The Sheikh's Illicit Affair (11 page)

Then, Megan didn’t choose an Ivy League college. Harvard, Yale, Princeton. Any of these would have been acceptable. No. Megan sent her applications to the top dance schools in the country. All her friends and dance teachers, those in the dance world or who had any understanding of art in any form, had been proud and elated at her acceptance into Julliard. Megan had been overjoyed. But her parents had been disappointed. Dance school was not prestigious. It was only the most famous and notoriously difficult to get into school that there ever was, but it wasn’t good enough because it was an art and performance school. It wasn’t a real school with business degrees.

But that was only strike two. Strike three, the third and final strike that caused her to be forced out, was her refusal to marry into society. Her parents had essentially arranged a marriage for her. They’d spoken to several families and had found a small number of acceptable boys. Then, they had all been invited to dinner to see which of them Megan would choose. She wasn’t interested in any of them. Found them all to be boring and pretentious. She’d instead begun to date a cellist that she went to school with. Someone who did not come from money or fame. And her parents had done all they could to get the relationships to end, to find more suitable boys for her to date. One by one, the boys from “good” families were married off and she was still dating beneath her, as her parents claimed.

And what was maybe the very final nail in her coffin. After dance school, she didn’t settle down and get married and start a family. She didn’t wise up and start a real career. No. She moved to the city and opened a dance studio. “With crying little girls and tutus?” Her mother had asked, shocked. “All that glitter and, ugh, those parents.” But Megan had blown off her mother’s callous words and made her dream come true. Her dream. Her parents’ nightmare.

If her parents’ fortune hadn’t been fading at the same time she was letting them down, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. Perhaps Megan would have been labeled the eccentric and exceptionally gifted artist of the family. Societies could appreciate that if done right. But for Megan, it wasn’t so easy. Her parents needed her to reestablish themselves. Needed her to marry well and go to a good school so she would have a good job with connections. Everything they wanted her to do was to their benefit. For the family, they claimed. For all of them. They were a unit. Until Megan didn’t want to be responsible for her parents’ failings.

And now it seemed that little Megan Van Lieden was finally about to make her parents proud. Oh, that Megan. Remember her? The one who went to dance school and opened that studio in the city? Yes, her. Well, it turns out she’s dating a sheikh, can you believe it? Her parents must be so proud. To think, to end up married to royalty after we’d all written her off. Her lucky parents.

She hated it all. The idea of it made her sick and now that she saw it, knew what her mother was up to, she couldn’t eat. She motioned to the waitress, who came over after a minute.

“Could I have a box and the check please?” Megan asked.

“Sure, I’ll bring them right away.”

The waitress left and her mother gave her a stony look.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving, Mother.” She dug in her purse and pulled out her debit card. When the waitress returned a moment later, Megan handed her the card immediately. It was almost as if the waitress understood her plight and moved quickly to help her. She’d get a big tip for sure.

“Stop this nonsense. What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with you?” Megan hissed. “You invite me to lunch, saying you want to be a part of your grandchildren’s lives, but you really want to find out who I’m dating and how it will benefit you. You make me sick. All you care about is money and your name. Did you ever even love me? You know what, don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter.”

Megan scooped the remains of her salad into the box. “I don’t need you. I don’t need you to be part of my kids’ lives whether I decide to go to my appointment at the sperm bank next week, or whether I marry the rich sheikh who’s in love with me. And you know what, it won’t matter to you, either, because you’re no longer a part of my life. I’m glad you cut me off when you did. You forced me to stand on my own, and now I’m going to do just that.”

The waitress came back to the table with Megan’s card and receipt. Her mother hadn’t even tried to pay for lunch. Oh well, one overpriced lunch wasn’t going to break her, and if it meant getting her mother off her back, it was worth it. She had to be done with these people forever.

She thanked the waitress and stood with her salad box in her hand.

“I actually thought for half a second that you had changed,” Megan said. “Crazy of me. You’ll never change. You’ll always love money more than anything else in this world.”

