‘No, because it wouldn’t have mattered which woman you chose.’
Shock cut through him and he could see the truth in her eyes.
‘My brother is gay?’
His wife nodded.
He needed a minute. He needed a week, a month—a damned lifetime. He needed the years he had spent with his brother back.
‘How could he not tell me?’ he demanded.
She was shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t about you,’ she replied.
Shame and sadness filled him. Not because his brother was gay—not at all. But because of how hard those years must have been for him. For Jarhan not to be able to be himself, not to go after the things he wanted from life. Odir knew something of that. Or at least he understood.
Odir had never been given the luxury of wanting anything other than the throne. And to think that in his heart of hearts he had been jealous of the freedom his brother had been afforded as second son. Now he knew it to be no freedom at all. Farrehed was a deeply traditional country, and he knew how his father would have reacted to the news that Jarhan was gay. Badly. Had he been alive, he would most likely have exiled Jarhan in shame.
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Did you think—even for one minute—that I was homophobic? That I would banish my own brother?’
There was a pause before her response—one that created the most awful ache.
‘No.’
The relief he felt was like a live thing within him.
‘No, it’s not because of that. But we both knew that you were trying to be the best possible future ruler for Farrehed. That for you to gain the crown would have meant the ruthless pursuit of all things perfect and the utter removal of anything that would risk the throne.’
‘That is not a reasonable excuse, Eloise.’
‘For God’s sake—you would pay me millions of pounds, tell a room full of complete strangers that I’m pregnant, all the while still being a virgin, and yet you have the audacity to be outraged by our concern about what you might do? Tell me, Odir, at what point does the end no longer justify the means?’
His answer was swift and harsh.
‘At no point, Eloise. At no point does the end not justify the means. Do you know what’s going on in my country? Really know? There are people in the desert tribes dying for the lack of decent medical care. Because my father withheld it in the belief that if they were weak they would not mount a counter-offensive against the throne.
‘There are people in my country starving, emaciated, going hungry. Fathers are selling their daughters, husbands whoring out their wives—all because of my father, because of his delusion and paranoia.
‘Destruction, a huge divide between poverty and incredible wealth, the outright sale of our country’s best assets and complete isolation from its closest allies. Piece by piece my father has stripped everything from this nation, and I will do whatever I have to to see them returned. Each and every one of them!’
Eloise had seen all manner of determined men, and she knew that fire in his eyes—knew that it was not the determination of the justified, it was the determination of the desperate. It was the look of a man who would use any means necessary, never mind the cost, to get what he wanted.
‘So just because what you want is for someone else—something else—it justifies any action you will take?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will not allow you to use either myself or Jarhan to meet such insane ends. It’s a sacrifice too far.’
He wheeled round to her and closed the gap between them with two impossibly large strides.
‘What the hell would you know about sacrifice?’ His words were a harsh whisper, full of anger and accusation.
‘What would I...?’ she asked into the night, and all the words, all the hurt, all the pain and loneliness crept up her throat and got stuck there.
Before she realised, she’d raised her hand and slapped him. The noise echoed in the silent suite.
‘Of all the things I’ve said to you tonight, Eloise, that is perhaps the one that least warrants such a dramatic reaction.’
‘Really? What do I know about sacrifice? I married you, didn’t I?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
August 2nd, 03.00-04.00, Heron Tower
SHE HAD STRUCK her husband. She had struck the Sheikh of Farrehed. She abhorred violence—abhorred abuse of any kind. Never in her life had she ever raised a hand in anger to anyone. Not until tonight.
She didn’t count the pathetic punches she had peppered his chest with earlier that evening. They had been born of frustration. But what she had just done... That had been born of a fury that she had not been able to contain. The disdain, the sneer that had painted Odir’s tone when he had accused her of knowing nothing of sacrifice...it had been too much to bear.
She rushed from the suite, falling into the corridor, and pushed through a heavy fire door, her feet slapping on concrete stairs until she came to the floor that had housed the charity gala and the balcony. She pulled herself up suddenly, sure that she would look like a deer caught in the headlights were anyone there to witness her.
She had forgotten the guests—forgotten the party that had been in full swing when they had left it earlier that evening. Holding her breath, and hoping to high heaven that the last of the guests had gone, she listened for any sounds to let her know one way or the other.
After the longest held breath she exhaled into the silence, finally sure that no guests had lingered.
She felt a presence behind her and knew that it wasn’t her husband. She turned to find Malik standing in the shadows, in front of the fire door she had just emerged through.
‘Please, Malik. I need...’ She groped
