“This,” said a quiet, deep voice right by Leighton’s ear, “is where she bores of you, Hassan, as she does with everyone.”
Sliding a glance to the side, Leighton dared not look directly at the man, but without the ghutra, she guessed it to be Prince Rayan. The youngest half brother of the current king, yet closer in age to the king’s children due to a late marriage between Rayan’s mother and the king.
Tall and dark-haired, he had a kindness about him. He motioned to a far chair. “Your seat, Nouri.”
Leighton noted that he spoke English, no doubt assuming the same as most here. And she would not disabuse him—or anyone—of that notion.
Some silent signal must have occurred because, almost as if an alarm had gone off, all the royals moved to their places.
“Come,” mused Rayan, still holding his hand toward the brocade chair.
Uncertainty flashed through Leighton. Glancing to Daria, ensconced in conversation with the other royals as they took their seats, she realized she was forgotten and accepted the chair Rayan indicated.
Chatter again filled the hall. As staff wandered beneath the enormous glittering chandeliers, delivering plates of hummus and bread, she felt the isolation of identity close in on her, hearing their snide comments about her, calling her inappropriate words, saying she was plain and bordering on ugly. She’d thought being out of the room and among people would be better for her mental state. But this? So much worse.
For Ummi…I do this for Ummi…
“Where in America did you live?” Rayan asked as he dragged flatbread through his hummus.
Stomach growling, she twitched. Wet her lips, not entirely sure she should answer, but the last thing she wanted to do was upset those at this table. “Virginia,” she said quietly, forcing herself to take the bread and tear a bit off, though she feared reprisal. The chickpea hummus would be good protein but bloated her stomach, so she just tucked the flatbread into her mouth. Chewed.
“I visited there while attending Harvard,” he noted solemnly.
“You went to Harvard?” She flinched at her own question, remembering too late Zayna’s instruction not to speak unless asked a direct question. “S-sorry.”
“You are sorry I attended Harvard?” he chuckled, scooping more hummus and eating it. “I think many would agree with you.”
“No,” she gasped, “I?—”
“I am teasing, Nouri.” He gave an encouraging nod. “Yes, I got my law degree there.”
Wondering at his kindness, his very different manner to his cousins, she braved another glance at him. “I was going into law…” Before she had been ripped from her life. She retracted her gaze as she took a falafel and dipped it in the small bowl of sauce.
“I am impressed.” Rayan angled more toward her and considered her. “And who were you wanting to fight for?”
Pulse tripping over his words, she nearly choked on her next mouthful. “What?”
He gave a half-hearted smile. “I find that most people who go into law or medicine want to do so because someone they loved did not get the justice or help they deserved.”
Was he serious? “I would think my cause might be obvious…” When their eyes met, she instantly regretted her reply. Hoped he did not resent her or grow angry.
“Ah.” Suddenly focused on his food, he switched to the deep-fried balls.
Soon, the staff delivered the main course of a rice mound with meat to each of them. Steam spiraling up taunted her with a delectable aroma, which made her mouth water, even though she did not know what it was. And really, did it matter?—this would be her first full meal since being taken from Ummi in London. She searched the plate for any allergy offenders.
“This is maqluba,” Rayan said, clearly seeing her uncertainty. “Maaz would eat it for every meal if we let him.”
Picking up her spoon, Leighton appreciated his guidance throughout the meal. Yet, she weighed his generosity. Wondered that he did not see her as an intruder or interloper like the others. Unlike Daria’s congeniality, which somehow felt as if there were an ulterior motive behind it, Rayan seemed…genuine. Kind.
Raucous laughter erupted from the far end of the table, drawing her attention. Princess Daria and her fiancé were laughing hard, while Crown Prince Maaz sat there, jaw tight.
“Oh, come, brother,” Daria chuckled. “You have to admit?—”
“You are inappropriate, Daria!”
Silence clapped down on the room, and the princess’s merriment faded.
The bite of falafel in Leighton’s mouth soured as she slowly chewed. Licked her lips and swallowed.
