That evening, Liyah took a deep breath as she stood in front of the mirror. It was crazy—she knew she was a princess—but increasingly she actually felt like a princess.
The dress was strapless, with a sweetheart neckline and low back. How it stayed up was a feat of engineering and bodice work that Liyah didn’t understand, but it felt secure. It was in the most delicate shade of blush pink, almost nude with a golden embroidered overlay. It had a cinched-in waist and a full, long tulle skirt and a small train that made it dramatic without being too loud.
The dress shimmered and glistened when she moved, and with it she wore gold hued high heels.
A very nice girl had appeared with the stylist, to do her hair and make-up, and the stylist had brought her pink diamond earrings and a matching bracelet.
The women had left not long ago, and now Liyah looked at herself again. Her hair was down, as requested, and the girl had brushed it until it flowed like ripples of silk over her shoulders, the unruliness tamed somewhat.
There was a knock on the door. Liyah’s heart slammed against her breastbone. She opened it, and her eyes widened as she took in Sharif in a white tuxedo jacket, with a white shirt and black bow tie. He looked dark and sexy.
There was silence. And then Sharif said, ‘You look...stunning, Liyah.’
She felt shy. ‘Thank you. So do you.’
They went down to the foyer of the building, where the concierge held open the door and their driver was waiting, helping Liyah into one side of the car while Sharif got into the other.
The dress had a thigh-high slit and Liyah held the edges together over her thigh for the duration of the journey. Not that Sharif would even notice if she stripped naked, she was sure.
When they arrived at a seriously opulent-looking hotel, Sharif got out and came around, opening her door. He helped her out and kept hold of her hand, leading her onto the red carpet.
They stopped for the ubiquitous pictures. Liyah tried not to flinch every time a flash went off, wondering if she’d ever get used to it.
Beside her, Sharif said, sotto voce, ‘That was one of the first things to make me suspect that perhaps there was more to you than you’d told me.’
‘What was that?’
‘Your lack of ease in front of the photographers. I noticed it at the Met.’
She looked up and met his gaze. A moment passed between them—a sense of affinity, delicate and ephemeral. His eyes moved to her mouth and he lifted a brow in question. Liyah knew what he was asking and she gave one tiny nod, her skin prickling all over in anticipation.
His head descended and his mouth brushed hers, light enough to tease, but strong enough to make her move closer, making a small sound. Her free hand went to his chest and he caught it there.
Then he pulled back. The world was a deafening clatter of sound and flashing lights.
‘Mr Marchetti, another kiss, please!’
‘Princess Aaliyah—over here. Who are you wearing?’
Liyah felt dizzy, but she watched as Sharif calmly faced the photographers and said, ‘Mrs Marchetti is wearing Elie Saab couture.’
He moved forward and Liyah followed unsteadily, trying to get her hammering heart back into a normal rhythm. He’d barely kissed her, and it had been purely for the cameras, but she was reduced to jelly. What would happen if he kissed her in private?
Not going to happen, she reminded herself.
By the time they reached the main reception she was marginally under control again.
Sharif stopped suddenly and said something in Italian that she didn’t catch. Then he turned to her, pulling his phone out. ‘There was something I wanted to show you before we left the apartment, but I got distracted.’
Liyah’s heart sped up again. Had she distracted him? She hoped so, because he distracted her all the time.
He handed her his phone. It was a press release, headed with the Marchetti Group’s logo.
We accept the apology from Celebrity! Magazine, which published photos of a woman last year, claiming them to be of Princess Aaliyah Binte Rashad Mansour.
It was, in fact, a model called Ameera Sayam.
Celebrity! Magazine have agreed to donate an undisclosed amount of money to a charity chosen by the Marchetti Group, and extend their apologies for having caused Mrs Aaliyah Marchetti any distress.
The words swam ominously in front of Liyah’s eyes and she quickly blinked. Until that moment she hadn’t realised how hurtful it was that her own father had betrayed her in such a way. And now Sharif had gone out of his way to clear her name.
She handed back his phone. ‘Thank you...you didn’t have to do that.’ Her voice was husky.
‘I did, actually. Your reputation now affects me and the Marchetti Group.’
Liyah’s emotions shrivelled. He’d done it for pragmatic reasons. Not for her. ‘Of course.’
A waiter approached and Sharif took two glasses of champagne, handing Liyah one. She avoided his eye and took a quick sip, hoping he wouldn’t notice anything. What was it about this man? She’d been more aware of her emotions in the past couple of weeks than she had her whole life.
And of your desires, pointed out a wicked inner voice.
Sharif took her hand again and led her into the crowd. She’d never seen so many beautiful people in her life. Women in shimmering dresses like hers. Blinging with jewels... The smell of perfume was almost overwhelming...
And then from behind them Liyah heard a voice.
‘There they are! Sharif!’
Sharif turned around and Liyah followed him to see a man approaching. He was as tall as Sharif and very dark, with thick curly hair. He was also astonishingly good-looking, with a classical beauty that reminded Liyah of a Greek statue. She recognised Nikos from the pictures she’d seen on the internet.
And the woman beside him. Tall—as tall as Liyah, if not taller—and very pale, with golden russet hair
