Chapter 3
Every time I come to Rheadur, even back in my boarding school days, when I was still a teenager, I’ve always been chased by girls eager to land a commitment with the sheikh’s youngest son.
Most of them are beautiful, young, untouched—and not a single one of them has ever caught my attention. Until today.
So I can’t quite understand what it is about Adeela that hit me so hard.
Maybe it’s the fact that, instinctively, I know she doesn’t just seem pure, she is pure.
And that has nothing to do with her being a virgin. Every unmarried girl in this country is.
It was her eyes that told me the story of her life.
Innocence can be faked. Purity cannot. She barely spoke to me, and yet I felt as if every one of my sins had been stripped bare, like I was unworthy of her.
And then, without giving me a chance to fully grasp what had struck me, she ran.
Ran.
Not to sound like an arrogant bastard, but I can’t remember a single woman who’s ever run away from me.
Is she shy with everyone, or was it the embarrassment of being caught crying that made her flee?
Yes, because there were tear marks on her cheeks; the damp handkerchief was proof enough.
I try to remember her as a child, doing the math to guess her age now. Probably close to my sister Jazmina’s or maybe even younger.
Forcing myself to shut down those thoughts, I leave the room to greet Abdar, another of my closest friends and first in line for succession in a neighboring country.
I honestly thought he wouldn’t come, but Abdar, more than anyone, knows how unbearable these ceremonies are, and he showed up out of solidarity.
I could easily have celebrated my father’s birthday in private, just the two of us, but instead, I’ll have to endure several days of festivities, as is customary in our country.
Ignoring the security guards who follow Abdar, I pull him into a hug. With how hectic our lives have become, it’s rare for all of us to see each other more than three or four times a year, so when we do, we make it count.
“Salam[15], my friend. Ready to die of boredom?” I ask.
“I came for you, first and foremost, and also to honor your father.”
I understand what he’s not saying: if it were only about Naim’s coronation, he wouldn’t have set foot here.
Who am I kidding? If it were just to watch my half-brother puff up his chest like a peacock for finally achieving what he’s dreamed of his whole life—becoming sheikh—I wouldn’t be here, either.
“You said there’ll be a dance performance in the main hall?” he asks.
“Yes. Somehow, my sister Jazmina managed to convince our father to let her honor him by performing a dance with a friend.”
His eyes widen almost to his hairline, and I know exactly why, but he stays silent.
“Go ahead, say it,” I prod.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says, “but how did she even manage that? Forgive me, but Jazmina is practically a child, and besides that, she’s the sheikh’s daughter, and . . .”
Neither Abdar nor I are misogynistic bastards like Naim, who thinks women are incapable of making their own decisions, but I’d be lying if I said I’m pleased with the idea of seeing my sister performing the raq? bládi[16]—what most of the world calls belly dancing—and exposing herself before a male audience. Jazmina only just turned seventeen.
“Just look the other way when she starts dancing,” I warn. “And don’t let your eyes wander to any part of my little sister’s body.”
“As-salam alaykom[17], Your Heighness,” Abdar says, bowing as soon as we approach my father.
“Wa Alykom As-salam[18]. Peace be upon you first,” my father replies.
Kamran, the current sheikh of Rheadur, also known as my father, doesn’t care much for birthdays or whether people attend. It’s us, his children, who insist on being by his side.
Even though our country is fairly liberal, birthday celebrations aren’t a big part of our culture, and when they happen, they’re limited to family.
The reason for tonight’s grandeur is not only the transfer of Rheadur’s government to my half-brother but also the fact that, about six months ago, my father had a heart attack and spent over two weeks in the hospital.
We truly thought we were going to lose him.
I glance at the weary face of the honorable man who made me who I am, and I can tell that, even as he tries to appear cheerful, he’s worried about the future of our country in Naim’s hands.
My half-brother, though nearly twenty years older than I am, is nothing more than a spoiled child, and I fear he won’t treat our people with the respect they deserve.
But there’s nothing to be done. Father wouldn’t be able to stay in power much longer anyway; his health simply won’t allow it.
A pang of guilt twists inside me when I think about how often I avoid coming home. It’s not that I reject my culture—I love almost everything about our people and our traditions. I say my prayers every day, and for most of my life, I’ve been faithful to our faith. But coming here feels suffocating.
He’s never said it aloud, but I know my father wishes I would run my companies from within the emirate.
Still, I’ve always preferred to forge my own path in business, managing wealth that has nothing to do with my family’s fortune, and in love.
If I stayed here, the pressure to marry would have trapped me in an unhappy union.
Besides, spending every day in Naim’s presence is the last thing I want.
He’s my blood by accident of birth. Beyond that genetic link, we have nothing in common. I’d never admit it out loud, since he’ll be our sheikh in a few hours, but I despise him. I just pray that his selfish mind will find enough clarity to rule with at least some compassion.
“Your Highness, Her Highness Princess Jazmina sent word that the performance will begin in ten minutes.”
“Let’s take our seats, my sons. Your sister’s been preparing this surprise for months, and I don’t want to disappoint her.”