“My dear Tahira.”
Sighing heavily, Jaafar pushes back his chair. Servants and clusters of cream-coloured uniforms jump into action, passing the tycoon his favourite walking stick and a helping hand as he starts to shuffle, painfully moving from one side of his desk to the other.
I do not comment on the blatant decline in health or the sorry state of a man still in denial about his age. My father titters on the edge of the desk before grasping my hand, the coiled fangs of a cobra snarling from the gold staff keeping him steady.
“You seem to believe you have a choice in this matter.” A pitying expression creeps across his face, “My money has given you a life far greater than anyone can imagine, and it is my investment those suitors will be competing for.”
“But father-
“A beautiful woman is no more than a prize to be won.” Squeezing the side of my jaw, Jaafar forces my mouth shut, “These trials are not about your future, Tahira. It is about the future of my legacy. And you will stand beside me and you will smile because you know that it is my name that has gotten you this far and nothing else.”
Listening to the sound of my silence, he smiles.
“That is what a good wife sounds like. Now, if you have not chosen a suitor then the decision will fall to me.”
Wrenching my face from his harsh grip, I feel the ache his fingers leave behind.
“I have a suitor.”
Straightening my spine, I spit out the words, tasting the desperation of a woman who has nothing left to lose.
“The application will be submitted tonight.”
Suspicion sparks but his smile doesn’t waver.
“You have until midnight or I shall choose the final suitor.”
“Understood.”
Slowly rising, I offer my father another bow and head for the door.
“Midnight tonight. Midnight tonight.”
The parrot’s warning follows me out the door and down the hall. Echoes through my ears as I walk past lavish corridors and endless rooms, the trail of my dress billowing in the Arabian sun slithering through the gold encrusted windows.
Always so much fucking gold.
The bangles decorating my arms clink together as I descend the steps. Brush past sleeping guards and ignore the insistent patter of my servant scurrying behind me.
“Miss, please. It is not proper for a lady to be in the dungeons-
“Does my father pay you to give orders or obey them?” Stopping abruptly, I whirl around and confront the man who is forced to listen to me, “Fetch me the keys.”
“B-But-
“The keys, Rasoul.”
A red blotch darkens his cheeks, their circular nature a complementary accessory for the ruby sparkling in his turban.
“Of course, your majesty.”
I roll my eyes at the blandishment, watching his thick frame scurry down the hall. He snatches the keys from the guard snoring in his chair, not bothering to wake the sleeping imbecile before returning them to me.
“Your father would not approve of this.” Sweat beads along his brow and trickles down his neck, “Miss, I really must insist-
I snatch the keys from his hands.
“Begone.”
