Instead of collapsing into her bed, Amity showered and brushed her teeth, feeling the bristles waffle too hard into her gums. Blood splattered into the sink. But she shook it off, her damp hair slinging water onto the walls.
She dressed in a lightweight suit and tapped toward the office the Sheikh had had organized for her, where she sat, dignified, in the desk chair. She swung one leg over the other and set her fingers to keys, typing out a brief, how-we’re-doing email for Charlie Campbell. She could hardly remember how it felt to be in L.A., all the way across the world. She imagined her desk, there in the corner, glinting and empty. Perhaps the interns were taking turns sitting there, twirling in her chair.
Suddenly, Amity snapped her fingers, remembering. She took her phone from her pocket and lifted it to her ear, dialing the now familiar number. Across the street, Flora’s hotel room phone rang and rang—surely echoing through the hallway, down elevator shafts. But still, the girl did not pick up.
Amity shook her head, grimacing. Flora still wasn’t back from her rendezvous with Aziz’s friend, that much was clear. That girl was so fired… once Amity discovered where she was, of course. She imagined a mother-daughter altercation: “Where have you been, young lady?”
She knew Flora’s only response would be teenage giggles. She knew the intern had no real interest in public relations. Then again, deep down, did Amity really care about PR at the moment, either? It seemed as if her stay in Al-Mabbar had ripped any logic from her brain. She was a shell filled with revving emotion. She felt out of control, and she did not like it one bit.
“Come on, Amity,” she said, shaking her head. Her now-dry brown locks swirled around her. “Think.”
Beyond anything, she was a professional—and she had a single job: to assist Aziz in creating a better, brighter public image. She drew out a piece of paper and scribbled on it, glossing through a tremendous list of schemes that she had previously utilized with her other clients. She remembered pitching so many of these ideas to those pop-culture fiends back in Los Angeles—how they’d hardly given her the time of day, telling her that she “was the expert” and that they “really didn’t care” so long as she did her job. Some of them had literally been filing their nails during these conversations—so blasé, so bored. Of course, back then, she’d taken pleasure in mopping up their messes, but not a single one of them had been good or decent.
But Aziz was a good person. And it was clear that he cared about others—and about her. Even after their awkward encounter, he’d greeted her warmly—viewing her as a human being, rather than a faceless suit, hired to clean up his messes. But how could she go on working with him now? How could she go back to being a professional, after everything they’d shared?
Amity closed her computer abruptly, her muscles twitching. She brought her fingers to her still-pounding temple. She couldn’t believe she’d allowed her feelings for him to take over.
She roughed her fingers through her hair, panicked thoughts driving her. Perhaps she could go for a run to clear her mind and assess her real feelings for the Sheikh? But outside, she heard the swell of the traffic, of the horns. She was far away, in a foreign city—and she didn’t know which way was up.
She felt herself rise from her chair. Her feet directed her up the steps as if she were walking through a long tunnel with only a single exit. There was no turning back. Her fingers grasped the wardrobe doorknob and sprang it open, revealing her large collection of professional clothing, her shoes all laid out for her long stay. She lifted her suitcase from the back, where the smell of cedar was dense in her nose. And she began pulling her things from their hangers and laying them easily, steadily into the bottom of her suitcase, knowing, deep down, that she was doing the right thing.
Her bosses would scorn her, maybe. She definitely wouldn’t get the office she so desired in New York City. Probably not for another five years, or when she’d saved enough money to open the place on her own. And by then—what would be the point? She wouldn’t have love. She wouldn’t have friends. And what did that mean for her life?
She tossed more things into the suitcase, feeling light tears roll down her cheeks. She wasn’t crying, was she? God. She hadn’t cried in months. She shook her head and yanked at the zipper, feeling the satisfactory seal of her suitcase. She would ensure that Flora had a way back to America, when she wanted it, on company funds. How else would the girl get home?
Amity lifted her cellphone to her ear, dialing a cab. She would be gone by the time the Sheikh arrived home, and she’d send him an email, explaining to him that she would find him a replacement. She didn’t have to say anything more than that. It would be professional, succinct.
“Yes, I’d like to arrange a taxi, please. To the airport,” she sniffed into the phone. She felt her heartbeat in her ears as she gave the address details. She felt as if she were falling down, down, down a cliff, waiting to hit the bottom.
TWELVE
Moments after she’d hung up, Amity heard footsteps outside her door. She felt her throat close, sensing that the footfalls were heavy. They couldn’t have belonged to a maid.
Aziz cleared his throat, and Amity spun toward him, her eyes wide. She sniffed, hoping he couldn’t tell that she’d been crying. She felt that ache in her throat—so familiar, from childhood—that meant she was losing something she truly cared about.
“Looks like you’re going somewhere?” Aziz said. He wasn’t smiling. His voice was firm, but soft. She longed to crawl to him, to roll into his arms. She longed to turn back the clock.
“I am,” she said. She could hardly speak, her throat was so tight. “I’m sorry, Aziz. I have to go back to L.A.”
“Did something happen at home?” he asked her. He crossed his arms, giving her that deep, penetrating gaze that made her stomach flip over.
“No,” she whispered. She felt the tears welling up once more, and she knew she couldn’t fight them. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just so sorry. I don’t think I should stay here, Aziz. I haven’t been professional, and I can’t trust myself to keep my feelings separate from my work. I will send a replacement to finish the work I’ve started. In the end, I’m not the one who can help you.”