The Sheikh's Irresistible Proposal

I had to pull over. There was nothing else for it. I hadn’t spoken to my mother in over four years. After I ran away to Washington DC, our relationship had irrevocably changed. To me, the theater camp had represented everything that was important in my life. It would have allowed me to work with well-respected actors, and many of its graduates had ended up having successful careers in television—usually that one cop show with the special victims unit. It was a dream I had poured everything into, and on top of everything else, I had gotten a scholarship. But none of that had prevented my mother removing me from the program and dragging me back to Arizona. It had been the most painful moment of my teenage years. Despite all my efforts, it had seemed like my own mother had no faith in me.



It had taken a long time to get me back to Arizona, and I told her every hurtful thing that occurred to me along the way: that she was a horrible mother who couldn’t be bothered to believe in her daughter or support her dreams; that I’d performed in plays and talent shows without a smidgen of support from her; that strangers had shown me more love than she ever had.



After that, my parents had agreed that since I believed that total strangers loved me more than they did, I was free to go live with them whenever I wanted. I couldn’t afford to move out, so I stayed. I rarely spoke to my mother, and she rarely spoke to me; that was the only thing we agreed on. The moment I turned eighteen, I left for Los Angeles.



What on earth does she have to say to me now? I wondered uneasily.



“I saw you on TV the other night,” she began in a low, stiff voice, “and a few times before, actually. Whether you believe me or not, I’m glad you got what you wanted.”



“Bullshit,” I responded, and hung up.



It was a short conversation, but it stuck like a splinter in my mind. Why had my mother said that? She had done everything she could to keep me from acting, and now I was supposed to believe she was glad I’d made it work? I wasn’t buying it. Not after all this time. I told myself she probably wanted to butter me up now that I was appearing on national television. She was seeing me getting better jobs, she obviously wanted to bury the hatchet before I became too big for her to reach me.



“It’ll be a cold day in Hell…” I spat, starting up the engine and trying to recover the joy I had been feeling only moments before.



Nothing I did made the slightest bit of difference, and I reached my apartment in a foul mood. Over the next two days, I forced all thought of my mother from my mind. I buried myself in auditions, meetings, practices, and whatever else I could think of. Eventually, I was back to feeling genuinely happy again. The role on Penny Lane looked promising, and I was beginning to form contacts I knew would be important later. I was going over an audition with one of those contacts, Kristina Bell, a semi-famous choreographer, when she casually mentioned Date Roulette, and set alarm bells ringing in my head.



All the work and excitement had completely driven Kristos from my mind. He had neither my phone number, nor my address, so I didn’t expect to hear from him after I left his house. But he was on my mind now, or more specifically, the fact that the first condom we’d used during our drunken encounter had broken. Granted, he’d pulled out and put a new one on, but that wasn’t exactly foolproof. I had planned to get the morning after pill, just in case, but apparently Plan B doesn’t work if you forget to take it. The pill was effective for three days, and I was currently halfway through day four.



I tried to reassure myself that my anxiety was most likely unwarranted. Millions of people have random sexual encounters, I reminded myself, and most of those never result in pregnancy. I told myself that I was being too cautious, and that I had more than enough to worry about with my audition schedule. In a couple of days, I was going to be considered for the role of Juliet in a satirical version of the Shakespeare play, and I had several pages of lines to learn. I was also a candidate for a tongue-in-cheek homage to the famous Mac versus PC commercial from a while ago.



I turned my attention back to the audition I was preparing, and forced all thoughts of pregnancy and babies out of my mind.



“Right there,” I remarked to Kristina, “I keep losing the pacing right about there.”



“That’s because you keep worrying about the step that comes next. You need to relax and let each of your moves flow naturally from one to the next. Then, and only then, will you be able to get it down.”



I took her advice and that of several other experts, sharpening my performances with each passing day. It paid off, and by week’s end, I was a finalist for three different productions. Margaret was as close as she ever got to ecstatic. My mother called twice more, but I ignored her, determined to avoid any and all distractions. White hot anger, I told myself, was not going to get me any closer to the goals I was struggling to achieve.



Three weeks later, I was overjoyed to learn that I had won the role of Raven King in the Penny Lane reboot. Filming was due to begin next month, and wrap up sometime near the end of the year. I was going to be the co-star on what promised to be an immensely popular sitcom. I had just become a legitimate TV star. Margaret was already scheduling interviews with media outlets throughout Hollywood, and across the country. My name was trending on Facebook. I swelled with a strange kind of pride when I saw petitions to replace me with someone who ‘isn’t best known for a handful of commercials and losing a reality show’. It was a new and exhilarating feeling, being famous enough to be protested, and I drank it up greedily. I ran through my apartment, whooping and hollering until Mrs. Coleman threatened to toss me out, rent paid or no.



