irony made her laugh. Malik looked at her curiously, but didn’t seem to mistake the laugh for real humor. At least he could tell that much. Maybe forty days wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Who was she kidding?
“I won’t do it,” she said, drawing in a deep breath heavy with salt and sea. “I’m not bound by Jahfaran law. Sign the papers and as far as I’m concerned, we’re through.”
He shifted beside her chair. “You might think it’s that easy, but I assure you it is not. You married a foreign prince, habibti.”
“We were married in Paris.” Quickly, by an official at the Jahfaran embassy. As if Malik were afraid he might change his mind if it didn’t happen fast. Bitterness ate at her.
That was precisely what he’d been thinking.
“Where we were married matters not,” Malik said in that smooth, deep voice of his that still had the power to make her shudder deep inside. “But it does matter by whom. We were married under Jahfaran law, Sydney. If you ever wish to be free of me, you will come to Jahfar and follow the protocol.”
Sydney tilted her head up to look at him. He was gazing down at her, his expression indecipherable. Anger surged in her veins. “Surely we can find a way to fake it. Your brother is the king!”
“Which is precisely why we cannot fake it, as you so charmingly say. My brother takes his duty as king very seriously. He will hold me to the letter of the law. If you wish to be divorced, you will do this.”
Sydney closed her eyes and leaned back against the cushion. Dear God. It was a nightmare. A giant, ironic joke from the cosmos. She’d married Malik hurriedly, secretly. There’d been no royal wedding, no fairy tale day with music and beautiful clothes and pageantry.
There’d been the two of them in a registry office at the embassy. A fawning official who called Malik Your Royal Highness and bowed a lot. A wide-eyed woman, Sydney remembered, who’d registered the marriage and asked them to sign.
She’d almost felt as if it weren’t real, but then the newspapers had picked up on it and suddenly she and Malik were splashed across the tabloids. The attention hadn’t died by the time she’d left. And then it followed her back to L.A., finally disappearing a few weeks later when she’d refused to talk to anyone.
Oh, she knew her picture had appeared a few times over the last year, but the paparazzi were far more interested in Malik than they were in her. He was the news. She was a casualty.
And not even a very interesting one.
The last thing she wanted was to remain tied to him, to have the media take a renewed interest in her down the road because Malik caused an international stir of some sort and they wanted to know how his poor wife was handling it. Or, worse, what happened when Malik found someone else he wanted to marry, and he needed her to go to Jahfar for a divorce when he had a current lover in tow?
No. Way. In. Hell.
“Fine,” Sydney sniffed. “If that’s what it takes, I’ll go.”
A shiver dripped into her veins. She could get through forty days, if that’s what it took to officially end this. Because there was nothing left between them, no danger to her heart any longer. The damage had already been done. There was an iron cage where her heart had once been.
“We can leave tonight. My plane is ready.”
Goose bumps crawled across her skin. What had she just agreed to? Panic spread inside until she was quivering with it. “I can’t be ready that fast. I need time to put things in order.”
The last time she’d dashed off with Malik she’d left her life in disarray. This time, she was putting everything in order before going anywhere. Because this time she would be stepping back into her life without the pain and disorientation of last time.
She’d gone without much thought, because he’d asked her to, and then when he’d asked her to stay, to marry him, she’d impulsively agreed. She’d given no thought to her life back in Los Angeles. A fact that her family never mentioned, but that she knew was very much on their minds whenever they looked at her. She was the impulsive one, the artistic one—the one who could leap without looking but then paid the price later.
And what a price it had been. She’d been a wreck. She’d asked herself in the early days after her return home if she’d been too hasty, if she should have stayed and confronted him, but she always came back to the same thing: Malik regretted marrying her. He’d said so. What was there left to say after that?
She might have loved him, but she would not be anyone’s cross to bear. And she’d definitely felt like a burden in the week after his confession. He’d changed, and she simply hadn’t been able to take it anymore. She’d never thought a year would pass without any contact between them, but that had only proven he did not want her in his life any longer.
“How much time do you need?” he asked, his voice tight.
“At least a week,” she answered automatically, though in fact she knew no such thing. But she wanted to be in control this time. Needed to be in control. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
“Impossible. Two days.”
Sydney bristled. “Really? Is there a timeline, Malik? A celestial clock somewhere that insists we must do this on a specific timetable? I need a week. I have to make arrangements at work.”
And she had to check with her lawyer, just in case she could find some sort of legal loophole that would change everything.
Malik gazed down at her, his dark eyes gleaming hotly. Intensely. She waited almost breathlessly for his answer. Malik was proud, haughty. Aristocratic and used to getting his way. If only she’d told him no when he’d suggested she marry him—but it had never crossed her mind. She’d been too awestruck, and far too much in love with the man she’d thought he was.
Though it was a little late, she would not blindly accept his decrees ever again.
“Fine,” he said, his voice clipped. “One week.”
Sydney nodded her agreement, her heart pounding as if she’d just run a marathon. “Very well. One week then.”
He turned to gaze out at the ocean again. Then he nodded. “I’ll take it.”
She blinked. “Take what?”
“The house.”
“You haven’t really seen it,” she exclaimed. It was a gorgeous house, one that she only wished she could afford in her wildest dreams, with spacious rooms and breathtaking ocean views. It was the kind of house where she could be inspired to paint, she thought wistfully.
But Malik had only seen the exterior, the main living space, and this terrace. For all he knew, the bedrooms were tiny closets, the bathrooms a 1970s throwback with mustard and orange tiles and psychedelic black fixtures.
Malik shrugged. “It is a house. With a view. It will do.”
Inexplicably, a current of anger uncoiled inside her. He was careless when he wanted something. Accustomed to getting whatever he wanted when he wanted
