for the one thing that would mean more to her than her very life—her child...

  Suddenly, her heartbeat drowned out the thundering music, and air, the world, disappeared.

  Rashid stood alone at the wide-open gilded doors of the ballroom, shrouded in shadow even in the blazing illumination, as if he’d absorbed all light.

  In spite of herself, her starving senses rushed to devour his grandeur.

  His outfit matched hers, only in darker, muted shades. Another detail he’d orchestrated to perfection. A mahogany abaya hugged his Herculean shoulders, adorned in embroidery echoing her gown’s patterns, before cascading to his ankles like a cloak of enchantment. Underneath, burnt-sienna silk stretched across his formidable chest and abdomen, tucking into skintight same-color pants that gathered into darkest brown leather boots. A bronze metal belt hung around his powerful hips, anchoring a ceremonial dagger sheathed in a scabbard worked in bloodred and gold enamel.

  This was a man whose legacy was rooted in fables, the embodiment of this harsh, magnificent land, a personification of its might and majesty, a shaper of the world around him.

  He was born to be king.

  If only he hadn’t used her to claim his destiny.

  If only he’d come clean. She would have done anything for him. Would have still had her heart and illusions intact.

  But he hadn’t. And she now o
nly survived for their...her baby.

  He stood there now, with those darkest-night eyes, searing her with his fake longing, his counterfeit entreaty.

  “Laylah...”

  The pure passion and anguish he made of her name nullified the din, quivered through her bones. How could it feel so real? How could she still want to throw herself into his arms?

  Then those arms were coming around her. Feeling they’d singe her, she bolted. He let her stride ahead down the royal-red carpet that cut through the ballroom all the way to the kooshah. Intertwining gradations of red and gold chiffon veils undulated from Arabesque woodwork that embodied the gilded cage of matrimony, she guessed. He was beside her once more as she climbed a dozen crimson satin-covered steps to where they’d preside over the proceedings.

  The ma’zoon, an imposing-looking cleric, was sitting in the middle of a pale gold sofa, with scrolls spread before him in triplicate. Haidar and Jalal flanked the sofa like bodyguards.

  They would be al shohood, the witnesses of the marriage. She didn’t know how Rashid had gotten them to consent to this, let alone to plead his case with her, when they’d been mortal enemies till recently. But she wouldn’t put anything beyond his powers of manipulation. She’d refused her uncle’s and cousins’ offers to be her wakeel, her proxy. She wouldn’t let them take a bigger part in this sham. She’d gotten herself into this, and she’d shoulder the sticky parts to the end alone.

  As soon as they reached the platform, the music stopped. Almost plopping down beside the ma’zoon, desperate to look anywhere but at Rashid, her gaze swept the ballroom, where a hundred tables were set in the luxury level only someone of Rashid’s means could attain. Around them sat a thousand of those who moved and shook the world. That was the kind of power Rashid wielded already. He probably wouldn’t wield more as king.

  Then he was leaning nearer behind the ma’zoon. She preempted him. “Shall we get this over with already?”

  After failing to capture her gaze, Rashid exhaled, directed the ma’zoon to proceed.

  After a while, he murmured, “Habibati, give me your hand.”

  Her gut wrenched. Her hand in his for the duration of the ritual was bad enough. But it was that habibati that scraped her nerves raw. Who was he still acting for?

  She gave him a hand as stiff and cold as a corpse’s, and tried not to flinch as that big, calloused hand that had taught her what passion and pleasure meant enfolded it. She kept her eyes fixed as he opposed their thumbs and the ma’zoon covered their hands in a pristine white handkerchief and placed his on top, then as she droned back the marriage vows the man recited.

  After Rashid had, too, the ma’zoon addressed him, “Name your mahr and mo’akh’khar al suddaag, Sheikh Rashid.”

  The so-called “price of the bride,” or as revisionists called it, the “bride’s worth.” That was paid in two installments. The mahr, at signing the contract, and the mo’akh’khar, “latter portion of the agreed-upon”—or in reality a severance payment—at termination of the marriage.

  “My mahr is this.” Rashid produced a box, gave it to her.

  She took the scarlet velvet box, opened it.

  A simple gold brooch lay against darkest red satin. Another rendering of his house’s emblem. Very precise and delicate but by no means worth much in terms of cash value.

  “It was my mother’s.” Rashid’s voice numbed her with its fathomless magic. “It was my earliest memory. I was four when she told me it was my father’s first gift to her. He was only eighteen when he bought it with his first pay. I slipped into her room the night she died. I kicked and screamed, but they wouldn’t let me see her. All I could do was grab something of hers as they dragged me out of her room. It was this brooch. It is all I have left of her. It is the one possession I care about. Just as you are the one person, the one thing, I care about in this life.”

  “You...bastard.”

  The ma’zoon started at her viciousness.

  Rashid’s eyes only gentled. “Call me anything, think me a monster, but arjooki ya roh galbi, don’t make it final. Leave the door ajar. Please, Laylah, take this.”