“It’s finally happening,” I breathed, struggling to calm down. I tried to apply myself to the mundane tasks I hadn’t had time for in days. I managed to get a little cleaning done, but couldn’t focus on very much else. I’d just switched over to gathering the laundry when an unexpected wave of nausea washed over me. For a moment I was sure I was going to vomit, but in a few minutes, the sensation passed. At that, I took a seat on my bed.



‘I’ve gotta be careful about that,” I said to myself. “Too much excitement is going to make me sick, and now is definitely not a good time for that.”



Eventually, I managed to calm down a bit and get my house in order. For the next month, my life was consumed by routine, with practices most mornings and interviews in the evenings. Every now and then, I was called in to do a commercial. In my latest, I play a mother whose children go crazy if they don’t get their favorite cereal. Things were going so well I started a savings account. For once, it seemed like everything in my life was going perfectly.



Well, almost perfectly. I did have one problem left. I couldn’t get the Greek out of my mind. Not the baby issue. By now I was sure that was a false alarm. I mean him. That confusing mix of coolness and passion. He was forceful, gentle, and mysterious. It didn’t hurt that he looked damn good either. Once or twice, I had been tempted to have Margaret’s secretary fish out his number from the agency’s records. But at the same time, he hadn’t made an effort to call me since our tryst, and I had no intention of looking thirsty.



It seemed to me that the proper thing to do was put him out of my mind, where I kept thoughts about my parents, and other unsettling ideas that would otherwise bubble to the surface. The problem with Kristos was that he wouldn’t stay there. Throughout the day, something about him would pop into my mind. In the middle of satirizing Shakespeare, I’d see him leaning against my Malibu with his cavalier attitude. Or I’d be doing a shampoo commercial and start fantasizing about tousled, black, hair. I thanked God I never ended up doing that commercial where the woman makes those sex noises in the shower.



When shooting finally began on Penny Lane, I hoped the project’s demanding schedule would finally make me forget about Kristos. After all, it had been two months. I was sure the chances of us meeting again were nonexistent.



Again, I was wrong. I was doing my fifteenth take of a scene where Penny is struggling to fire my character for taking advantage of her. I was supposed to dash up the stairs, burst into the newsroom, and demand to know how she could even think of doing such a thing. I made it about halfway up the stairs before a headache hit me with the force of a hammer. Everything went dizzy, and I clung to the railing. From a long way off, I could hear voices.



“…okay, Emma? Are you alright?”



“Cut, for heaven’s sake! There’s an emergency here.” It was Richard Morris, the show’s producer, with more agitation in his voice than anyone had ever heard there.



“Fine,” I replied weakly. “Just a little dizziness. I guess I ought to rest up a bit more between projects.”



“That may be,” Richard returned, “but you’d better go see a doctor just in case. We’ll resume filming your scenes tomorrow.”



“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I said, standing tall. Delaying a production wasn’t good for anyone’s career, but to a relative unknown like me, it could be devastating. At this point, unless I was dead or bleeding, the show needed to go on.



“Yes it will be,” Ann Montgomery said firmly. Ann was the actress playing Penny Lane, and the niece of the actress who had played her in the original series. “You’re seeing a doctor, Johnson.” She was the star of the show, and as it turned out, her word was final. Forty-five minutes later, I was parked on a hospital bed.



“Well, the tests are back,” Dr. Iwata said brightly, tapping her teeth with her pen once or twice. She was a small, young-looking Japanese woman, with soft features and stylish glasses. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Ms. Johnson. You simply cannot do that in your condition.”



“Condition?” I asked, glaring at her intently. That was not a word I wanted to hear right then. I dearly hoped whatever sickness she was about to tell me I had could be treated in a day or two at most. I was so close to stardom. So close to everything I had worked for. I couldn’t come this far just to be replaced.



“Yes, Ms. Johnson, your condition. You’re two months pregnant. You need to take care of yourself.”



Her words were a bolt from the blue. I started shaking. I tried to reply to her, but my mouth wouldn’t work properly. It was suddenly drier than it had ever been before.



The doctor called a nurse over to tend to me right away, telling him I was going into shock. Within ten minutes, I was alright again. Well, I wasn’t alright. Nowhere near. But I was stable.



“You didn’t know?” Dr. Iwata asked, real concern in her voice. “You haven’t been feeling tired or nauseous? No weakness or headaches?”



“I..I’ve had all those things,” I stammered, “but I thought it was stress. Are you sure about this…?” I asked, trailing off.



Dr. Iwata nodded gravely. “At this point in the process, it would be next to impossible for me to have made a mistake. I can see this has been rather startling news for you, but I want you to try and come to terms with it.”



I was barely listening. Every now and then I would nod to give her the impression that I understood what she was saying, but the whole thing just kept rolling over me, and it was all I could do just to keep myself together.



Half an hour later, she sent me home, with instructions to stay there and rest for three days. By the time I got there, I was close to tears. What in God’s name was I going to do?