“Yes, but you’re not the one staring down all those cameras and lights,” he said. “All I can think, every single step, is don’t trip.”
She snickered, pinning back the final piece. She sat back on her heels, looking at that year’s iteration on the masculine kaftan. Burnt orange with a shade of sienna that could only be described as sexy.
Or maybe that was just because her husband was wearing it.
“Darling, there’s five minutes until you go on!” Calla’s mother’s shrill voice broke through her sweet thoughts. Her mother visited her homeland far more frequently now that Calla was the queen of it. And her mother didn’t miss Fashion Week, not for anything in the world. Especially now that Calla had the headlining spot. Not because of her connections—like marrying the king—but because her designs were truly the most popular.
“Fatim, you look wonderful,” her mother added, sending the king a tight grin. “It’s time for you to get in line now.”
Calla fought a smile as she glanced up at Fatim. Her mother had taken to the royal-mother-in-law position extremely well. Luckily, Fatim liked the occasional henpecking and intrusion. Since his own parents had been gone for so long, Calla could tell that he appreciated the warmth of having an involved mother.
Fatim helped her to her feet, and they shared a quick, sweet kiss.
“You’re going to do so well,” she whispered, cupping the sides of his cheeks. “And you won’t trip once.”
Calla smiled at him as he allowed her mother to herd him backstage, where other models—including those being featured in Calla’s line up—were waiting to strut their stuff on stage. Much like last year, she’d worked tirelessly to put together this whole line of fashion. Every stitch, every bead, every hem was hers.
And it was only possible with the support of her loving husband and all the tribal wives.
Calla gathered up her sewing kit and joined the models backstage. Through the slit of the side entrance onto the catwalk, she could see the dark mass of people filling the auditorium, lit by camera flashes and cell phones. Looking out at the crowd was dizzying—she understood why Fatim’s nerves ran high each year—and for a moment, it distracted her from the latent nausea she’d been battling all day.
A type of nausea that just hadn’t left her in recent days.
The type of nausea she needed to tell Fatim about.
She crossed her arms, fighting a wave of excitement. The news had to come after the show. Otherwise, she’d tell Fatim, and he’d be too excited and trip, like he’d been fearing. She stepped closer, wondering if she could catch a glimpse of Nara and Rashid in the front row. Nobody knew the news yet, but she suspected those two would be the most excited of all.
“It’s time!” The backstage director waved out the first of Calla’s models, lithe, dark-haired beauties who were the perfect mix of Paris and Amatbah. Since last year’s Fashion Week, Calla’s designs had tuned into something of an empire; now the tribal nation relied on the sales of her clothing as a significant portion of its GDP.
She never could have imagined any of this when she’d agreed to be the royal seamstress…or when she’d agreed to marry Fatim.
“Go, go, go!” The director waved the models on in specific intervals, each one taking confident, sure steps that betrayed their years of practice. Fatim sent one last wide-eyed look her way before it was his turn. The director waved him closer to the door. “Now you, Your Highness!”
Fatim clenched his jaw and strode forward. Calla hurried as close to the doorway as she could without being spotted from the other side, to spy on Fatim’s walk. The whole auditorium erupted in cheers. Her heart swelled, tears pressing at her eyes. Not only was he the best man she’d ever known, he was beloved. Truly beloved by his people.
Calla fought tears as the models and Fatim made their serious walk down the runway and back again. When Fatim broke through to the backstage area from the other doorway, Calla rushed toward him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“You did it!” The tears were flowing now, she couldn’t stop them. It was okay—more tears would be coming, once she shared her news. “You looked so amazing doing it, too.”
“All because of you, my love,” Fatim said, squeezing her hips before he placed a long, sloppy kiss on her lips.
“And see? You didn’t trip,” she teased.
“Not this year. Plenty of years left for that to still come true, though.”
She grinned up at him, the commotion of backstage receding to a dull murmur as she focused only on him and the words about to pass her lips. “That’s why I didn’t want to share my news with you until you were done on the catwalk,” she said. “If I had told you beforehand, you would have tripped.”
Fatim’s brows drew together. “What news, honey?”
She paused, finding a knot in her throat. She’d been waiting for this moment for a year. The moment when their family could grow to even greater heights of love and fulfillment.
“Calla,” Fatim said quietly. “Tell me.”
She rolled her lips inward, searching his face. Then the words tumbled out. “I’m pregnant.”
A stunned moment of silence shuddered between them as his mouth parted and a smile began a shocked crawl across his face. “Are you serious?” he asked in a low voice.
She nodded, and he whooped so loud that heads turned toward them. He scooped her up into his arms, squeezing her so tight that she couldn’t doubt his love if she tried.