FIFTEEN
Rosie leapt from the bus, wrapping her coat closer around her maid’s uniform as the wind whipped around her. The fall sky brimmed with dark rain clouds. There was a sense that something momentous was about to happen, and her heart throttled in her chest.
When the Edgewater Hotel came into view, she stopped running, knowing she needed to play it cool if she was going to pretend she worked there. A mad dash didn’t look quite right.
“Just clocking in,” she murmured to herself. “Just a new staff member, clocking in. Nobody wants to deal with the new girl, anyway.”
She hadn’t been much for getting into trouble as a kid, always the one to follow directions. Those Clarice-instated morals had, perhaps, done the trick. Nor had she ever confronted an ex-boyfriend, if you could call Hakan that—this was new territory in more ways than one.
Rosie swept around to the side of the hotel, where she saw the staff entrance, and she nodded her head at two smoking butlers, who didn’t look at her twice. She heard them mumbling about the recent basketball game; they were wishing themselves anywhere else in the world.
Once indoors, she removed her coat and flung it on the rack with the others, her eyes wide. She was close to the kitchen, where she heard the clattering of pots and pans and the sizzle of vegetables, and she reasoned she would have to get through the kitchen to find the service elevator that would take her directly to the presidential suite. Her finger went to her mouth, unconsciously, and she chewed on her nail.
In that moment, a harsh-looking woman with high, penciled-in eyebrows turned the corner and stopped abruptly, her heels clattering on the ground. “You,” she said, her voice angry. “I believe I told you to clean the third floor about a half hour ago.” She righted her dark blue suit, sticking her nose in the air. “And yet I find you here, dilly-dallying, and chewing on your nails. I’d hate to give you another demerit.”
Rosie bowed her head, her heart beating quickly. Clearly, her outfit had worked.
She squeaked out a tiny apology and fled past the woman, her apparent “boss.” She swept into the kitchen, where she nearly ran headlong into a chef, who held a massive turkey, just roasted, in his arms. He yelled out and she ducked down, running beneath his arms as she continued through the aisles.
“Get out of here!” the chef called, his mustache quivering above his mouth. “We don’t need service for another hour!”
But Rosie continued, seeing an elevator just a few feet away. The prep cooks looked at her curiously, their knives gleaming in their hands. She prayed they wouldn’t ask her any more questions; she thought she might vomit if she needed to speak.
She reached the service elevator and called it, wringing her hands together. She tried to meditate as she heard the car zoom down to greet her. “Do it for your son,” she murmured. “Your son deserves answers. You both do.”
Finally, the elevator opened. She took a quick step inside and turned, catching eye contact with the youngest prep boy, who looked at her with warm eyes. Somehow, they gave her a millisecond of hope.
The doors slid shut and Rosie hit the button that said ‘P’, hoping for the best. Moments later, the elevator was speeding up to the top of the hotel. In her mind, Rosie wanted to slow the movement, to give herself more time to think. But she knew she’d already jumped from the cliff, and she was on her way to the water. She’d gone too far to slow down now.
Finally, at the top, the elevator opened, revealing a small hallway that led directly to a large, maple door. It was the only door in sight, and Rosie knew it had to be his.
She inhaled, exhaled, and walked toward it, her legs quivering. Her nurse’s watch, which she’d stowed in her pocket, told her that the opening ceremony for the new television station was taking place downstairs in just under an hour. She’d made it just in time.
Rosie knocked on the door with clattering knuckles. “Room service,” she said brightly.
On the other side, she heard it: that syrupy, strong voice. Her knees nearly gave out, sending her to the floor.
“Hello? I’m sorry. I didn’t order room service.”
Rosie knocked again. She furrowed her eyebrows, reminding herself just how much she hated this man. He’d given her hush money to avoid having anything to do with his son’s life. He was the scum of the earth.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t order anything,” he said again.
But again, she knocked, this time with greater urgency.
She heard rustling behind the door, alerting her that he was coming. She closed her eyes as she heard his hand on the handle, silently wishing that she could reach inside her chest and still her beating heart.
Finally, he appeared before her—looking exactly the same as he had two years before, with those dark, honest eyes; with the five o’ clock shadow that made him simultaneously handsome and almost edgy. He wore an impeccable suit that, she knew, had been chosen for the ceremony.
She stood without speaking, trying to rally the hatred deep within her. She wanted her first words to be icy, full of cold wit. Come on, she thought to herself. Say something. You’ve come all this way. But her tongue wouldn’t move.
But Hakan found the words first. His jaw dropped and his eyes shone with utter pleasure and surprise as he opened the door wider. “My, my, Rosie! The gorgeous Rosie Lund!”
He took a step back, assessing her. His expensive shoes tapped on the marble floor. “I say, you look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you. How do you do it?” He gave her that devilish grin. “Please, please. Come in. Don’t stand out in the hallway.”
Rosie felt perplexed. She followed him with soft footfalls and found herself inside the very room in which she and the man before her had conceived their child. She cleared her throat, ready to speak.
But Hakan beat her to it again, clearly shocked to see her. “Rosie, do sit down. Make yourself at home. God, it’s been, what, two years since I last saw you? I remember, you were my last great adventure in America before I had to take the crown. All those years ago.” He shook his head. “So much has probably happened in your life since then. And in mine, of course, as well.”
He clucked his tongue, gesturing. “Can I get you a drink or something? I have this ceremony later. I hate to go to these things sober. All that handshaking and small talk.” He winked at her, pouring them both a glass of wine. Rosie didn’t have the words to stop him.
“What kind of wine this?” Rosie asked quietly, at a loss for something else to say.
“It’s actually the very wine I showed you when we ate dinner together—from rural Washington. I’m sure you don’t remember…”
Rosie raised her palm, then, nodding. “No. I remember. I remember so much from that night.”
She took a sip, trying to summon up the courage she needed to go on a serious tirade against him. How was he pretending that he didn’t know about their son? Did he want to make small talk and then kick her out of his room? What was the point of all of this?
Hakan continued. “I’m surprised,” he gestured, after they’d clinked glasses. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d give up your job at the hospital to work here. You seemed so passionate about that position. All those lives you bring into the world, each and every day.”
His eyebrows lowered, his face growing serious. “Rosie, I have to tell you. Since I met you, you’ve never been far from my mind. I swear, I’ll be sitting in the throne room, going through some problem with my advisor and chief of staff, and suddenly, I’ll see your face.” He laughed to himself. “I can’t explain it. And for so long, I was sure that my memory of your face was off. I was certain I was remembering a kind of ghost. As the months turned to years, I realized I wasn’t going to hear from you again. And yet, here you are.” He shook his head, awestruck.
Rosie allowed silence to linger between them. Her head was spinning, as she realized that she’d encountered the Sheikh just as he’d been when she first had met him: kind, compassionate, even retaining memories of the
ir time together.
She pressed her tongue against her cheek, frowning. “And how have—how have you been?” she finally muttered.
Hakan smiled, leaning toward her, swirling his wine as he told her about his first two years on the throne, about how it had been difficult to juggle his media work in the United States with his role as constitutional monarch, but that it was rewarding. “I know I’m doing my father proud,” he said, bowing his head. “Maybe that sounds silly. But it really means the world. Especially to my mother.”
Rosie swallowed, recognizing that he still cared so much about his family. None of this was fitting into the image she had constructed of Hakan in the past two years. How could he care so much about his mother and father, yet abandon his son in Seattle?