Chapter 15
Ava
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Ava Farahani and Zaid Yousef are pleased to announce they are expecting their first child together in autumn of this year. They ask for privacy at this exciting time.
Monaco
With the press of a button, Zaid and I have triggered a shitstorm.
He was smart to wait until we landed in Monaco to give his PR team the green light to post our joint statement.
By the time we were stepping off the elevator and into a penthouse in one of the most exclusive buildings in the city – and my new home for the next week – the news was just starting to hit social media.
Now, as we stand awkwardly in the living room, our continuously buzzing phones are a reminder of how fast news travels in the digital age.
I don’t waste any time powering mine down and tossing it into the depths of my handbag.
I’ve already either deleted my social media accounts or set them to private, and I’ve gotten in touch with anyone who might need to contact me in the next twenty-four hours.
I’ve learned that it’s best to disconnect from it all in the beginning – something that Zaid is having a slightly more difficult time with.
I’ve watched him open and close a few messages, grimacing as he reads, probably wondering what he’s gotten himself into.
Guilt threatens to start simmering in my stomach, but I refuse to give it the time of day.
He had options and this is the one he chose – if he’s regretting it now, then that’s a problem he’s going to have to deal with.
A few more seconds pass before he finally sighs and drops his phone onto a side table, glancing back over at me and offering the barest hint of a smile. ‘Let me show you to your room,’ he says, grabbing the handle of my giant suitcase and nodding to the hallway in front of us.
We’re holing up here for the rest of the week, riding out the storm until it’s time for the next grand prix weekend to begin, when hopefully some of the furor will have died down.
I still expect it to be pretty bad, but at least Zaid can use the excuse of wanting to focus on racing instead of straight up telling the media to piss off and mind their business.
The apartment is, as I expected, egregiously large, and I swear I count three other bedrooms before Zaid pushes open the door to the one meant to be mine.
I’m greeted by lush white carpet, a sleekly modern king-size bed, and a wall of glass doors that overlook an expansive balcony and the Monte Carlo harbor.
The water glitters and gleams under the night sky, moonlight reflecting off it as the lights from boats – let’s be real, they’re superyachts – twinkle back.
I’ve spent more time in Monaco than your average person by rights of being involved in F1, but this tiny dot on the map never gets old.
As I continue to gape at the view, Zaid wheels my bag in and hauls it up onto a luggage rack in the corner, going so far as to even unzip it for me, though – gentleman that he is – he doesn’t peek inside.
When he turns around again, it’s to point out the door to the en suite bathroom, and then the array of items on the dark wood bedside table.
‘I’ve been doing some research on morning sickness. There are crackers, ginger sweets and sparkling water, all in easy reach.’ He pulls open the narrow drawer to show off the additional items tucked away. ‘Chewable antacids too. My sister-in-law said her heartburn was unbearable.’
It’s so thoughtful that the backs of my eyes start to burn with tears, but I distract myself from them by rubbing the base of my throat. ‘She wasn’t wrong about that,’ I say. ‘How old is your nephew now?’
‘Eight months.’ The corners of his mouth pull up, part fond smile, part grimace. ‘He was born right before the Singapore Grand Prix. With my injuries, I wasn’t able to hold him until he was about nine weeks old.’
This detail pains him, and it’s one I didn’t expect him to admit, but I get the feeling he’s trying to hint at something more. Is he afraid that he might not be able to hold our child one day? That he’ll either be so injured again that he’s incapable of it or, worse, not alive to see them?
He could have died last year, so it’s a valid fear to carry. I’m tempted to push and ask if that’s what he means, but after a long race day, I’m too exhausted to get into it. I didn’t even drive, so I can only imagine how tired he is. It will just have to be another topic that can wait.
When I do nothing more than nod in acknowledgment at his confession, Zaid clears his throat and says, ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need. More than happy to get it for you.’
