1
Sheikh Khalid Al-Qasimi took a deep breath to steady his nerves and let it out. He stared at the enormous wood doors in front of him. Drawing another slow breath, he put his hands on the brass door handles. Once he stepped through those doors, his life would change forever. And not for the better.
Letting go of the door, he shook his arms out and looked down at his traditional white robes of his country.
From behind, Ahmed’s deep voice carried to Khalid. “She makes a beautiful bride, and Mehmood is a very traditional man, so I’m sure your wedding night with your bride will be a memory to treasure.” Ahmed stepped up and nudged his brother’s arm.
Khalid shot him a scornful look. “You are partly to blame for our father making me do this. I’m not interested in Mehmood or his daughter. And I don’t care if she’s a virgin. Do you think the women we saw in America were virgins?”
Ahmed shrugged. “You knew this day was coming. Granted, maybe a day with father a bit less angry than he is just now.”
“Wait until it’s your turn. I suspect our father’s mood has more to do with the level of our transgression and less to do with age. You’re next, little brother.” Khalid turned his attention to the door again, waiting for the peace he needed before walking through.
Ahmed shook his head and offered up a weak smile. “It was just one night of fun.”
“Fun? A good time is one thing. Dishonor is another.” Khalid placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “And this is about family honor—and me keeping my place in our family. Now, go. I’ll make my entrance behind you.”
“If there were another way…” Ahmed let the words trail off.
Khalid had thought the same thing. But he knew his choices here—marry or lose everything. He was not ready to say goodbye to his brothers or to his homeland. So he would take the other option Father had put before him. He patted Ahmed’s shoulder and dropped his hand.
Ahmed shook his head, pulled his black bisht with the gold trim over his shoulders and opened the doors. It was strange to see Ahmed in anything but the perfectly tailored suits he always wore. Ahmed stepped into the room, his white keffiyeh swaying as he walked.
Khalid understood that it was each son’s responsibility to preserve their family’s honor. He understood his father’s reasons for arranging this marriage-but of course the main reason was that it would combine both families’ wealth. And this marriage prevented Khalid from marrying anyone else—in other words, from making yet another mistake.
The marriage made perfect political and business sense, but Khalid preferred a world that was not quite so calculating. He had always thought that someday—a much later someday—he would marry a woman whom he loved. Regardless of her background. That was yet another dream to be set aside it seemed.
Khalid took another deep breath, reminding himself that he was destined to one day become sultan.
He never should have disrupted the meeting. But he’d been drinking, and of course his father had found out. The embarrassment had proven Khalid’s undoing.
“Marry and prove yourself worthy of your family’s name, or never show yourself to me or to anyone of your family again.”
Sultan bin Mohammed Al-Qasimi’s words had been harsh, but Khalid had at least been happy to have been given a choice, such as it was. He would prove he was ready to accept his responsibilities.
He drew his own black bisht over his shoulders, adjusting the tail of his keffiyeh out so the headpiece could hang down his neck onto his back. He pulled the gold trim close in front and then followed Ahmed’s path up the aisle.
The ballroom seemed to be packed to capacity with both families, but not everyone in attendance was a blood connection. A few of his father’s American business partners stood out in their tailored suits. Everyone else wore traditional garments. Khalid pasted on a stiff smile. He would get through this somehow.
The deep red carpeting and golden walls seemed to him garish. Lights glittered in the golden chandeli
ers hanging from the ceiling. Further back from the main aisle, round tables covered with white table covers stood out against the carpet. Golden chairs boasted red cushions the same color as the carpet. In the Western weddings he’d been to, Khalid had seen the guests seated in rigid rows, all facing the front in some sort of somber ritual. But weddings in Sharjah were celebrations through and through. The party began before the ceremony took place and it lasted until the last person left.
Reaching the front of the room, Khalid stepped up to where Mehmood waited. Mehmood gave Khalid a nod and then turned to the side.
Double doors to the left of the ballroom opened and Fadiyah stood framed in the entrance.
Khalid had to admit she was gorgeous. She looked a queen in her golden dress that glittered with crystals and gold embroidery. Slender as she was, the dress almost seemed to overwhelm her. A headpiece covered her black hair and a veil draped her shoulders to preserve her modesty. Curling designs had been tattooed onto her arms with red henna, and the swirls were almost lost under gold bracelets.
He knew he was lucky to have such a beautiful bride chosen for him, but the forced choice still rankled. He wondered if Fadiyah had been given much of a choice, or had she simply been told by her father that she was to marry and that was that?
His stomach tightened and turned at the thought.
She came to him, her stare fixed on the carpet. He tried to offer up the warm, loving smile she deserved. But she would not look at him. Her hands seem to be trembling. From fear?
At last she looked up. Her dark eyes seemed huge. She drew in a deep breath. She did not smile at him. He assumed they were both nervous for the same reasons—they knew next to nothing about each other. Did she hate this whole thing? Maybe that would be something for them to talk about after this was all over.
He put his hand out to her, but the doors behind him banged open, voices lifted. Khalid glanced over and saw two burly security men—noticeable for their Western suits and their muscles—were trying to bar a woman who was struggling to keep a cell phone out of their reach.
Her blonde hair was pulled back, and glasses obscured her eyes, but she was not dressed for a wedding. She struck him as attractive in tight blue jeans, a beige blazer over a button-up blouse. She also looked like a reporter. He could admire her courage, but he wished she had chosen some other place for its display.
“I have a right to be here. This needs to be covered. Do you know that Sharjah is one of the few countries where women’s rights are routinely ignored, and this is a prime example of that.”
Khalid groaned. The woman’s accent was clearly American—and brash. Had he not already courted enough trouble because of these Americans and their ideas. He glanced around, saw his father’s face reddening, as was Mehmood’s. Black beards had started to bristle. Glancing at Fadiyah, he saw her staring at the woman, her eyes wide.
The reporter was not wrestling with one of the security guards over possession of her cell phone, which no doubt had photos or videos. The sultan had ordered no media. Khalid watched the woman’s hair come undone and spill out golden strands. Her glasses fell to the floor, and she went after them, slipping away from the security men.
The reporter rose and darted over to one of the American businessmen, pushing her cell phone into his face. “As the CEO of AmeriTek, does your presence here mean you condone Sharjah’s treatment of women as mere property?”
Khalid winced. What could the poor man say? That he disapproved and have the sultan ready to sever ties? Or that he approved and then watch that quote appear on American news?
Security caught up with her. One man wrapped one hand around her waist and the other around her mouth, muffling her protests. The other grabbed her cell phone from her hand. They hustled her back out through the back doors, which clicked shut on what sounded like a threat to call the American Embassy.
The commotion had distracted the guests. Concerned whispers raised into a low murmur and some stood as if to leave. Khalid glanced at his father—the old man was sending one of Khalid’s uncles out of the room, presumably to be sure the woman had been arrested. The Americans had all stood and were tugging suits straight and looking at the exits. The unhappy expressions were impossible to miss or ignore.
Khalid glanced down at his bride to be. She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. He had no idea what he could say to her.
In the next instant, she let out a shrill cry and tears spilled from her eyes. Her father put a hand on her arm, but she smacked him away, and cried out, “I’m not marrying anyone. She’s right. I won’t be treated like…like…like a barrel of oil!”
Hiking up her gown, she turned and ran from the room. Mehmood shot Khalid a glare so hot it rivaled the sands of the desert. He followed after his daughter, begging her to be the reasonable child she had always been.