She wondered if perhaps the change had something to do with the Sheikh having his heart broken. She concocted a story in her mind about a beautiful, charming and wealthy woman—everything that Zayed wanted to pass Zelda off as. Maybe they’d met somewhere else, maybe they’d met in Miami. And maybe the woman had stolen his heart. Perhaps he had intended to marry her, not just in order to buy out his rival, but because he’d loved her.
Zelda dismissed the idea as she started trying to decide whether the woman—her imaginary invention—had broken the Sheikh’s heart on accident or on purpose. It wasn’t a very likely story.
Feeling like she wanted to change into something more comfortable—she’d put on one of the nicer designer outfits the Sheikh had bought her—Zelda went into her bedroom and slipped off the heels she’d wandered the house in, letting her feet sink into the thick rug near her bed. She slipped off her skirt and blouse and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt—one of the few more casual items Zayed had allowed her to buy during their shopping trip.
A knock at the door cut through Zelda’s addled thoughts. “Coming,” she called, smoothing her hair back from her face.
She assumed it must be Hadya or one of the other members of the household staff, but instead, Zayed himself stood on the other side of her door, dressed in what she’d come to think of as his business uniform: a clean, crisp three-piece suit with a bright white shirt and silk tie.
“Oh,” Zelda said, blushing slightly and feeling more than a little underdressed compared to her future husband. “Hadya said you were in the city on business.”
Zayed smiled slightly. “I was,” he said. “I just got back.”
“Do I need to change? I’d gotten dressed for the city but then you were away, so I figured I could put on something more comfortable.”
Zayed shook his head. “You look fine to me,” he said softly. “I thought you might want to practice our first dance for the wedding.”
Zelda smiled; it seemed like an almost inane detail, amongst all of the other things going on in the flurry of activity surrounding their wedding. She’d met with officers of the court to sign the preliminary paperwork, with Zayed’s personal assistant multiple times to go over specifics for the flowers, the food, the decor for the wedding, and with designer friends of Zayed’s both for her engagement party gown and her wedding dress. She had generally spent her days doing so many things that it was all she could do some nights to eat her dinner, take a bath and go to sleep so that she could do it all over again the next day.
“I should at least put on my heels if we’re going to practice,” Zelda pointed out; they’d picked out her shoes for the wedding reception, and while she had worn heels before, the ones made by another one of Zayed’s designer friends did not fill Zelda with confidence that she’d get through the day without taking a tumble and ruining the society heiress image she and Zayed had concocted.
“I’ll meet you in the east garden,” Zayed told her. He kissed her on either cheek and Zelda couldn’t quite suppress the little tingle that ran through her at the contact.
“I’ll be out in ten minutes,” she said, turning to find the new shoes in her closet.
Zelda shook her head to herself; it had been over a year since she’d seriously dated anyone, and now—after knowing her future husband for all of a few weeks—she was going to be getting married.
But there’s no romance in it, she reminded herself firmly, finding the box in her closet and taking the shoes out of it. Stop getting so emotionally involved, already.
The shoes were beautiful: ivory satin with brilliant red flowers, in honor of Murindhi wedding tradition. The thin heel scared Zelda; she was still convinced that she was destined to face-plant before she made it through the vows.
She slipped the shoes onto her feet and stood up experimentally, taking a deep breath. Her ankles wobbled slightly until she pushed down on the arches of her feet, steadying herself. She took a deep breath and stepped from side to side, and then forward and back until she was satisfied she would make it to the garden, at least, without tripping up.
Zelda grinned at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t changed out of her skinny jeans and T-shirt, and somehow the combination of the casual clothes with the extra-formal shoes was both stylish and absurd.
She took a deep breath and carefully stepped out of her room, through the sitting area, and into the corridor. She could already feel the balls of her feet complaining at the onslaught of pressure from the shoes, but she ignored it; eventually the pain would go away, and the more important concern was to keep from twisting one or both of her ankles, or falling on her face, on her way to meet her husband-to-be.
NINE
Zelda found the Sheikh in the east garden, connecting his phone to the sound system there. It was one of the more beautiful spaces on the property: the exterior wall totally obscured by lush plantings, ringed with trees that extended up so far over her head, Zelda could almost forget that the compound was walled in at all. The center of the garden was cleared out, a patio area with space for maybe a few dozen people to congregate. Zelda thought that they would probably have the private reception, intended only for Zayed’s close friends and business associates, there, so it made sense to practice their first dance as man and wife on the granite surface.
The Sheikh looked up from his phone and smiled slightly, nodding towards her. “I think we just might get it right this time,” he said, reminding her of their first few awkward attempts with the dance instructor a few days before.
Zelda chuckled, shaking her head as she recalled the instructor’s frustration that they kept stepping on each other’s feet. “Maybe this time I can manage not to try and lead,” she countered, taking a wobbly step towards him. She steadied herself once more, and Zayed closed the distance between them, approaching her confidently.
“Ready to give it a try?”
Zelda considered it for a moment; she wasn’t going to become any steadier on her feet merely standing there. She nodded, and Zayed tapped a command on his phone, calling up the song they’d agreed to use: “Come Away with Me” by Norah Jones.
As the slow, jazzy music came up, followed by the lead singer’s honey voice, Zayed deftly placed his hands on her waist, and Zelda reached up—not quite as far as she’d had to before—and draped her arms around his shoulders, crossing her wrists at the back of his neck.
They began moving together, faltering slightly as they tried not only to match the rhythm of the song but also each other’s speed, but then fell into the beat as one. Zelda forced herself to relax, and found that following Zayed’s movements was easier than it had been before; she didn’t feel like he was quite so much of a stranger anymore. She hummed the melody to herself idly, leaning in a little closer; Zayed tensed and Zelda shot him a quick, amused look.