‘Or I can go get it myself because I’m a perfectly capable person,’ I tease, trying to lighten the mood. If we’re going to be flatmates for the next week – and co-parents for the rest of our lives – then I want this to be as pleasant as possible. ‘See you in the morning.’
He dips his head, leaning in toward me, and for a brief moment I think he’s about to kiss me. I think I want him to, despite everything I’ve said about just being friends.
But before I can pose the idea, he grazes his lips chastely across my cheek, and I bite my tongue to keep from sighing in disappointment. It’s probably for the best.
‘Good night, Ava,’ he murmurs, eyes flicking down to my belly. ‘Sweet dreams to you both.’
——
There’s warm sun streaming in through the doors and cracker crumbs on my cheek when I wake.
As I’ve learned over the past few weeks, eating every few hours is the only way to save myself from the nausea.
Bless Zaid for keeping me from having a miserable morning, and bless him even more for setting me up with the ingredients for the best sleep of my life: million-thread-count sheets, an expensive cushy mattress, and best of all, a full-body pregnancy pillow.
My bump isn’t nearly significant enough to truly warrant using it, but even once the baby’s born, I can’t see myself sleeping without one again.
Talking to his sister-in-law about her pregnancy clearly led to more than just buying antacids and ginger candies, and I’m touched knowing he’s done his research.
Hell, he’s gone and talked to primary sources.
He’s invested – I have no doubts about that any more – and he’s made it clear through caring for me.
I can’t remember the last time I had that.
I rub my hands over my bump, quietly saying good morning and still trying to wrap my head around the fact that in a few short months, I’ll finally be able to hold my baby in my arms after years of dreaming of it.
As usual, my bladder ushers me out of bed, and I take my time getting ready to face the day. Or really, face Zaid.
I have no idea what living together this week for our trial run is going to look like, especially in the moments when he isn’t working.
What does a man like that do in his leisure time?
If he’s anything like Axel, then he’ll be sitting around in his boxers and sim racing all day, shoveling cereal in his mouth because he has no idea how to cook.
But Zaid is not like that, and I get my first hint of what he actually gets up to when I work up the nerve to leave my room.
While there is a racing simulator set up in one of the rooms I pass by, it takes up only a corner of the space.
The rest is an artist’s paradise – a cluttered drafting table, drawers overflowing with paints and pencils and charcoals, and a handful of canvases leaning against walls.
It would be so easy to step inside and get a better look – aka snoop – but as curious as I am, I couldn’t possibly invade his privacy like that.
My attention’s grabbed by the scent wafting from the kitchen anyway, and my stomach makes it known that if I don’t eat again soon, it’s going to stage a revolt.
With one last glance, I round the corner into the sunny kitchen, finding Zaid carefully folding an omelet.
It’s a far cry from the cereal I was bracing for.
He must sense me standing in the doorway, because he turns and nods toward the marble island. ‘Take a seat,’ he instructs. ‘Breakfast is almost ready.’
I hike myself up on one of the barstools, smoothing my black cotton dress over my knees as I watch him start plating. ‘I’ve never had a man cook for me before,’ I comment, delightfully surprised by this turn of events.
Zaid spares me another curious look as he grabs cutlery from a drawer. ‘Really? Your dad never cooked?’
I shake my head. ‘I think the man would burn water if you asked him to boil it. My mom did all the cooking.’
After she passed, it was boarding school dining halls, an obscene amount of delivery, and a chef who came by twice a week to drop off microwavable meals whenever I stayed with Dad in London during summer breaks.
Thankfully, those summers were also when my maman bozorg took me under her wing and taught me her recipes, sighing dramatically every time my tahdig stuck to the bottom of the pot and pinching my cheek whenever I surprised her with a batch of her favorite shir berenj for dessert.
‘My mother made sure I could at least fend for myself,’ Zaid says as he brings the plate over to me. ‘You won’t catch me becoming a master chef anytime soon, though, unlike my brother.’
I take the proffered fork from him. ‘I think you could pull it off, Mr. I’m Good at Everything.’
‘Hey, what did I say about golf?’