“We’ve shared so much already.” She brought her ring to her lips and kissed it lightly. Whatever Hadi thought of her paintings, she couldn’t doubt he loved her. He’d told her be confident, and he’d meant it, and tonight she’d be just that.

  Her excitement caught fire as she crossed the great hall. Hadi was waiting in the archway, half-turned to greet her. He slid his arm around her waist for their first pictures of the evening, and when the press cleared the steps, he leaned in to kiss her.

  “I told you, you’re a natural.” His breath tickled her ear, igniting sexy shivers. “They love you. Who wouldn’t?”

  Willow floated to the car on a cloud, arm in arm with Hadi. Inside, he pulled her close, and she basked in his presence.

  “So, your paintings.” He took her hand and kissed it, his expression suddenly searching. “I’ve seen the paint under your nails, but not a single canvas. Why might that be?”

  Willow laughed and shook her head. “There’s this thing everyone says, when I show them my art. You should be an artist. Every time, just like that.”

  “And you’re afraid they don’t mean it?”

  “I’m afraid they’re right.” Willow studied the backs of her hands. “I love teaching, I do, but it wasn’t my dream. I was halfway through art school, and then came Zak. I needed a steady income, so I went with plan B.”

  “I’d never tell you who you should be,” said Hadi. “But I can’t wait to see your art.”

  The press met them at the gallery, and they posed for more photos. Willow beamed proudly, but her nerves were back full force. The place was packed to overflowing, a line out the door. Half of Mehara had shown up already, and the night was still young. They’d come for her, she knew, for the Bride of the Planets. What would they make of her cozy little paintings, tiny classroom memories in bright sunlit tones? Slices of her life—a small life till now.

  “Did you hear that?” said Hadi, pitched low just for her. “They’re saying it’s sold out already.”

  “What, the whole show?” Willow couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “Miss Mandrake!” A microphone popped up from nowhere, nearly bumping her chin. “We’re hearing this show’s your first, but that can’t be true.”

  “It’s true.” Willow found Hadi’s hand and squeezed it for strength. “I’ve been painting since I can remember, but till now, it’s only been for me.”

  “Everyone’s talking about your artwork, how you create this perfect nostalgia. How we look at your paintings and see our school days staring back.” The reporter was crowding her, eyes wide and starry. “Can you talk about your inspiration? How you paint your classroom, but it feels like all of ours?”

  “I-I...” Willow blinked, overwhelmed. Her inspiration? She just painted.

  “You’ve got this.” Hadi’s voice was steady, a deep rumble in her ear. Willow breathed deeply, and then she found her own.

  “They’re real moments. Real memories.” She gripped the mic and leaned into it. “Like the one with the kids lined up, and the last boy has gum on his shoe. That was my son, and those shoes were brand new. And that face he’s making, he’s debating—laugh or cry?”

  “Well, you can’t leave us hanging. Laughter or tears?”

  “Laughter. Definitely laughter.” Willow smiled, herself. “Zak’s our bright-side boy.”

  Hadi clasped her hand tighter. Willow felt a rush of warmth. She looked up at him, and he met her eyes with such tenderness she could have melted on the spot. She let him guide her inside, out of range of the cameras.

  "Which ones are yours?" He scanned the first group of paintings. “Not that these aren’t lovely, but I don’t see Zak.”

  “Mine are in the back.” Willow drew him along with her, excitement mounting in her chest. “We thought we might get some looky-loos, just curious about me. So we put mine at the end, so they’d have to look at everything.”

  “It seems it’s paid off.” Hadi pulled a face. “Though I’d hoped for a souvenir, something to take home. Maybe later, we could—”

  “Wait. Shh.” Willow stopped dead, her heart pounding in her throat. She’d heard her name, she was sure, from just around the corner.

  “What—?”

  She gripped Hadi’s arm, holding him back. She shouldn’t eavesdrop, she knew, but—

  “I was surprised, actually,” came a voice. “I thought they’d be terrible, like ‘oh, the Bride of the Planets. We’ve got to let her in.’ But she’s got actual talent. I’d have bought one myself, if they weren’t sold out.”