Her mother gaped at her, mouth hanging open. That’s a very unattractive face, Megan wanted to tell her. You shouldn’t make that expression in public where people might see.

“I don’t even understand what I did. Sit back down.”

“No. I don’t take orders from you anymore. Good luck with your life and with trying to make people keep thinking you’re rich. I hope that works out for you. If you ever decide love is more important, then maybe you can come and hang out with me and my fatherless baby. Because I’m sure I’ll let you down again and not marry the sheikh. Haven’t I been nothing but a disappointment to you for most of my life?”

She didn’t wait for her mother’s response. She turned on her heel and walked away.

FIFTEEN

Megan finished the day with an aching soul. If it wasn’t bad enough Zaakir had tried to use her, now her mother had as well. Was this world only focused on money? Where was the love? Where were the people who cared about what was really important—relationships, love, and enjoying the company of those around you.

After her last class, she turned out the light in the studio, and it felt like turning out the light in her soul. She’d go home now to her empty apartment, make a tasteless microwave dinner, and sit in front of the TV. Like she did every night. She slung her bag over her shoulder and locked the door.

She’d already started the walk back toward her apartment when her phone rang. The caller ID said Zaakir. She stared at his name, her heart already skipping as it rang twice, three times, and finally answered.

“Hi Zaakir.” She tried to keep her tone friendly, but feared she wasn’t fooling him.

“Megan, I know you don’t want to talk to me, and I don’t blame you for being angry with me. I ask only one thing of you.”

“What’s that?” Her heart raced waiting for his response.

“Come to the bar where we first had drinks. You remember the place?”

“I remember.” How could she ever forget that night?

“Will you come?”

She took a long time to answer. But finally, she said it. “Yes.”

Rachel was right, Megan thought; she had to give it a shot, or she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

“Great. I’ll send my car—”

“No. I’ll get there on my own.”

If she was going to do this, it would be on her terms, her way. She hung up the phone and picked up her pace.

She walked into her apartment on a mission. The little black dress hung in the back of her closet, as always. She pulled it on, brushed her hair, and went into the bathroom to freshen up and do her makeup. If she didn’t feel great, the least she could do was look amazing.

When she felt satisfied with her appearance, despite the puffiness still lingering around her eyes, she walked out front and hailed a cab. She gave him the address and took a deep breath to steady herself before getting out.

The silver door was there, plain and unassuming, but she knew what was behind it. She pushed open the door and entered the small waiting room. The man that stood there tonight smiled at her.

“Good evening, Miss Van Lieden.” He held open the door and she walked through it.

Inside, the white, silver and gold bar was interrupted with shocks of bright crimson. Rose petals littered the floor, the counters, the tables, the seats. Everywhere she looked, rose petals. Aside from a lone bartender, watching her with a smile, there seemed to be no one else there. Megan scanned the room, but didn’t even see Zaakir.

Then, from a booth in the back, he slowly rose. He wore all white. Pants, jacket, shirt, tie. He walked slowly toward her, a single rose in his hand.

“Megan.” He stopped just in front of her. “We have both been single roses for too long. You’ve been living your dream, I’ve been working for someone else’s. But we’ve been lonely, and we’ve both desired love. I believe I have it with you. I know I have made grave mistakes. I have lied and deceived you, I have done nothing worthy of your love. I don’t expect to receive your forgiveness easily, or even at all, but I need you to know that I profoundly regret my actions. Were it possible, I would travel back in time and do everything differently. But money cannot make magic.

“My feelings for you run so deeply. For the first time, I am experiencing the great love and romance I’ve read about all my life. For the first time, my heart desires something real, something that is not another business deal. My heart desires you. If you can find a way to forgive me, Megan, I am asking that you would be the first woman to hold my heart. That you would begin a relationship with me, and show me all the ways to love and be loved. I want to experience true happiness with you. I want the love of a beautiful woman. I want you, Megan.”

He held out the rose to her. She’d never seen him looking so vulnerable.

