Chapter Eight
A few mornings later, Viviana awoke to a half empty bed. Muhammad was nowhere to be seen. It was probably good she finally had some time to herself because she needed to sort out her tumultuous emotions.
He’d admitted last night that he wanted her to refer to him as her husband when she spoke to others about him. When Viviana pointed out Aaliyah was the only person besides him she could speak to, Muhammad had been unmoved. “Then refer to me as your husband in front of my sister,” he’d grumbled.
For whatever reason, calling him “my husband” to others signified one hundred percent capitulation in his mind. Truthfully, she could understand why. He was quick to refer to Viviana as his wife even if she was the only person in the room, but Viviana never referred to him as her husband.
She sighed. She supposed it signified one hundred percent capitulation to her as well.
While her heart felt married, her stubborn mind still insisted she was a hostage and that any self-respecting hostage wouldn’t yield. She could have great sex with Muhammad and was now permitted to care about him, but that’s where her mind drew its line in the sand. The wordlovewas a no-no to her obstinate brain so it was little wonder committing to being married for life to the sheikh was meeting with major resistance from her head.
She blinked away the conflicting feelings, no longer wanting to deal with them. Glancing around, she realized she must have slept quite soundly because even the dishes they’d left on the table last night had been cleaned up. She squinted as she looked at the bare slab, noticing a single piece of paper set on it. Curious, she got out of bed to read the note scrawled in Arabic:
My Dearest Viviana,
After you bathe, check the closet nearest the water for clothing. My sister Aaliyah took the time to pick the items out for you so please pretend to admire them even if you do not. (We can always buy you new clothes later.)
The doors to our apartments are unlocked. Once dressed, follow the hallway to the doors you attempted to escape through your first conscious night here—not the ones we walk through when going to the library. I await you there, as does your breakfast.
Your Husband,
Muhammad
Viviana couldn’t help but grunt out a begrudging smile courtesy of His Bluntness. No other man would consider reminding her of her thwarted attempt at a getaway except for Muhammad. To him it was merely the simplest, quickest method of explaining where he was.
Ten minutes later and freshly bathed, Viviana leafed through the assortment of kaftans Aaliyah had procured her. The vibrant colors and jeweled fabrics were top shelf so she wouldn’t have to pretend at all. Since there were no hijabs, niqabs, or burkas to be found, she assumed it was okay not to wear a head covering. If Muhammad was the only man currently in residence, that made sense.
In the end, Viviana chose a silk turquoise dress with gold and gemstones embroidered around the neck and at the sides. A pair of gold high heels accented the aqua-green kaftan quite regally. Uncomfortable with how shapeless the dress hung, she pulled a gold scarf too sheer to be a hijab from the closet and fashioned a belt out of it. That accomplished, she spent the next ten minutes doing her makeup and hair. She was liberal with the black kohl, mascara, and red lipstick fashionable for Syrian women, but didn’t bother with the layers of foundation, concealer, and rouge that screameddrag queento her. Her hair she left cascading down into dark gold curls.
Dressed and more than a little hungry, Viviana did as the note instructed and made her way down the long corridor until she reached the set of doors. As promised, they opened. On the other side was a decadently gilded atrium that appeared to be the epicenter of the estate. Various hallways branched off from it, like the legs of a posh, golden spider. Unsure where she was supposed to go, she followed the sound of voices down the hallway directly across from where she stood.
“There she is!” Aaliyah enthused, standing up. Viviana smiled at her as she entered the rotund dining room. “I knew you would choose that dress! Didn’t I say she would, Momo?”
Muhammad’s dark gaze was unreadable as usual, yet something told Viviana he was pleased with her look. “Naam.”Yes. “You did, Aaliyah.”
“Why the belt?” Jamila asked in her typical condescending tone.
Viviana pasted a fake smile on her face. She hadn’t seen Muhammad’s mother since the waxing and would have chosen to keep the status quo intact had it been up to her. It didn’t matter. She would not let that woman ruin her first day as a parolee. “Because I prefer the dress to have some shape rather than hang from my body like a burlap sack.”
Jamila harrumphed. “I’m given to understand your marriage to my son has been well consummated so I will overlook your desire to dress wantonly. Today.”
“Ummi,” Muhammad bit out.
Viviana held up a palm. “No, it’s okay. Now tell me how you really feel, Jamila.”
Aaliyah’s gaze flew to the tabletop. Muhammad sighed as he ran a hand over his jawline.
“If you must know,” Jamila stated, “I do not feel you are good enough for my son.”
The question had been rhetorical, but fuck it. Apparently she wanted to go there.
“Ummi!” Muhammad bellowed. “Enough!”
“She asked,” Jamila replied defensively. “I answered.”
Viviana sat down next to her monster-in-law just to irritate her. She kept the fake smile plastered on her lips. “Were your sons last two wives good enough for him?”
“Of course,” Jamila huffed. “They were God-fearing women.”