  “They should’ve done an auction,” said someone else. “I got here first thing, and pfft. All cleaned out. But still, I’m glad I came.”

  “Seems you’re a hit,” Hadi said. “Not that I doubted it for a minute.”

  “I might have doubted a little.” Willow let out a harsh breath. “I’m glad you’re here.” She led him round the corner, to the far side of the room. Her paintings hung in a cluster, dominating one wall. Hadi planted himself before them and examined each in turn. Sometimes he leaned close to take in the details. Other times, his eyes narrowed, and he seemed lost in thought. The space cleared out behind him, whispering patrons making way for their sheikh. Willow hung on tenterhooks, half eager for his verdict, half weak with dread. She shifted, embarrassed, as though she herself were on display.

  “I won’t say you should be an artist,” Hadi said, at last. He reached for one of her paintings and straightened it on its hook. “I say you are one already. These make me...happy. Like I’m back at my old desk, waiting for the bell.”

  “Really?” Willow felt faint, as if the tension draining out of her was all that’d been holding her up. “I was scared they’d be boring. Like other people’s family albums.”

  “But this one’s mine.” Hadi moved to another painting. “That’s Lale, right? Looking out over the playground? That’s her pink barrette. She sobbed when that broke.”

  Willow nodded. “I have more of Lale, if you’d want some for yourself.”

  “Of course I would.” Hadi turned to face her, and his expression was grave. “You could do this, make a career of it. As my wife, you’ll have that freedom.”

  “That’s not why I said yes.” Willow’s cheeks burned. She hadn’t thought of it at the time, caught up as she’d been in the romance of Hadi’s proposal. But tonight in the limelight, she’d let herself dream not of wedded bliss, but a glittering career. “I won’t pretend I haven’t thought about it,” she said. “But—”

  “Don’t apologize for your ambitions.” Hadi moved closer, his eyes alight with passion. “We both stand to gain from this marriage. But I wouldn’t have proposed if I didn’t love you deeply. If I couldn’t see you felt the same. I want you to benefit from this, as I will myself.”

  “You’re very honest.” Willow laughed, a little shakily. “I like that about you. I like that a lot.”

  “Oh, really?” Hadi cocked a brow. “What else do you like?”

  “Take me home and find out.” She hooked her finger in his waistcoat and pulled him down for a kiss. “You think they’d mind awfully if we slipped out the back?”

  “We’ve made our appearance. Done our dance for the press.”

  “Then...”

  “Let’s go.” He slid his arm around her waist. A sharp thrill ran through her, the spark of anticipation. Her heart beat fast as they ducked out the fire exit and booked it for the car. Hadi’s hand was on her ass, his breath hot on her neck. In the back seat, he pinned her, one hand in her hair, the other on her wrist. She arched up against him, hungry for more. His kisses were heated, his cock stiff at her hip. His murmured instructions had her panting. Moan for me. Say my name. When they slowed at the palace, she didn’t want to move.

  “We could stay here a while. Send the driver away.”

  Hadi chuckled darkly. “Much as I’d like that, I—oh. Just a minute.” He fished out his phone. “Dad? Yes, of course we did. Wait, slow down. What?” He swiveled away from her, then got out of the car. Willow followed, uneasy, as he hurried up the steps.

  “Hadi?”

  He glanced at her, brows knit. “No. No. Why would I? I’ll straighten it out, but we—”

  Willow’s anxiety spiked as Hadi cut across the great hall and made a beeline for the garden. He’d picked up his pace, and she had to trot to keep up. By the time he hung up the phone, they were halfway to his terrace.

  “Hadi? Did I do something?” She reached for him, then drew back, half convinced he’d shrug her off. Instead, he turned to face her, and he looked her up and down.

  “Did Leila give you that dress? Did she tell you to wear it?”

