Page 10 of The Billionaire's Timed Wife

We had already found her in New York, though the address listed online was outdated. But this week, Naim passed a law allowing women to keep their cell phones but banning them from accessing the internet altogether.

“Calm down, Adeela. My father won’t let this go on. You know he’s always respected women.”

“It’s not your brother’s strictness that scares me—I’m used to that at home. It’s the thought of never being able to leave and find my mother, or even call her.”

“Wait, what do you mean? Used to what strictness? Are you talking about your father?”

Even though she’s like a sister to me, I’ve never complained about my father to Jazmina. After all, he’s still the sheikh’s advisor, since Naim decided to keep him in that position.

“Nothing. I spoke without thinking.”

“No, Adeela. I want to hear it now. Are you telling me he hits you?”

“No,” I lie.

Because there are far worse things a father can do to a daughter.

I grew up hearing him call my mother a prostitute. Physical pain fades. Mental pain doesn’t.

“Then what?”

“He’s always been harsh with me because of who my mother is, but it got worse after the performance we gave at your father’s birthday celebration, almost two years ago.”

Of course, I’m simplifying things.

Both he and his wives, and my sisters, have always insulted me, saying that a fruit never falls far from the tree, a cruel reference to my mother.

They mocked her not only for being American but for having been a model before she met my father.

That performance on the sheikh’s birthday was simply the culmination of what they already thought of me. And even so, I don’t regret a single second.

I walked into that hall dying of embarrassment, my nerves a wreck, but the moment I saw Prince Kaled’s eyes on me, I forgot everything else.

For as long as the music lasted, and from the moment I saw him sitting there, I let myself imagine I was dancing for my man. Which, of course, was madness, even in a dream.

First, because of who he is—obviously, I’d never be a suitable wife for him—and second, because Kaled has never really lived here, not for as long as I can remember.

I doubt he even follows our customs.

Jazmina told me he studied at a boarding school in Switzerland and later majored in Economics in the United States.

When we still had internet access, she’d show me photos of him in magazines, on society pages, always with beautiful women clinging to his arm.

I shake my head and wonder, not for the first time, whether I made a fool of myself that night. For a fleeting instant, I thought he’d fallen under the same spell, because hecouldn’t take his eyes off me. But when the music ended, he simply said goodbye to his father and left.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was a bucket of cold water that snapped me back to reality.

Since then, whenever he crosses my mind, I push the thought away quickly, which isn’t easy, because the prince is breathtaking.

I’m sure he’s over six feet tall, his body solid, his muscles impossible to hide even beneath the traditional robes worn by our men.

His hair is black, like his neatly trimmed beard. It isn’t mandatory for men in our emirate, only in the most radical countries, where they’re even required to grow it long. Still, I’m glad Kaled keeps his. It shows he’s still connected to his roots, even if he doesn’t live here.

His jaw is strong and square, exuding arrogance. His lips curve slightly at one corner, as if mocking the world.

I was mortified for running from him after overhearing his phone call, but I’d never been alone with a man who wasn’t my father, since I have no brothers, and I had no idea what to do.

He must have thought I was pathetic, especially compared to the gorgeous women he’s seen.