“We’re not going to look like lovers if we’re leaving room for Jesus,” she quipped.
Zayed briefly stared at her in confusion before recognizing the reference, and Zelda felt his hands shift to the small of her back, drawing her body nearer.
Zelda nearly forgot all about the pain in her feet and the awkwardness of trying to stay upright in the shoes as she and Zayed practiced the dance, but then she realized that neither of them were speaking, and self-consciousness rose up in her. “It’s got to be a little strange for you, marrying someone you barely know,” she said, raising her voice just loud enough for him to hear it above the music.
“Stranger for you, I would think,” Zayed murmured. “I’ve been adjusting to the idea of marrying a stranger for weeks—months, even. You’ve barely had a week to get used to the idea.”
Zelda half-shrugged, letting her cheek rest against Zayed’s shoulder. “It’s a little weird,” she admitted. “When Hadya told me you were away on business for most of the day, I took the liberty of exploring the house a bit.”
She hadn’t realized that there’d been an undercurrent of guilt in her mind at what she’d done; the Sheikh had tol
d her that she had the run of the palatial house, but there was still something about the pictures she’d looked at, the information she’d gleaned—without quite understanding it—that gave her pause.
“This is the first time you’ve seen the whole house?” he asked, and Zelda nodded. “I should have given you a more extensive tour the first night you were here.”
“It was nice, actually, discovering it on my own terms,” Zelda told him. “I did...see some pictures that I’m curious about.”
“Oh?”
The song started up again, and Zayed’s hands tightened on Zelda’s back as she faltered just slightly, trying to find the groove again.
“I think they were your parents,” Zelda said. “They looked like they could be. But they were all shrouded or covered, the pictures of them.”
Zayed nodded. “I probably should have the shrouds and mourning cloths removed,” he admitted. “Normally they’re only there for a year, by tradition.”
“Has it been a long time, since they—” Zelda faltered, not wanting to say the words.
“They passed away a few years ago,” Zayed said, his voice full of melancholy. “They died in an accident, en route from Dubai.”
Zelda felt him shake his head and pulled back slightly to meet his gaze. For the first time since she had met the Sheikh, Zelda saw real, painful emotion on his face.
“I almost decided to sell off the company,” he continued. “I just...couldn’t see a way forward, without my father to guide me and laugh at my mistakes, or my mother to tell me all of his mistakes to make me feel better.” Zayed smiled faintly, and Zelda realized that the other smiles she’d seen were nothing; they were ghosts compared to the real expression.
“In the pictures, you looked like...like you were really happy, really close with them,” Zelda said softly.
“I was,” Zayed agreed. “An only child, a little spoiled, too, maybe, but I never doubted for a moment that my parents loved me and would do anything for me.”
The Sheikh sighed, and Zelda’s thoughts turned almost unwillingly to her mother and father, and the fact that she’d been out of touch since the yacht had left Miami. She’d walked out of their lives in the middle of the fight, and neither of them even knew if she was safe.
I should have contacted them before now, she thought grimly. Zayed would surely have done whatever it took to give her that.
Zelda had barely noticed it, but night had fallen as they practiced their dance. She looked around, realizing that while their feet were bathed by warm light from lamps around the perimeter of the patio, the only overhead light came from the moon, rising up over the trees that lined the garden.
“You look absolutely beautiful tonight,” Zayed murmured, slowing his swaying movements to a near stop.
Zelda started slightly, turning her face to look at him. Her heart beat faster in her chest as he met her gaze, his bright eyes darker in the dim, silvery light of the moon. For an instant, she saw him start to move closer to her, to lean in, his lips parting just slightly.
“Oh wow, my feet are killing me,” Zelda said suddenly, letting her hands fall from his shoulders. “I think an hour of practice is enough, don’t you? I really think we’re nearly there.” She stepped back abruptly, and Zayed let his hands fall from her body.
Zelda carefully stepped out of the perilously high heels and gave the Sheikh an apologetic smile. It was one thing, in her mind, to engage in a sham marriage; it was another thing—and far more dangerous—to let anything like romance, even something as minor as a kiss in the moonlight, complicate the situation—no matter how right it had felt in that moment.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, before the party,” she said quickly, gathering up her shoes in her hand.
She fled from the garden, stepping quickly back into the house, her feelings so jumbled that she wanted nothing more than to attempt to run as fast as she could to get away from them.
TEN
Zelda wondered just how many women in the world could expect to have their wedding dress made by a major designer, within little more than a week from the start of the commission. The morning after she’d fled the garden to keep herself from kissing Zayed, Zelda found herself once more in the work room of his designer friend, being attended to by no fewer than four employees, all of them wielding pins, fabric pieces, and other implements she couldn’t even identify.
Tahirah Abadi, the designer, presided over them all, directing the process. Zelda felt like an incredibly glamorous doll, or a piece of clay being molded by fabric and thread into something more divine than she was.
“I wish you could come in after having your hair done,” Tahirah said, shaking her head slightly as one of her employees turned Zelda a half-step around to adjust something on the long, flowing gown. “I’d love to see how this will look in the final stages.”
“I haven’t actually figured out how I’m going to have my hair done,” Zelda admitted. The stylist she was working with had given her mock-ups of herself with three different hairstyles, all of them modeled after traditional wedding updos for Murindhi women. There was makeup to consider as well, which the stylist had described as a fusion of traditional Murindhi and Western-style makeup: heavy eyeliner and a pink lip. Altogether, Zelda reasoned that the wedding would be just enough in keeping with tradition not to raise too many eyebrows, while not being so foreign that she looked like a joke participating in it. Tahirah’s sketches of the wedding gown showed an ivory-colored cascade of fabric punctuated by purple and red flowers along the hem, extending into a