I’ll talk to you at work tomorrow. And please, keep this on the down-low!
Amity.
Feeling rushed, panicked, Amity pressed Send. She shook her head and rolled to her side, slipping into a strange, muddled sleep, even before the sun set, still dressed in her work clothes. Her exhaustion filled her to the brim, allowing her only to wake up once in the night to kick off her heels.
Triplets, she thought to herself upon waking. What had she done to deserve this?
FIFTEEN
The following day, Amity awoke in the light of early morning, without her alarm. She stretched her body, arching her back. The bump was present in her mind. She couldn’t imagine how she’d missed it for so long. She couldn’t imagine how she’d let it go, thinking she was just gaining weight due to stress. She slid her fingers over her stomach, feeling a first sense of motherly love, of wanting to nurture her babies. For the first time in months, she thought about something other than work the moment she arose. Perhaps that was healthy.
After showering, Amity made a quick smoothie, counting the nutrients in her mind. She was responsible for three babies, for three minds. Harvard, Yale and Columbia, she grinned to herself. None of them would be famous. No PR required. Just normal, intelligent people with that gleaming, honey skin and those bright, earnest eyes. She sighed, knowing her love for the Sheikh fueled through her. She could transplant it to the children in her belly.
She dressed and arrived at work an hour later, her eyes hunting for Flora. She yearned to speak about her predicament with the only person she’d told. She shot the girl a strained wave, and Flora gave her a half-smile. She seemed confused.
Has she not checked her email yet? Amity wondered. She bit her lip, sinking deeper into her chair. She clicked absently at the computer screen before her, attempting to find any other topic to occupy her mind. But her mind was jolting with one, very singular idea.
Mark approached her desk, then. He carried a steaming cup of coffee, and his thick eyebrows ruffled up and down at her. “I’m surprised to see you back here today. How did it go at the doctor’s? Your color is coming back.”
Amity frowned. Had Flora told him her secret? She hadn’t thought they were speaking. “Um. The doctor said everything’s fine, thanks. Just overworked, like you said.” She felt phlegm in her throat and she coughed, parsing for a question. “How did the meeting go?”
“It went fine, actually,” Mark said, leaning heavy on his left foot. His thin hips were jagged, bony. He pressed on, explaining what the client had said, tactics he’d suggested. But Amity found herself tuning out, leaning back in her chair. Her dead eyes glared at him, and then past him.
After Mark left, she rose from her seat and walked over to Flora’s desk, her mind rolling. “Can I speak with you in the kitchen for a moment?” she whispered.
Flora frowned. She flipped her hair and minimized the screen for her Twitter account. “Um. Sure,” she said, her voice haughty.
Amity headed into the kitchen and pressed the door closed once Flora had followed. She hovered by the coffee machine, bringing her twitchy fingers together. “Um. So. Did you get my email?”
Flora rolled her eyes. “Um. The one about the meeting this afternoon? If so, I am already prepped for it. I’m sorry I left early yesterday, Amity, but, to be fair, you did tell me to—”
Amity raised her hand, then. She frowned. “No, no. I don’t mean that. I mean the email about—” She pointed to her stomach, tilting her head. “You know.”
“Your weight gain?” Flora asked, balking. “I wouldn’t want to talk to you about that. I figured you’d get that locked down when you had a chance.”
Amity leaned heavy on her elbow, wilting. “No, Flora. I’m pregnant. I told you in the email I sent you last night.”
Flora clapped her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were great lanterns. “You’re pregnant? Oh my God.”
Amity tilted her head left, then right, her mind rolling. “You really didn’t get the email?”
Flora shook her head. “I mean, I don’t think so. It could have gone to spam?”
“Why would it have gone to spam?” Amity asked her, her voice tense. “I email you twenty times a day.”
“I don’t know.”
Amity heaved a heavy sigh and spun back toward the kitchen door. “Please, Flora, don’t tell anyone about this,” she said quietly. “I beg you.”
Flora nodded and shuffled back to her desk, leaving Amity with her own, rushing thoughts. If the email hadn’t been sent to Flora—where in the world had it gone?
She raced to her desk, her heart jolting. She felt she was about to throw up that early morning smoothie. Her stomach was a tornado. She drew up her email account, clicking to her sent items. And, in that moment, she felt her entire world explode.
In the Sent folder, she found that she’d sent the email to none other than her ex-client, the Sheikh himself. And, all these hours later, he hadn’t responded.
Amity leaned back in her chair, her ears filling with her pulse. Think, Amity. Think. Send him an email saying it was a joke. Call him and explain. Tell him you have feelings for him—that you could even love him. Her brain was in overdrive. Don’t let this die, she thought desperately.
She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing. She slid her fingers over her belly once more, reminding herself that this day would be over soon. That even if Aziz never contacted her, if he never spoke to her again, she had herself. And she’d never needed anyone else. Not before, and not now.
If anything, Amity was perhaps more prepared for single motherhood than most women in the world. After all, she’d been practicing it with her many clients in the PR world for years: all the messes she’d cleaned up, all the sad pop stars she’d consoled, all the millionaire tantrums she’d heard. She was ready.
As she sat there, grinning to herself, she heard someone before her, clearing his throat.
