“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
We ate in easy silence. His foot brushed mine under the table every so often, a casual, unthinking touch that continued to send jolts through me. He was still only wearing a towel—like modesty was an optional accessory—and every time he leaned forward to grab the coffee, I had to remind myself that staring was rude, even if technically, as his wife, I had some claim to it.
He stood after he finished, stretching, the towel shifting recklessly low, and I lost my train of thought for an embarrassing half second. He noticed—of course he did—and that smug little grin curved his mouth.
“I have to get ready,” he said, leaning down to brush a kiss to my temple, my cheek, the tip of my nose.
As he turned to leave, I called out, “You forgot one.”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Did I?”
I puckered my lips, pretending to be casual about the way my pulse was racing.
He laughed and came back, pressing his mouth to mine—warm, teasing, just enough tongue to leave me smiling like a starry-eyed idiot when he pulled away.
“Better?” he murmured.
“Mhm.”
He gave me one more peck and disappeared into the bedroom to change. I shook my head, trying to focus on scraping the last of the fruit off my plate instead of the sound of him moving around, barely dressed, just a room away, when there was a knock on the door.
I frowned and tugged his sweatshirt on over my pyjamas, pulled the hood up to hide my hair, and went to open the door. A woman stood there, composed and elegant.
“Hi,” she said. “Does Khalifa Nasser live here?”
“Yeah...” I started. “Why?”
And then it clicked. Herface. I’d seen it before, at the funeral, watching me from a corner like she belonged there but didn’t.
“Wait—you were at his mom’s funeral, right? Who are you?”
“I’m the other woman Khalifa’s married to.” She let her gaze fall to the hoodie I was wearing—hishoodie—and then back up to my face. Her lips twisted, not kindly. “And you,” she said, “must be my sister wife.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I LAUGHED.
I actuallylaughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound that bounced off the walls and felt too loud in my own ears.
“Okay,” I said. “Did Khalifa put you up to this? Because—credit where it’s due—this is creative. But he’s never been good at pranks. You’ll have to do better than the whole‘I’m his secret wife’routine.” I crossed my arms. “How do you actually know him?”
Somewhere behind me, the bedroom door opened, and her eyes flicked past my shoulder, her expression breaking into a relieved smile. “Khalifa?”
He was standing in the hallway, dressed, hair still damp, tie loosely wrapped around his neck. When he saw her, the color drained from his face like someone had pulled a plug.
“Dalal?” he whispered.
It was that single word—hername—that did it.
My stomach dropped. The air shifted, thickened, as realization clawed its way through my ribs. I looked between them—his wide eyes, her faint smile, the silent, awful familiarity hanging in the space between them—and felt the world tilt.
“It’s true?” My voice came out calmer than I expected, but each word trembled under its own weight. “You’re...married to someone else?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The truth was carved all over his face, in the idleness of his body, the way his lips parted, but no sound came out.
For a heartbeat, everything was still. Then my chest constricted, heat rising in my throat, and the loft started to blur.
“I’m going to be sick,” I whispered.
