Chapter 4
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
One single hair could undo every effort here.
If King Faruq learned she was not his biological daughter, he would kill her, then track down her mother and kill her.
Maybe even kill her adoptive family. Thus, Leighton put forth every effort to keep the room as sterile—and lacking any means by which they could extract DNA—as was humanly possible.
Granted, they could simply hold her down and swab her mouth, but she must nurture their belief that she was Faruq’s daughter and was integrating into their world.
Do everything in her power to convince them she did not mind being here.
Leighton inspected the pillow—surprisingly comfortable—and scanned for hair.
Then she checked the bathroom for the same, poured some of the sugar-laced mouthwash—oh, the irony—into a glass and set her toothbrush in it.
That wouldn’t necessarily eliminate DNA evidence, but she knew from some TV show she’d watched ages ago that it would degrade and make a clean extraction or analysis difficult.
And I’m all about difficult if it means my family is safe.
After one more vigilant check, she stood in the center of the room, drew in a steadying breath, and smoothed a hand over the brown abaya that was more like a paper sack than a dress.
Nerves thrummed—she had been instructed to be ready at eight o’clock for dinner with the royals.
Guess they were short on servants to beat tonight.
But seriously… Why? No idea, save that ominous warning from Zayna about Princess Daria. But Leighton had a terrible feeling she’d forgotten something. This attire was all new to her, yet she loved its comfort and the whisper-soft fabric against her skin. Running a hand over her hair—
Hair! She’d forgotten the headscarf!
Heart in her throat, she bolted to the dressing room, snagged the black one, and raced back to the bedroom. No sooner had she returned and wrapped her head than the click of the lock sounded.
Asim pitched open the door and stepped in. Glanced around as if she could’ve possibly snuck someone into the room. “Let’s go,” he gruffed.
Swallowing, she stepped out, noticing an ominous quiet in the cavernous, columned marble passage.
She took in the long hall that spanned right and left, with many elaborate arches and an endless array of plants and chandeliers.
For the first time since being relocated to the bedroom yesterday, she realized she’d not heard anyone coming or going. Or talking. Only her guard and Zayna.
Asim stalked away from her. “Stay close,” he barked and banked right around a corner.
No windows or doors lined this narrow stretch of hall that led to a thin set of stairs leading down three levels. Servant’s stairs, she guessed by the lack of ornamentation and simplicity of design.
Once on the main level, he turned left and headed down a long passage.
A few minutes later, they pushed through a door into a grand foyer that presented itself with the luxury expected of a royal palace.
Ahead, twin staircases of white marble and bannisters trimmed in black and gold—literal gold—swung around and over a passage to another hall.
Asim strode beneath the flanking staircases.
At double-arched doors, he veered toward the right one.
Voices haunted the hall as they passed a dozen or more.
A din of conversation grew and came to a crescendo, leveling as Asim stopped before a set of doors and tugged one open in a way that kept him out of sight.
Leighton glanced inside. Her heart climbed into her throat at the sight—the crowd. Roughly twenty people in there… Princess Daria, the bride-to-be, laughed hysterically at her fiancé, Hassan, who had an inch-wide beard that traced his jaw and upper lip.
Leighton felt her stomach tighten, recalling his barked command to her in the outer garden.
She swallowed, her gaze colliding with Prince Nasir, whose eyes were sharp as daggers.
He stood with another, taller man who seemed somehow more casual in the thobe and ghutra, which was held in place with the black igal.
She did not recognize the tall man, though she guessed him to be one of the princes of the Central Kingdom.
It was impossible to keep them all straight, and she could never learn all of the Saudi Arabian princes’ names since there were over fifteen hundred!
Stiffening as conversations fell away and all gazes found her, she felt a poke in her back, urging her forward.
Even as she entered and shifted aside, she heard the door whisper closed behind her.
Being painfully aware she was out of place forced her to lock her eyes on the intricate design of the cream-colored carpet with red-and-black foliage.
Slowly, chatter rose, their Arabic not quiet.
Clearly they assumed she did not speak the language.
Fighting the urge not to react at the epithets and slurs hurled about her, she did not budge.
“Ah, Nouri!” cried Princess Daria in dramatic excitement. “You are here at last.”
