The Sheikh's Contract Fiancee (Almasi Sheikhs 1)

“Okay then.” Annabelle headed toward the security guards, who made an abrupt about-face and led her down the terminal corridor, toward a small, unmarked door. She tried to prevent the onslaught of questions and worries and worst-case-scenarios from crippling her.

The guards led her down a narrow hallway that smelled like bleach and metal. Her heart raced as they wound deeper into the airport and then made a sudden right turn into what looked like a police interview room. A large window overlooked the room, where a desk sat with a chair on either side. The guards led her inside, pointing to a chair. From inside, she could see that the window appeared as a mirror. Great. So they probably think I’m a terrorist, and I’m on my way to the Parsabad prison system.

“Can anyone tell me why I’m being detained?” she asked the guards as they began to leave the room.

They looked back at her and one of them said something in gruff Farsi.

“Don’t you speak English?” she asked.

Another Farsi response came, and then both guards left the room, leaving her in an agonizing silence.

She groaned, dropping her bags on the desk, the solitary confinement acting like a match to the gas flame of her anxieties. How long would she be here? What was the next step? Why the fuck was she in here?

Annabelle took to pacing the room, gnawing on her thumb nail as she combed through possibilities. Maybe they found something in her passport. Did Parsabad have forbidden countries? It didn’t matter—the only place she’d been recently was Italy and Ireland, and nobody had any beef with those places. She stilled. But she’d been to Northern Ireland. She swung her head to look at the mirror. Was all of this because she’d gone to Northern Ireland? No way—Northern Ireland had been at peace for years now, almost two decades.

Annabelle rotated between pacing and sitting. Minutes felt like hours, though her phone told her only twenty minutes had passed. She heard a scuffle at the door outside.

Panic prickled through her, and she scrambled to standing. Anything could come through that door.

But the door didn’t open. She let out a terse sigh and then fished her phone out of her purse. She’d call Marian, let her know what happened. Her plane would be boarding in a half hour, and maybe she wouldn’t be out of here by then. She needed to have her friend start looking for a backup plan. Provided she was ever allowed out of the country.

Annabelle selected Marian’s name from the recent calls and pressed the phone to her ear. It never rang. She looked at the phone, finding an error message: Your phone must be out of airplane mode to make a call.

She gasped. So that’s why she hadn’t heard anything from Marian in so long. “Fuck.” She quickly swiped out of airplane mode, watching as the notifications dinged and shook the phone. One missed call from Marian, but then one, two, three…ten missed calls from Imaad in total.

Her mouth fell open. He’d been trying to get ahold of her…and she, the dolt, had been in airplane mode the entire time.

She stared at the phone for what felt like forever. Knowing that he’d reached out to her made her feel warm and fuzzy. Like maybe the thing that had been blossoming between them was something real, and not just a fantasy to be shot down whenever she indulged in it.

Maybe Imaad really could have a home with her in NYC.

The doorknob rattled and voices sounded from outside—urgent Farsi, like arguing. Imaad stepped inside a moment later, his face drawn, and Annabelle stood rooted to her spot, paralyzed by the tumult of contradicting emotions inside her.

“Annabelle.” He approached her slowly, as if he thought she might attack.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She gripped her phone, struggling to piece together something that made sense. But nothing made sense. Not when she was in this airport prison cell and about to miss her flight home.

The relief she’d felt at seeing Imaad quickly segued into suspicion. He had you detained. He doesn’t want you to leave the country, so he made you miss your flight.

Anger roared inside her and she came to standing, her jaw tightening.

“Don’t tell me you were the one behind this detention,” she spat, gripping the edges of the table. “You can’t keep me in Parsabad, you know. I’m going home.”

“I know. This is all a bit different than I intended, but—”

“Why would you do this? Huh? What the actual fuck?”

“You wouldn’t answer my calls,” he said, flattening his palms on the desk, leaning toward her. “You checked out without even telling me. I couldn’t just let you leave like this.”

She was so angry she sputtered when she spoke. “Leave like this? You can’t stop me! I’m flying to America, Imaad! The choice is mine!” She balled her fists, stilling her hand from punching him in the face. What an arrogant prick. What an entitled piece of shit who already thought he could rule her life. And why? Because they’d been fake engaged for a week? This was bullshit of the highest order.

“I know!” His voice came out gruff, and the intensity quieted her. “That’s why I’m taking you myself.”

Silence filled the cell, broken only by her heavy breathing. “What?”

“I want you to go back,” he said, his neck flushed. “We’ll go on my plane.”

Annabelle swallowed hard, her anger still desperate for a release. “What fucking plane?”