The Sheikh Surgeon's Proposal

People turned to gape at him. Not only was he the most magnificent male on earth, they must recognize him, too, must be wondering what a king was doing there, and with her to boot.

Outside, the limo awaiting them wasn’t a diplomatic one. Saeed was the driver. She met his eyes as he opened the door for them, saw that the accusation and the fury of their last encounter had turned into something akin to hatred.

She faltered. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all …”

Malek’s hand tightened. “No, Janaan. You’re not running out on me again. Not before we talk. Get in, please.”

He’d said “please”, but she knew he’d haul her over his shoulder all the way to her condo if she refused. She got in.

She kept her eyes averted, looking into nothingness as Seattle zoomed by.

She didn’t need to give her address. He already knew it. She wondered how much more he knew. Wondered what would happen once they were alone.

Nothing, she railed at herself. Nothing would happen, then he’d be the one to walk out on her this time. This time forever.

In thirty minutes he was taking her key from her, unlocking her door and pushing it open for her.

She walked into her utilitarian space on rigid, numb legs and her bag dropped out of her nerveless fingers. It fell on the couch she passed by, didn’t betray her collapsing condition.

She leaned on the first wall she reached, asked with forced brightness, “Would you like something to drink?”

“I would like you to stop behaving as if we’re strangers,” he grated, waited for a reaction. When there was none, he prowled into her reception area, shrinking it, making everything look drab and insignificant in comparison, her neat place, herself—life. Then his gaze suddenly slammed into her, pinned her to the wall like a butterfly on a board.

Then he finally rasped, “Did you see the ceremony?”

And Jay felt her world ending all over again.

She’d been waiting for the guillotine blade to fall, but it still hacked her to pieces when it did. She’d been avoiding all media—and people—like the plague. Anyone who’d known she’d been to Damhoor had wanted to relate news of the country and its exciting new hunk of a king. She’d shut herself out, unable to bear hearing any mention of him or his country.

And here he was, forcing the news on her.

So he’d had a ceremony. Had chosen a wife. The wife considered suitable, the wife he’d now take to bed, or might have already taken to bed, the one who’d bear him heirs, or might already be bearing the first of many.

But it seemed his new wife’s charms hadn’t worked yet. Or was he not giving the woman a chance, because he was still pining for her? Or maybe he was there to appease his honor, fulfill his pledge, offer her the best he could provide, a position as his second wife. And he was waiting for an answer.

She could only give an uncoordinated shrug that could be read as yes or no, as if it didn’t matter to her which.

Malek watched Jan with a heart that had shriveled to a husk since the moment he’d discovered her disappearance. He’d exploded in rages, mobilized all the kingdom’s resources in searches and investigations, had even threatened all the tribes with retribution if anyone had had a hand in her disappearance.

It had been then that Saeed had confessed, had tried to convince him the Janaan he loved didn’t exist, that the real woman had shown her true colors at the first hurdle. The accusations hadn’t even registered, had only incensed him into being ruthless in his punishment of Saeed.

Then he’d swept the earth looking for her.

But all through the soul-gnawing, mind-eroding desperation, dread, fury, and longing, he’d had no doubt. Not a shadow of one. His self-sacrificing Janaan loved him with all her soul, had left him thinking she was doing what was best for him and Damhoor.

Then she’d looked at him with cool, distant eyes, treated him as if they didn’t mean life and beyond to each other, and his world had smashed around him. He’d never known such helplessness, such fear, such defeat.

Could it have been true? She’d left him because she didn’t love him enough? Didn’t love him at all?

Then he’d asked if she’d seen the ceremony. And she’d only shrugged. Ya Ruhmaan—she didn’t care?

What would he do if she didn’t? He could no longer make a rational thought without her being the main pillar in his mind, could no longer exist if she wasn’t at the core of his reasons and goals.

Then everything evaporated from his mind. She was taking off her coat and—and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before.

She was pregnant!

His incomparable Janaan, carrying a child! His child.

The only child he wanted. The child he’d hoped they’d been making each time they’d made love. He’d rejoiced when she hadn’t brought up the matter of protection. The meticulous doctor would have insisted on it if it hadn’t been her ultimate method of showing him she’d wanted his seed to take root inside her, had trusted him with her body, her future and that of her child’s. Their child.

Then mortification rose in a black tide.

Had she suspected it when she’d left him? Was that why she had? She’d sacrificed herself for what she believed was the best for him, intending to go through pregnancy, childbirth and his child’s upbringing without his love and support?

No more. Never again. He’d be her support and succor for every moment from now on. The next baby, he’d be there from the first moment, for every second after that till his last breath.

He hadn’t felt himself move, but he was all around her, cascading passion and protection and tears of gratitude and pride over her down to where his child was growing healthy and strong inside her.

But she was pushing him away, frantic, feeble fingers trying to terminate his homage, her sobs drowning his ragged rasps. “Don’t, Malek. I’m—I’m four months pregnant …”

It didn’t make sense at first. Then the words mushroomed in his mind like a nuclear detonation. Four months.

Four.

His hands convulsed in her flesh, an instinctive spasm, warding off the horror, the devastation, the fatal blow.

He raised his eyes to hers, begging for a renunciation, a stay of execution of all his hopes and dreams, his faith, but found nothing but tears. Of guilt? Of pity?

A white-hot vice crushed his chest.

He willed it to complete the job, still its beating.

It didn’t. Why? So he’d live with it?