  Willow frowned. “She suggested a white one, but it seemed kind of flashy. I thought, for the teachers’ show—”

  “Your publicist promised the designer you’d wear her gown.”

  “Oh.” Willow’s heart sank. “I didn’t know. Is she upset?”

  “I don’t know, but her family is.” Hadi massaged his temples. “Her father is a philanthropist and a patron of the arts. Her mother runs a media company. With their influence combined, we want them on our side.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Willow tried a sheepish smile. “I could wear it next time. Maybe name-drop her on Instagram?” She moved closer, hopeful. “It’s just a mix-up, right? Like the pantsuit at Faisal’s birthday party.”

  “This is more serious than that. Like if you’d come to Faisal’s in a lime green string bikini.” Hadi’s tone was playful, but his expression was grave. “The details matter now. It matters what you wear. You need to check with your team if you want to make a change.”

  “Check with my team?” Willow reached for her phone. “I thought I might slip my panties off and sit my ass on your lap. What’s Leila’s number? Should I check on that?” She spun out of reach as Hadi grabbed for her phone. “Or I’ve got this little slinky thing, this bright pink lace—”

  Hadi lunged for her, growling. Willow ran, and he chased her, and he caught her at the gate at the edge of the willow grove. He swept her up in his arms and half-carried her up the terrace, and into his suite.

  “So. No Leila?” She held up her phone. Hadi took it and skated it under the bed.

  “You’re mine now. All mine.”

  “Going to give me a spanking?”

  Hadi’s eyes glinted wickedly, and Willow’s lust caught fire.

  “Punish me as you will,” she whispered. “I just have one condition.”

  Hadi nipped her lip. “What’s that?”

  “Make it last all night.”

  11

  Willow leaned forward, stomach sour with tension. Zak looked so small, all by himself at the front of the classroom. His hair stood up in the back, where he’d been twirling it as he waited. He was nervous, fidgeting with his buttons. She flashed him a bright smile, but Zak’s eyes were on Malik.

  “Should I start?”

  “Not like that.” Malik clapped his hands. “How do we stand, when addressing our guests?”

  “Up straight,” said Zak. He thrust his shoulders back and puffed out his chest.

  “And where are our hands?”

  “At our sides, or we clasp them.” He let his hands drop to his sides. “Like this?”

  “Feet shoulder-width apart.” Malik stood and demonstrated. “And breathe. Relax your shoulders. Shake them out, and don’t hunch.”

  Zak did a wet-dog shake, but his shoulders stayed tense. He sucked in a shaky breath and plastered on a big smile. Willow nodded encouragement, and Fisa did the same. Zak relaxed visibly and launched into his speech.

  “Friends, honored guests. I’d like to read, uh—recite to you from the Book of Stars, chapter nine.” His hand was back at his collar, fiddling with the button. “This chapter is about family, so I—I messed up.” He shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his feet. “I forgot to thank everyone for coming.”

  “You did,” agreed Malik. “And the blessing, as well. The ceremony is twenty days from now. Have you been studying your program?”

  “We’ve been studying together,” said Lale. “He does know it. He’s good at it. He just flubbed it this once.”

  “It’s everyone looking at me.” Zak shuffled back, knock-kneed, as if he needed to pee. “I keep picturing all those people, if I mess up on the day. They’ll all laugh at me, and Dad’ll make that face—”

  “If they laugh, I’ll kick them.” Lale swung her foot. That got Zak laughing, but Malik shook his head.

  “We’ll have no kicking. And no mistakes.” He tapped on his book. “You’ll go through your reading till you can recite it in your sleep.”

  “Can’t I just read it?” Zak’s voice dipped and wavered. “If I could read it, I—”

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” Willow said. Malik shot her a narrow look, but she kept going all the same. “It’s the message that matters, right? By heart or by book, what difference does it make?”

