Unpack thoroughly.
Irene sat up straight, covering her mouth with her hand. Wide-eyed, she stared across the porch at her open suitcase.
With a gasp, she flung herself toward it.
* * *
The day Sharif had dreaded for half his life had come at last. Today was his wedding day.
He was almost glad to get it over with.
In his finest royal robes, of shining white, Sharif walked down the hallway toward the throne room where he would sign his life away.
As was traditional in Makhtar, the bride herself would not be there for the formal signing ceremony. For that small favor, he was glad. He’d already endured enough of Kalila’s company this week. Today would be simple and private. All he had to do was go to the throne room where he and the bride’s father would sign the papers and conclude the legal formalities, in front of a few witnesses.
So perhaps, if he closed his eyes very tight, he could pretend it was someone else he was marrying today. Someone bright and beautiful, soft and loving.
Against his will, he pictured Irene, with the warmth of a smile glowing in her eyes.
Sharif’s footsteps faltered against the marble floor of the hallway, then stopped. He closed his eyes, hearing the roar of blood in his ears. In this moment, he would have given thirty years of his life—forty—if, instead of a billionaire emir who ruled a wealthy nation, he could just be a common goat farmer of the far south, barely able to feed his family each month on a pittance, if only he could have the most basic freedom of all: being with the woman he loved.
“Sire?”
He saw Hassan in front of him.
Sharif tried to speak, had to clear his throat. “Yes?”
“Your bride’s father is awaiting you in the throne room, along with the officiant and the witnesses.”
Time to face the blade. “I would like you to witness as well.”
The man bowed his head. “I am honored.” His voice was stilted. He lifted his head with pleading eyes. “But it is not too late...”
“It’s nineteen years too late,” Sharif said wearily.
“Miss Taylor...”
“Don’t say her name,” he ground out. “I don’t want to hear it. If she’s tried to call again, I don’t want to—”
“She’s here.”
Sharif stared at him. He felt all the blood leave his face. “Here?”
“She showed up ten minutes ago at the palace gate. I did not let her through,” Hassan added unhappily. “With your standing order, I had the bodyguards detain her. But I thought—” he bit his lip “—maybe you’d changed your mind and—”
Imagining Irene so close to him now, on the day of his wedding, emotion slashed though Sharif.
“No,” he choked out. He put his hand to his forehead. If he saw her face now, today of all days, there was no way he’d be able to go through with this wedding. Promise or no promise, he’d cast honor aside and let his country’s fate fly as it would. Let the whole nation risk dissolving into chaos and war, if he could just feel Irene’s arms around him again—
“There you are, Your Highness.” Sheikh Ahmed Al-Bahar, the former vizier and current governor of Makhtar’s eastern region, was standing in the doorway of the throne room. He bared his teeth in a smile. “You are late.”
“Yes,” Sharif said listlessly. “Forgive me. I am coming now.”
The man gave an impatient nod and disappeared back into the throne room. Sharif walked toward it as if walking toward his own execution. Each step was more difficult and required more courage than the one before.
He’d given his word.
He had no choice.
Kalila would be a toxic wife, but perhaps she would still be a good queen, and good mother. Perhaps she...
No, he couldn’t even make himself believe that. His stomach twisted at the thought of his future child being raised by her. It felt wrong, so wrong. He didn’t want to raise a child with her. Or even create one with her.
There was only one woman he wanted as his wife. Only one he wanted in his bed. One woman to be the mother of his children. And he would never have her.
“Sharif.”
He heard Irene’s soft, worried voice behind him, and knew he was dreaming. Clenching his hands at his sides, he closed his eyes, enjoying the dream just for one last moment, before he went into the throne room and gave it up forever.
“Sharif!”
The voice was louder now. He frowned, opening his eyes. And turned around.
Irene stood before him, her beautiful face pale. Her lower lip was chapped as if she’d spent the last day chewing on it. Dark circles were beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days. But she was smiling. And so were the six bodyguards behind her.