Leighton shivered in the icy silence, only then detecting in her periphery that the princess was crossing the room, her shoes padding determinedly on the rug.
Daria clicked her tongue. “What in the world have they put you in?”
Gaze skidding around, Leighton allowed it to streak over the kohl-lined eyes of the one before her, relieved to find the princess peering back at the other royals.
Daria turned, took her arm, and drew her from the anonymity of the wall. “Family,” she said in English, dragging her into the fray. “This is Nouri. She’s…” Her near-black eyes assessed her, then swung to the gathered with a breathy laugh, “our cousin.”
A stern man in a white ghutra stalked closer and remonstrated the princess in Arabic, said it was inappropriate to call this American family.
Turning her gaze to Leighton, Princess Daria motioned to the man. “Nouri, have you met Maaz?”
The crown prince!
Leighton started, unable to hide her shock from the heir to the throne.
“Come, Daria,” another man—the only one without the ghutra but still in a long tunic and slacks—said with a laugh. “You are embarrassing the poor girl.”
“Rayan, that’s absurd!” the princess objected, taking Leighton’s hand and drawing her toward the table.
“If it is embarrassing to be with us,” hissed the princess’s fiancé in Arabic, “she should not be here.”
As if I had any choice.
“Personally,” the man continued, “I count it an honor—”
“Enough, Hassan,” Daria groaned. Rolling her eyes, she turned to a woman next to her, who looked even younger than Leighton and wore a very flattering tan kaftan with beads and gems down the front.
This could be Princess Aliyah, the youngest of the royal heirs in residence at Omnia, according to Zayna’s list.
Murmurs undulated around Leighton as the princess directed her to gilt chairs with brocade cushions.
“Here,” Daria said, indicating to one along the side. “You will sit by me and Hassan.”
“That is not possible, my sweet,” her fiancé said, hovering near his bride-to-be, “as you are seated next to Nasir, and I beside you.”
Daria moaned. “You are all being very dull.”
“This,” said a quiet, deep voice right by Leighton’s ear, “is where she bores of you, Hassan, as she does with everyone.”
Sliding a glance to the side, Leighton dared not look directly at the man, but without the ghutra, she guessed it to be Prince Rayan. The youngest half brother of the current king, yet closer in age to the king’s children due to a late marriage between Rayan’s mother and the king.
Tall and dark-haired, he had a kindness about him. He motioned to a far chair. “Your seat, Nouri.”
Leighton noted that he spoke English, no doubt assuming the same as most here. And she would not disabuse him—or anyone—of that notion.
Some silent signal must have occurred because, almost as if an alarm had gone off, all the royals moved to their places.
“Come,” mused Rayan, still holding his hand toward the brocade chair.
Uncertainty flashed through Leighton. Glancing to Daria, ensconced in conversation with the other royals as they took their seats, she realized she was forgotten and accepted the chair Rayan indicated.
Chatter again filled the hall. As staff wandered beneath the enormous glittering chandeliers, delivering plates of hummus and bread, she felt the isolation of identity close in on her, hearing their snide comments about her, calling her inappropriate words, saying she was plain and bordering on ugly.
She’d thought being out of the room and among people would be better for her mental state. But this? So much worse.
For Ummi…I do this for Ummi…
“Where in America did you live?” Rayan asked as he dragged flatbread through his hummus.
Stomach growling, she twitched. Wet her lips, not entirely sure she should answer, but the last thing she wanted to do was upset those at this table.
“Virginia,” she said quietly, forcing herself to take the bread and tear a bit off, though she feared reprisal.
The chickpea hummus would be good protein but bloated her stomach, so she just tucked the flatbread into her mouth. Chewed.
“I visited there while attending Harvard,” he noted solemnly.
“You went to Harvard?” She flinched at her own question, remembering too late Zayna’s instruction not to speak unless asked a direct question. “S-sorry.”
“You are sorry I attended Harvard?” he chuckled, scooping more hummus and eating it. “I think many would agree with you.”
“No,” she gasped, “I—”
“I am teasing, Nouri.” He gave an encouraging nod. “Yes, I got my law degree there.”
Wondering at his kindness, his very different manner to his cousins, she braved another glance at him. “I was going into law…” Before she had been ripped from her life. She retracted her gaze as she took a falafel and dipped it in the small bowl of sauce.