  “It’s tradition,” Malik said. “Speaking by heart is speaking from the heart. It shows he’s not only read the words but made them his own. It shows he means what he’s saying, not just—”

  “I do mean it.” Zak looked like he might cry. “I read the whole book. I picked that page on purpose because I wanted—I thought—” He scrubbed at his eyes and made a dash for the door. Willow was up in an instant, near tears herself. She caught him in the rose garden and swept him into her arms. He buried his face in her shoulder, fighting back sobs. Willow settled on a bench.

  “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I tried. I’ll try harder.”

  “I know you tried as hard as you could. I’m so proud of you.” Willow rocked him gently, back and forth on her knee. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d held him like this, the last time she’d had to.

  “You picked those verses for your father. Isn’t that right?” Fisa knelt down beside them and smoothed out Zak’s hair. “You know, they’re his favorites. He’s going to love them.”

  “Unless I mess them up.” Zak curled up small, like he wanted to disappear. “I don’t want to make him sad.”

  “Couldn’t he just read them?” Willow caught Fisa’s eye. “I know it’s tradition, but given the circumstances...”

  “It’s too soon to give up,” Fisa said. “There’s plenty of time. You’ll practice with Lale, with me—I’ll tell you what. We’ll go down to the stables, and you can recite for the horses.”

  Zak’s sobs had tailed off, and he gave a low, snotty giggle.

  “See? It’s not so bad.” Fisa nodded at Willow. “We’ll make it fun, and you’ll get through it. You’ll make us all proud, especially your father.”

  “I’m proud of you already.” Willow pulled him closer, every protective instinct she had blinking online at once. Fisa meant well, but she wasn’t Zak’s mother. She didn’t know his limits, not like Willow did. She hadn’t sat with him when he asked who his dad was. She hadn’t witnessed the longing in his eyes. She couldn’t know where his wounds were, or when to back off. “I think we’ll take a break,” she said. “Go play on the swings a while. How does that sound?”

  Zak perked up at that and dried his eyes on his sleeve. “Then the horses after that?”

  “The horses it is.” Willow set Zak on his feet. “Grandma will meet us there, maybe in half an hour?”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Fisa tipped Zak a wink. “I’ll go find some carrots, and we’ll feed them while we’re at it.”

  Willow took Zak’s hand, and they headed for the swings. Soon, Zak’s sniffs subsided, and he skipped along like he hadn’t a care in the world. His hair was still tangled where he’d twirled it into a bird’s nest. This stress wasn’t good for him, the weight of so many expectations. Something had to give, and Willow made herself a promise: it wouldn’t be her son.

  Willow set down her paintbrush. “All done. Come look.”

  Hadi rose, smooth and graceful, and circled around behind her. He set his hands on her shoulders as he studied his portrait. Willow watched his expression in the window—first surprise, then concentration, settling on faint puzzlement.

  “Do I really look so sad?”

  Willow touched his hand. “You looked thoughtful. Reflective. Something on your mind?”

  “I meant to ask you the same thing.” Hadi sat down beside her and thumbed paint off her arm. “You were quiet through dinner. I thought you might be upset.”

  “I am, a little.” Willow leaned against him. His slow breathing was comforting, as was his heartbeat at her back. “It’s Zak,” she said. “He’s good at a lot of things, but public speaking isn’t one of them. He gets so worried he’ll forget his lines, that’s exactly what ends up happening. I thought, with so much to learn, we could just let him read.”

  “What, at his ceremony?” Hadi pulled away. “I don’t see how that would work. He has to speak from the heart. Show the world who he is.”

  “By reciting old poetry?” Willow huffed, frustrated. “I mean, okay, it’s tradition. But he’s got the rest down pat, the tea ceremony, the dance. I don’t see why—”

  “Because it’s expected. His people expect it. He has to win their trust.”

  “Then give him an earpiece. Let me coach him along.” She took his hands, pleading. “He’s seven. He’s scared. He needs his father to help him, not leave him to drown.”

  “I’m teaching him to swim.” Hadi stood up abruptly. “A good leader inspires confidence. He speaks with passion, conviction, stirs the hearts of his subjects. He does what it takes to be sure he’s prepared. To be sure he won’t stumble when it’s his turn to rule.”