Because that’s what it was about for him. In Calla’s absence, he was better able to see exactly how integral her touch was to his happiness.
He wasn’t better off without her or her love. He actually needed her. To be the best man he could be.
Her love contributed to the best version of Fatim the king. He’d been mulling it over for the past two weeks. Trying to figure out how two plus two could still equal five according to his old ways of thinking.
If staying out of love was best for the tribe, but Calla’s love made him whole, then how could both versions of Fatim continue to exist?
He spent his idle moments recalling what he loved about her. The way she brightened up the room the second she breezed in. The soft smiles she’d send his way, just for him, that reminded him that things were fine and together they would find the way. The scent of her, amber and mahogany, that could send him to his knees in these weeks since she?
?d stepped away from him. Since she’d found that voice he’d urged her to find.
He still had her scarf. The one she’d left behind while watching the kids when they got sick. And hell if that scarf didn’t have a permanent residence underneath the pillow she used to use.
Like luring her back to him, via totem.
He was looking forward to the gala for one reason only: the chance to be near her again, to touch her, in the interest of playing the part. The part they’d played all too well in private, when nobody expected them to, when nobody at all was even watching.
Calla’s door opened, and his breath disappeared. The most beautiful sight in the world greeted him: his Calla and his two children. He didn’t know what to pay attention to first. Nara jumped toward him, the shimmery gold of her kaftan accentuating the gold tinsel laced through her dark hair. Calla had applied makeup, but tastefully, and his throat tightened.
“Look at my little girl,” he said, sinking to his knees. He wrapped his arms around Nara and she giggled into his ear.
“Mommy—I mean Calla—does makeup sooo good, doesn’t she?” Nara made this mistake sometimes, and Fatim couldn’t blame her. Calla was basically a mommy to her. Both kids understood that she was their nanny and daddy’s wife, but that didn’t mean the special word didn’t slip out from time to time.
“Papa, look at this! Look at this!” Rashid tugged on his sleeve next, inviting him to check out his small formal kaftan. His brown alligator shoes pointed out from beneath his slacks. Fatim pulled him into a hug as well.
“You both look amazing,” he said, coming to his feet. He swept his gaze up to Calla, and his voice dried up completely. If they looked amazing, then she looked otherworldly. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a low, elegant bun, small tendrils hanging down the sides of her face. Her honey-brown eyes were rimmed with kohl, accentuating her Middle Eastern side.
And her dress. Oh, her dress. It was part sheer, part shimmer, and one hundred percent Calla. It hugged those hips that he loved to squeeze, traced the elegant curve of her ribcage on up to her neck. Despite the blatant modernity of it, she’d somehow managed to incorporate something that still felt like Amatbah there.
This woman was incredible. And gorgeous. And looking at him like she was about to pass out.
“Calla,” he whispered.
“Hi,” she said, forcing a grin. But it fell quickly. The way all her smiles did since he’d been so cold to her, so blatantly honest in his bedroom that day.
“You look…” Words failed him. He dragged his gaze up and down her body, trying but failing to find anything that even came close.
Calla rolled her bright red lips inward. He reached out for her cheek, running a thumb along her jawline.
“Stunning,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. The kids scampered down the hall, showing off their clothing to passing palace employees. Their laughter and conversation receded to a dull murmur as Fatim’s world shrank to encompass only Calla.
“Well, thank you,” she said, nervousness flitting in her gaze. “This is going to be my grand finale dress for Fashion Week.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and she tried to step past him, but he grabbed at her wrist. Her gaze shot up to meet his, and there were question marks there.
“Don’t go,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “We need to talk.”
Emotions roiled inside of him. Something about seeing Calla in her element, in her highest state of grace and elegance, had cracked him wide open. And in this moment he knew—this was the woman for him. The love that he’d been denying himself. The only way that anything made sense or could truly work around here.
“We should go to the gala,” Calla said, but her voice lacked urgency. She wanted to stay right here with him, he could tell.
“The gala will wait for the king and queen,” he said, taking her hands in his. “Calla, please forgive me.”
She jerked her gaze down. “For what? For being honest?”
He brought her hands to his chest. The sweet amber scent accosted him, and he could have melted into her arms. “I was being honest, but I was also being blind.”
She pouted a little but didn’t say anything else.