The Sheikh’s Wife Arrangement (The Safar Sheikhs 1)

“Celebrities, eh?” Fatim peered up at her, squinting against the rays of sunlight breaking through the trees. His dark beard, which he always kept trimmed to an immaculate stubble, even glinted in the light. “Like who?”

“Oh, no one in particular.” Calla waved it off. “I just mentioned to your daughter that one of my dreams is to participate in Fashion Week. With my own designs, I mean.”

Fatim nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the expansive rows of tents off to the western edge of the estate. They were referred to as the royal tents and held significance as the original true “palace” of the Amatbahn king. Now, various meetings and work spaces occupied the tents, and the king and his family lived in the more modern palace that had been built roughly a hundred years ago.

Calla cleared her throat, unsure what the protocol was for a moment like this. A brooding king lost in thought. “Well, I suppose I should get back to my room.”

“Wait,” Fatim commanded. His baritone sent a shiver through her. “Tell me. How long have you worked here?”

Calla stood straighter. “Almost a month.”

“And what are you paid?”

Calla swallowed hard. This was an unexpected turn of events. She told him her monthly salary and he nodded.

“I have a proposition for you.” He smiled up at her, that sparkle back in his eye. “If you act as the children’s nanny, I’ll double your salary.”

Calla’s mouth fell open as the words traveled through her. They didn’t even make sense. Her…be a nanny? Why on earth would he ask his seamstress to do such a thing?

“I don’t understand,” Calla finally blurted.

“The children like you,” Fatim said. “And it’s been difficult to find someone adequate. It would be a short short-term arrangement. While we search for and properly vet a permanent replacement.” He paused, wetting his bottom lip, which almost made her say yes on the spot.

“But…I…” She swallowed, trying to find the words to express the friction around the idea. She’d taken the royal seamstress job because it was part of her forward-moving plan, the carefully arranged steps that led her toward being an internationally recognized designer. Being a nanny was not part of that plan.

“Take some time to think it over,” Fatim said. He stood, sliding Rashid to the ground. “We can speak tomorrow about it.”

Calla couldn’t find her voice to say anything further, so she just nodded and offered up a smile. Fatim gestured for his kids to follow him, and he strode off toward the palace.

Calla stood there in the gardens for what felt like an hour, surveying the bushes, the trees, the endless stretch of stone-paved paths dotted with succulents and enormous blooms of every color and style.

Coming here was a dream—one that she’d been groomed to want. She didn’t grow up in Amatbah, but she’d always come here as a child. Her mother was Amatbahn, and after a childhood and young adulthood in the USA, Calla wanted more time to get to know this part of her culture than the infrequent holiday visits she’d had as a girl had allowed. Her mother was thrilled that Calla chose Amatbah as her launch pad for her professional goals. It felt like both an homage to her heritage and a dizzying adventure that promised to change her future for the better.

But only because it allowed her to be laser focused on her goal, which was fashion design.

Not child rearing.

It’s only temporary. Calla tried her best to beat back the doubts and the sense of disappointment. As if even considering the king’s offer was somehow akin to abandoning her life’s work. Calla left the palace and headed into the center of Al Ghuman, the capital city, where she’d set up shop with a tiny studio. Here she worked on the majority of her designs, both traditional and progressive. The traditional ones she sold to make rent—only made possible by splitting the tiny space with a local clothing designer. The progressive ones she squirreled away as part of her ever-growing portfolio, designs she would eventually utilize as part of her bid to get into Fashion Week.

As she resumed work on a traditional caftan, her mind wandered. Part of her wondered what it might be like to get into Fashion Week this year instead of waiting. If she got paid double, she might even be able to scrounge up the money needed to pay the entry fee. Wild thoughts zipped through her, making her excited, breathless, and dreamy. Her parents would be so proud of her. She might be able to make a real name for herself, at least in Amatbah, much sooner than she anticipated.

The more she let her mind roll with the fantasies, the more she made up her mind. She wanted to make her mark by age thirty. That was just three yea

rs away. If she hoped to hit that goal in the fashion world, she needed to start now, and in a big way.

Calla let the possibilities wash over her that night and all through the next morning so that when she walked into Fatim’s office the next afternoon, she was ready to negotiate.

“I’ve thought about your offer,” Calla said after he’d welcomed her into his spacious office, filled with handwoven rugs and low-hanging lamps. Seated behind his desk, he laced together his fingers and leaned forward.

“And?” Fatim asked, the hint of shadows under his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t slept the night before.

“I’m going to need the first three month’s salary up front,” she declared. “From there, we’ll take it on a week-by-week basis. But three months should be enough time for you to find a replacement nanny.”

“Hm.” Fatim’s gaze fell to his desktop, and silence filled the room. She could hear her own heart pounding between her ears. Her whole life, she’d been too much the people pleaser. Did this count as people pleasing? King pleasing? At any rate, she wanted to stand up for her goals. That’s why she’d come here, after all.

Fatim tapped his fingers against the wood a few times before speaking. “Why three months up front?”

Calla hesitated and then took the leap. “I want to participate in this year’s Fashion Week. I’ll need the sum to pay the entry fee. If they accept me, that is.”