Trembling, she took it, and leaned into his arms. He held her like that for a long while, keeping her close as she cried. This time, tears of joy and relief. The last traces of her anger faded as she looked into his eyes.

His expression looked pained again. “You’re crying?”

“You hurt me, Zaakir. I was angry, so angry that you lied to me. You tricked me, and I feel betrayed by you—”

He started to speak, but she held up a finger to stop him.

“But I will forgive you. I also believe that true happiness that comes from finding someone to spend your life with, who can make you feel alive. I love you, Zaakir, and I want to be yours.”

She pressed her lips to his fervently. His arms tightened and pulled her against him, crushing her to him. The heat rushed through them in a wave, lighting the passion hotter still as they continued to move together. This was not like their first kiss, slow and sweet. This was fast and hard and demanding. She couldn’t get enough of him, but she kept on trying to take more.

When they finally broke apart, their breathing heavy and hot with desire, he ran his fingers through her hair, kissed her forehead and her lips, and crushed her close again.

“I promise you, my love. I will never lie to you again,” he whispered softly.

Epilogue

Megan looked at the date on her phone and smiled; it was one year to the day since Zaakir had showed up in New York City and made her his.

The few months that followed that day had been a whirlwind. Megan had called the sperm bank and happily cancelled her consultation. No, she did not want to reschedule, she’d told them with a smile on her face. Now that she and Zaakir were together, she would wait to see if they would be married someday and start a family of their own, no strangers involved. The idea of little children running around, jumping into the arms of their father, filled her with joy.

Megan had successfully pulled off her studio’s first, and as it turned out, only recital. It was a bittersweet moment. She’d loved her first studio, loved her students and her cramped space and how she’d done everything on her own. But, she was moving to Al-Sharrabi. They had decided on the move as it would allow Zaakir to spend less time flying between offices, and give them more time together. Even though they would still spend plenty of time in New York, Al-Sharrabi was where they would set down their roots.

She’d found someone to buy the studio. Someone who happened to be brilliant and in need of a job where she could keep her newborn baby close. Selling the studio to Rachel and Matt was the perfect situation for all of them; Megan was leaving the studio in the hands of her most trusted friend, Rachel was buying a business that was already established from someone she could call anytime for help, and she could keep her baby girl close as she worked. Matt was just as thrilled with the arrangement because he got to help his wife’s dream come true.

Rachel had made it to the recital, which was important since she’d be doing it herself the next year, even though Megan had promised to be back in town and help her any way she could. The next day, Megan had gotten the text. “Headed to the hospital!” And later that night, Megan and Zaakir had greeted Rachel and Matt’s baby girl.

As they left the hospital, Zaakir had turned to Megan and said, “You know, traditional Al-Sharrabian families are rather large.”

“I figured that much since you’re one of eleven.”

“How do you feel about that?” he asked, looking at her hopefully.

“Zaakir, I feel like every one of our children will be a blessing and a joy and we should have as many as we can properly love and spend time with. If we have one and decide we can’t handle more, fine. If we have five and want five more, fine. So long as our kids have time with us and have our love.”

At that, he’d pulled her into an embrace so tight, she’d had to tell him she couldn’t breathe. “I love you,” he said, and kissed her deeply.

Moving to another continent was tricky, but they had decided to keep Zaakir’s New York penthouse apartment so they always had a place to stay. Megan planned to make frequent trips back, especially now that Rachel was a mom and a new business owner. She’d help her out in every way she could.

Once she’d completed her change of address form, the first piece of mail Megan had received at Zaakir’s apartment—their New York apartment as they now called it—was a letter. Her parents’ address was the return address. Megan flipped it over and ran her finger under the flap, stomach already tightening. She pulled out a long, hand-written letter from her mother.