  When she only glared at him, her blood boiling, her heart splintering, he took out the brooch, and with trembling hands, he pinned it over her heart. It felt as if he’d pierced it.

  Fighting the urge to rip it off and hurl it away, she didn’t give him the satisfaction. At any emotional display, he’d only soothe her, appear as the loving, forbearing groom even more.

  She glared at him as he signaled to Haidar and Jalal. “And my mo’akh’khar is this.”

  Haidar handed the ma’zoon a thick dossier. He opened it, read the first page before raising stupefied eyes to Rashid.

  “Do I understand this correctly, Sheikh Rashid?”

  Rashid nodded. “Yes. That is all my assets.”

  She gaped at him.

  Then she finally asked, “What are you playing at now?”

  “I never played at anything to start with, ya habibati. I am all yours, heart and soul. My assets are the least part of me.”

  “And I don’t want them, like I don’t want any part of you.”

  Rashid only exhaled, turned to the ma’zoon. “Document this.”

  The man did as asked, and an oppressive silence descended on them all. Then he invited her and Rashid to sign the three copies, and for Haidar and Jalal to stamp them with their seals.

  On leaving the kooshah, the ma’zoon shot her a puzzled, disapproving glance. Haidar and Jalal gave her an entreating one. On Rashid’s behalf. He had put them back in his pocket again.

  The guests rose as one, toasted them with glasses filled with ruby-red sharbaat ward, rose-essence traditional wedding nectar.

  As everyone resumed sitting, live Azmahrian music rose with their chatter, leaving bride and groom to their own conversation.

  Talking with Rashid had once been all she’d wanted from life, something she’d reveled in and treasured until a few weeks ago. Now, she had nothing to say to him that wasn’t bitter. She was done with bitterness. Which meant she wouldn’t talk to him.

  Suddenly she felt as if her left side had been set on fire. Rashid had slid across the sofa, almost touching her.

  He met her cold glance with his soft and coaxing one. “You will have to talk to me at some point. Might as well start now.”

  She ignored him, pretended to wave to her waseefat, matrons of honor. They only shooed her away, urging her to respond to Rashid.

  Fuming, she reached for her sharbaat and felt she’d touched a live wire. His hand. He’d beat her to the crystal glass.

  When she wouldn’t take it, he whispered, “Throw it in my face. I deserve far more for even considering my moronic plan.”

  Refusing to give him the outburst he was after, she took the glass, downed it, still not looking at him.

  “Anger makes you thirsty? But this will only dehydrate you more. Also a sugar rush combined with adrenaline isn’t advisable.”

  So. He’d given up the fiercely tender facade and was trying on the bedeviling one. She said nothing.

  “That degree of self-control is admirable. I wonder—would it hold if I kissed you?” At her continued silence, he slipped an arm around her waist. “Shall we find out?”

  Staring ahead, she said, “Being funny doesn’t suit you.”

  “Talk to me, and I’ll spare you my failed attempts at humor.”

  She flicked him a condescending glance. “You need your high-ranking guests to think we’re having a great time? Afraid they’d realize your bride is sitting here under duress?”

  “I care nothing about what anyone thinks. Test my claim.”

  “You’re counting that I won’t, so I won’t upset my family.”

  His response got drowned out by the first part of the night’s entertainment, an ingeniously choreographed and composed medley of beloved folk songs and dances.

  As the guests were swept up in the energy of the performance, he pulled her closer. “Th
ose songs are all for you.”

  She slid him a cool glance. “Thanks.”

  Tenderness filled his eyes again, poignancy, too. “Even if you say it’s not real, I’m now your husband...”

  “Only for a while, until the baby is born, max.”

  The indulgence in his eyes flooded her. “That’s seven months from now. Remember what once happened in seven hours?”

  “When I was a needy, self-deceiving twit? In vivid detail. What do you think the odds are of my falling for your manipulations again?”

  “Beating impossible odds is what I do. I’ve triumphed over death many times. I’m going to conquer your aversion, even if it takes the rest of my life.”

  “It will take the rest of your life. Plus an hour.”

  His arm tightened around her. “Take the pound of flesh I owe you, ya habibati. Take as many pounds as you wish. Do it here and now.” The feel of him against her, his consecutive blows of passion, entreaty and tenderness were chipping away at her control. “I dare you.”

  She pulled away as a storm of applause greeted the end of the performance, then rose to her feet.

  Everyone turned to look at her as she came to stand at the edge of the kooshah. “Now to another time-honored tradition that no celebration in our region is complete without. Poetry.”

  A buzz rose. Her family consulted with each other if that was an arranged number.

  “An ode to my new and loving groom,” she started, perfect acoustics carrying her voice to the farthest corners of the ballroom.

  “Howah kat’tamaseeh, yathreffod’dam’a enda muddgh fareesatuhu

  Fahtaresu menhu i’tha arradto’l najjata

  La ya’ghorannakom jamala mohayahu

  Fama ajmal’l nomoor lakn korbuha ho’wal mammata.”

  (Like crocodiles he sheds tears when he gnaws his prey

  So beware of him if you want to stay alive

  Don’t be fooled by the beauty of his visage