“Just a year,” Fatim said, that serious
look masking his face again, hiding the evidence of the easygoing grin she’d glimpsed just a bit ago. “Once I’m thirty-one, the law will be appeased, and we can go our separate ways.”
Calla nodded. That sounded doable. “And what will the marriage…entail, exactly?”
“Well, you’ll care for the children as you are now, but you’ll also be the queen. Which means attending royal functions, overseeing the household…honestly, mostly a figurehead. I’ll inform you of all upcoming duties. You will always be prepared.”
When she hesitated, he added, “And trust me, you will be able to work on your designs. You will have all the connections you could ask for. I’ll make sure of it.”
“And the kids? What will we tell them? I don’t want them to think that I’m their mother suddenly, you know?”
“You’ll remain the nanny,” Fatim said. “One that their father married.”
She fingered the napkin in her lap absently, appreciating the silken undertones there. The napkins of the palace were nice enough to make a dress out of. “And, what about…the marriage bed?”
Fatim’s gaze darkened slightly, and his voice came out huskier than normal. “Nothing that makes you uncomfortable. There’s a tradition on the wedding night of consummating the marriage. But obviously, we can arrange something. Fake it, if you will.”
Heat zipped through her. Just the mere hint at consummating the marriage with him brought her close to fainting. Not consummating the marriage might make her the most uncomfortable of all—but no. King or not, she wanted a partner in love and romance. This was pure business. And she needed to remember that.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” She drummed her fingers on the table, looking up to find his straightforward business mask replaced by a flash of disbelief. Happiness, even.
“You’re certain?” he asked.
She nodded, flashing him the best winning, confident grin she could muster. “I’m certain. As long as my design doesn’t take a back seat, I’m yours.” Her phrasing burned through her. That implied something…specific. “I mean, your queen. Your…wife. Whatever. You know what I mean.”
Fatim’s heartbreaker grin nearly split her in two.
6
A week and a half. That’s how long Calla had to help plan, arrange, and weigh in on every last detail of her upcoming wedding. Her upcoming wedding. It still sounded like a joke. She just hoped it didn’t when she called her mom to share the news.
At the very least, Calla had resolved to not tell her mother that the whole thing was a sham. Just a ruse to help the king keep his crown. Even if society at large speculated, even if rumors spread and gossip ran rampant, Calla wanted to at least pretend this had something to do with mutual interest. After all, she’d been raised in the west. Marriages always included an element of love. The bride and groom at least had to look like they liked each other.
Calla sewed furiously as the video call to her mother rang. She’d temporarily halted all other projects in favor of The Big One—her wedding dress. This was the one arena where she had full control, and with Fatim’s blessing, she was going a non-traditional route. Really, the dress would blend the best elements of tradition with something feminine, graceful, and modern. Like Amatbahn tradition meeting Audrey Hepburn. Plus a whole helluva lot of beads.
Making it entirely herself would be the billboard for her design business in Amatbah, too. She never could have imagined such a huge platform prior to the king’s offer. How many eyes would be seeing her work? The mere thought made her dizzy.
Her mother finally answered the video call, an unflattering view of her nostrils filling the screen. “Hello? Did I answer?”
Calla smirked. “Hi, Mom. Yes, you’ve answered the call. Move the camera. I can practically see your brain.”
Her mother righted the camera but held it down low, offering an odd angle of her flawless Amatbahn features: pitch black hair in a glossy bob; large, dark eyes rimmed with kohl; the plump lips that Calla had inherited.
“What’s new, my dear?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Calla took a breath, bracing herself for the news. “Just about to get married, is all.”
Her mother snort-laughed. “I’m sure.”
“No, I’m actually serious.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Calla Clark. Tell me right now if this is real.”
“It’s real, Mother.” Calla looked down at the project in her hands, resuming sewing. “I’m getting married, and it’s happening fast. Much faster than I anticipated.”
Mother clamped a hand over her mouth, the excitement seeping out through the video call screen. “Who is the lucky groom? Tell me!”
Calla paused, not looking up at the camera. “It’s the king of Amatbah.”