As she read, the words became harder and harder to make out through her tears. It was an apology. It was a letter saying that her mother had thought of all that Megan had said and felt horrible about it. She’d wished Megan had told her sooner that she felt that way. She claimed to have no idea. She’d said things like they never thought of her as a failure or a disappointment and thought they were encouraging her to do what was best for her. She even admitted to not knowing what that really was and to pushing her too hard toward what they thought she do. She’d begged forgiveness, proclaimed her love, and hoped they could talk again soon.

Megan had read the letter four times before showing Zaakir and Rachel. One night before the big move, Megan and Zaakir went to her parents’ house for dinner. They’d talked and had a nice time. And her parents liked Zaakir, but didn’t seem as eager as before to have her marry him. Perhaps they assumed she’d marry him anyway, but to their credit, they never hinted and never asked.

It was the first dinner Megan could remember where her parents didn’t talk business. Not once. Instead, they took out old photo albums and recounted their favorite memories of Megan as a child. At times, it felt like they were describing someone else, but in the end, Megan basked in the joy her parents showed at their memories of her. Even they had become a bit romanticized with time. She’d take any sign of love from her parents. And when her parents had come to New York to say goodbye before the move, they’d given her and Zaakir a lovely housewarming gift: a photo of the four of them, taken that night by the housekeeper.

It had been hard to say goodbye to New York, the city she’d loved so much and had started her life in. The city where she’d met Zaakir and they’d started their life together. She had to keep reminding herself that they’d be back often. Every month, every week if you like, Zaakir had promised.

It hadn’t been easy starting over, but with Zaakir’s connections, Megan’s new studio had taken off quickly and she already had more students here than she did back in New York. Her clients here also happened to mostly consist of the children of wealthy businessmen, and even several of Zaakir’s own nieces and nephews. Of course, it wasn’t like she needed the higher income now that she lived with a sheikh, but it was nice to have her own money.

She’d also had opportunities that she’d never had in New York. Her recent TV appearance was like a dream come true. And there were more in the works, possibly even her own TV show in the near future.

Zaakir, on the other hand, had been spending less time at his offices. Anything that took too much time, he sold off or put into the hands of an employee so he could spend more time with Megan, and pursuing projects he enjoyed. He was, he said, happy for the first time in his life, and he refused to let business get in the way of that.

Megan’s phone beeped with a text from Zaakir.

Little more than a year ago, we had our first dance together. One year ago today, you became mine. Now, my love, would you join me for another dance in the ballroom?

She grinned and responded.

I’m leaving now. See you soon!

Megan closed the door of studio A, the largest of the four studios in her building. She waved to her receptionist and walked outside, where her car waited. She slid inside and her driver pulled away.

Outside the tinted windows, hills of sand and mountains passed by. Megan gazed at them as she often did, and before long, the palace came into view. When she entered, she could already hear the music before she walked down the long hall to the ballroom.

She walked through the entryway and paused for a moment to take in the sight in front of her. Covering the huge, round space were thousands upon thousands of rose petals.

Her face stretched into a wide grin and she began their well-practiced dance, stalking over to Zaakir, who stood in the middle of the room in a white tuxedo, holding a rose between his teeth.

He grabbed her as she passed and pulled her close. On the beat, he moved forward and back, leading her perfectly step by step. Their closeness ignited the heat inside her, making each move fiery and hot, with passion as the tango was meant to be danced. It was a dance for lovers, she had explained to him once, and now when they danced, they let their love and desire for each other flow free.

As the dance came to a close, Zaakir moved into the final position, then dropped down to one knee.

Megan gasped and put her hands to her mouth.

“Megan Van Lieden, my true love, my only happiness.” Zaakir pulled a small box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a huge, sparkling diamond. “Will you forever be mine and join your life together with me in marriage?”

“Yes!”

She wrapped her arms tight around his neck as he stood, kissing his cheek until he turned and kissed her fully, their mouths meeting hungrily.

Zaakir broke the kiss, laughing. “Don’t you want to wear the ring?”

“Oh! Yes.” She laughed and held out a shaking hand, while wiping the tears away with the other.

He slid the ring onto her finger and kissed her hand.

Everything was going to be all right, Megan realized.