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Calla delivered the news that night at dinner after the kids had started playing in the corner. Without looking at him, she said, “I plan on stepping back from the gala planning. The wives will handle it from here. I don’t see any reason for us to continue our luncheons, either.”
Fatim didn’t fight it, which felt like another round of heartbreak. He was fine with it. He couldn’t care less. All of this partnership and fighting together for the common good—it was all an illusion. One she’d been too eager to dupe herself into.
The final step of her plan came in her retreat from the marital bed. She moved back to her own bedroom. Palace gossips be damned.
Fatim’s first question finally came the next morning. He showed up at her bedroom after their first night apart. He didn’t look well rested.
“Are you planning on staying here from now on?” he asked.
She sniffed, nodding. “I don’t see why I should share a room with you.”
His jaw worked back and forth as he leaned in the doorway. “Because you’re my wife.”
“No. I’m an overpaid nanny, posing as a wife. Please, let’s call it what it is.”
Fatim’s lips turned downward but Calla couldn’t afford to care anymore. She needed to do what was best for her. Fulfill her job functions and wait it out. It was the only way she’d come out alive—and whole—on the other end of this marriage.
“We need to keep up appearances,” he said in a low voice.
“You can tell them that I snore,” Calla went on, surprised by the finality in her voice and the way these hard words were just flowing out of her now. “My CPAP machine disturbs you. It’s better for the tribe if you sleep alone.”
He sighed tersely. “Calla.”
“This is the arrangement that will work best for me.” She forced the waver from her voice. So he could feel every inch of how serious she was. “Ask me again, and you’ll hear that ‘no’ you’ve been looking for.”
Fatim didn’t try again. He quietly retreated from the doorway, eyes darker than she’d ever seen before.
Calla dedicated all her free time to her designs for Fashion Week. The tribal women who weren’t roped into the gala planning were roped into Calla’s designs. It was all hands on deck as she worked tirelessly to bring her creations to life. They joked that Rasha had turned into the Royal Director of Bead Sorting, with how much time she spent directing others on how to separate beads according to Calla’s preferences.
Two weeks passed like this. Getting the kids ready for school, sewing, helping the kids with homework, and more sewing. She only saw Fatim briefly for dinner most nights, and she spoke to him as little as possible.
It was the only way she could cut herself off from him while still needing to share the same house as him.
But her determination and single-minded focus paid off. With just weeks left before Fashion Week was set to begin, Calla was able to put the finishing touches on her grand finale design. A half-sheer, half-shimmer, form-fitting, off the shoulder dress that had been inspired by her own wedding dress.
And once she sewed the last seam of the dress, she sat back in the amber lighting of the royal tent. Alone, stressed, and tired. Staring at the dress only to realize that it was one hundred percent a creation that Fatim would love.
That she would have loved to wear for him.
She brought the hem to her lips and cried softy into the sheer fabric.
Maybe it didn’t matter how cold she was or how much time she gave it.
Maybe Fatim would always own a piece of her heart.
He would always be her king.
Fatim was ready for the gala seemingly light years before the rest of his family. Calla insisted on preparing Nara herself, and since Rashid didn’t want to be anywhere that Calla wasn’t, that meant that Fatim was locked out of the mini-family meeting taking place inside Calla’s room.
He paced outside the door of her bedroom for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only fifteen minutes, as the frequent glances at his wristwatch attested.
From down the hall, the muted undertones of the gala could be heard. The melodic, almost whiny notes of a sitar. Laughter broken by bursts of conversation. Fatim checked his watch again. Nara screeched from inside. God, he wished he could be in there. If anything, to watch Calla as she got ready.
Fatim hadn’t yet said out loud how much he missed Calla, but it pulsed and swelled inside him, begging to be let out. He feared admitting it, because admitting it meant he’d broken his own number-one rule. But damn, that woman had lent a distinct grace to his daily sphere. And now he felt the lack of her sweetness, her special touch, in spades.
Maybe breaking his own rule wouldn’t be the end of the world.
In his weaker moments—like at midnight in bed alone, wishing for all the world she were at his side—he fantasized about what he’d tell her. What words he’d use to bring her closer to him. To invite that warmth, that gentleness, back into his hardened and rigid life.