She halted immediately, her eyes still closed. Her smile fell. That familiar scent wafted into her nose, and she realized the throat clearing was all too familiar, as well: a sound she’d yearned to hear for nearly three months. The sound of his voice.
“Aren’t you going to open your eyes?” Aziz asked her. His voice was honey, but edged with tension. It was clear that he knew.
“I’m not sure if I want to,” she whispered. If she did, she’d have to face her mistake, head-on.
“I’ve traveled halfway across the world to speak with you,” he said. “The least you could do is open your eyes.” His voice was stern, so unlike it had been in Al-Mabbar.
Amity slumped her shoulders. She lifted her heavy eyelids and blinked toward him, forcing him into focus. Aziz, the Sheikh, stood before her, his immaculate suit gleaming in the sunlight. His arms were crossed, and his face was stony.
“I received your email.”
“And Flora did not,” Amity said. “I just learned.”
“That mistake isn’t like you.”
“Baby brain, I suppose,” she said, shrugging. “Isn’t that what they say?”
“I’m not sure what they say,” he said. “I’ve never been in this situation before.”
“That’s pretty remarkable, given your status as a player.”
“Don’t be cold,” he told her. Their voices were filled with electricity, with so many things unsaid. He gestured toward an empty conference room, off to the side. “Do you think we could speak somewhere private?”
Amity bit her lip, knowing full-well she was acting like a child. She lifted herself from her seat, bowing her head. Her hair was full of life, bouncy, as she pulled her fingers through it. He was here; he’d come all the way to L.A. for her. He was angry; he was spitting with fury. But he was here. Her long nights of waiting, of dreaming—they’d been leading her here.
She slid the conference door closed and cinched the drapes together, allowing them complete privacy. She’d caught Flora’s eyes in the split-second before, and Flora had looked at her with immense understa
nding, and with sadness. Perhaps she understood, after all.
Amity sank into a seat and leaned against her hand, her elbow taking her weight. She blinked toward the Sheikh, who had begun to pace, his hands clutched behind his back. The air was tense around them, waiting for the volcano to burst. It was Pompeii before the explosion.
Finally, Aziz sighed. He placed two firm fists on the table and leaned against them, making eye contact with her. He swallowed. “What was the meaning of your email, Amity?”
Amity swallowed. She felt the terror of the moment abstractly, as if she were far away, looking in. “Um. Well. I thought it was pretty clear; it seems that the precautions we followed that evening didn’t quite work.”
Aziz nodded for a beat too long, taking the information and going over it, assessing it. “Then it seems that I misjudged you.” His words were cold.
Amity’s eyebrows rose high. “What do you mean, you misjudged me? This was clearly a mistake.” She stabbed her finger against the table, her face hot. “How was this any more my fault than yours?”
Aziz’s words came spitting from his mouth. “I understand now; you’re planning on blackmailing me. You know better than anyone what this news will do to my image. You know better than anyone that an out-of-wedlock birth with an American woman would reflect very badly on me. On my memory and on the memory of my father. You know that.”
Amity felt slapped. She scratched at her face, uncertain. “I’m—um. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“If this news gets out, I’m ruined,” Aziz breathed. Silence fell between them, but he soon filled it. “You knew that. You knew how wealthy I was and realized you could destroy me. You saw an opportunity, and you ran with it. No wonder you were so keen to get out of there the next day.”
Amity stood up, matching his intense anger. She felt haughty, out of her mind. “I never planned on spending a single evening with you. You asked me to. It was you.”
Aziz rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.
“I never planned on sleeping with you,” she continued. “And I certainly didn’t plan on becoming pregnant with your children. I didn’t want this. But here we are.”
Aziz lifted his hand, halting her. “Wait—children?” he balked. “Plural?” He shook his head, his eyebrows meeting in the middle. “What is the meaning of this?”
Amity allowed the silence to follow, realizing that she’d made an enormous mistake with her choice of words. Suddenly, she viewed Aziz as her enemy, rather than a man she could have loved.
She felt exhausted, torn to shreds. She knew that their raised voices were carrying into the offices, that her colleagues almost certainly knew about her pregnancy. They knew that she’d mixed professionalism with a sexual affair. And for that, she couldn’t forgive herself.
Finally, she spoke. “I’m pregnant with triplets,” she said, her voice meek. Her eyes were faraway. “Three babies. Now, tell me that I did that on purpose!”
Aziz didn’t speak. He spread his fingers out on the table and looked at her with those dark eyes. She yearned for him to say something, anything that would make her feel less alone. But instead, he said: “Well. This is quite the problem you’ve created for me, Miss Winters.”
She felt broken, kicked. This was meant to be some kind of miracle, wasn’t it? She brought her fingers to her eyes and begged herself not to cry. She couldn’t allow him to see her weak. She couldn’t allow him to see that she cared. Still, in the back of her mind, she yearned to wrap her arms around him, to confess her feelings for him. But, in the midst of these confusing, tumultuous feelings, he was ripping into her. He was destroying her.
Finally, Aziz cleared his throat. He tore his hands through his hair, yanking at it. “Dammit” he cursed, his voice quiet. “Dammit, Amity.”
Amity’s eyes were wet when she removed her hands from her face. She waited for him to speak, for his decision to create the course for them both.
Finally, Aziz found the words. They were forced, jagged. “I cannot find myself in the midst of such a scandal, Amity,” he said. “I can’t