TNT turned his head and met her eye. Suddenly, he was less certain than he’d been. Not just about her. About everything. Until now, he’d forgotten that he could still turn back. He was a prince. He was beholden to no one. Then he thought of all that he’d done, the lives already taken, the other people relying on him. Others with as much power, perhaps more will. No, he decided, there was no turning back. Not for Dahlia. And not for him.
“I need your help,” Tariq had said to her one month before.
A trip to LA. Dinner at Mr. Chow. Some fun in his suite at the Beverly Wilshire. That feeling again that she was special.
“For what?” Dahlia sat up in bed, the sheets gathered at her waist, so proud of her body. So unlike women from his country.
“Intrigue,” he said. “Politics. Maybe a coup.”
“I know what the first two mean,” she said. “But a coup? You mean like a takeover.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” said TNT.
“I work at Bvlgari,” said Dahlia. “Do you want us to make you a crown?”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “But not yet.”
“You’re serious?” Her tone said it all. Not mocking. Not disbelief. An honest desire to learn more.
He nodded. He knew then why he could talk to her so freely. She didn’t question him. She didn’t laugh. She treated him as he deserved to be treated. With absolute respect.
He felt as if she knew the real him. “Is it too much to want to lead my people?”
“No,” said Dahlia. “You’re a prince. You should lead them.”
“My brother is in the way. He’s firstborn. He’s the heir—”
“And you’re the spare,” said Dahlia, taking his hand. “How can we change that?”
He loved her for the question. His own Lady Macbeth and they weren’t even married. He regarded her closely. Until now, he’d told no one about his plans. He hadn’t realized the burden he was carrying. He had a sudden, undeniable urge to tell her. Why not? The fact that he barely knew her made her that much more trustworthy. No secret alliances to worry about. No ties to his homeland. No unsavory agendas. She was who she said. Most importantly, she loved him.
“I have an idea,” said Tariq.
And so he told her. About Jabr. About his brother’s plans with Israel. About how Jabr would damn Qatar to a meaningless future. He told her about the upcoming conference in Paris. Israel, Saudi Arabia, the Emirates. An unholy alliance. The death of Arabia as he knew it.
“Someone has to stop him,” he said.
“You,” said Dahlia, as if giving him an order.
“Yes, me.” And saying it to her, he believed it. “There will be blood.”
“A coup,” said Dahlia. “Isn’t there always?”
“I’m offering you a different life,” said Tariq. “Maybe a better one.”
“Is that a promise?” she asked.
“A pledge.”
Dahlia looked at him. “I want a better life; definitely a different life.”
“Do you?” Tariq was caught off guard by her earnestness. He was used to flattery and duplicity and, well, anything but honesty. Her plainspoken appeal frightened him. “Tell me why.”
She stood, taking the sheet with her, wrapping it around herself. She crossed the room and sat in a chair by the fireplace. “Look at you. You’re rich. You’re handsome. You’re smart. You have manners. You are a prince of one of the wealthiest countries in the world. I ask myself, what interest could this man possibly have in me? I know why, of course. Well, one reason at least. But all along I’ve wanted to show you that I’m more than this.” She gestured at the bed, the bottle of champagne upended in the ice bucket, the tin of caviar nearby. “I don’t know why I care, but I do. I think it’s because I know you’re not just a guy that cares about putting pictures of himself all over social media. You can’t hide behind your cars and your watches and your vintage kicks forever. There’s more to you. I know it. Multitudes. And yes, I want to be there when you discover it too. That’s the better life I want. A better life for you.”
It was not the answer Tariq expected. He had expected talk of money and travel and material desires. Pay me this. Give me that. Instead, it was she who offered him something. Confidence. Belief. Destiny.
A different life.
