Page 3 of The Billionaire's Timed Wife

Damn it. Now there’s no escaping. I can’t postpone my appearance in the main hall any longer.

I run a hand through my beard, irritated as hell, but when I remember the party waiting for me two days from now on my yacht, I get the burst of energy I need to face the nightmare that is attending family events.

The only person here, besides my father, who actually matters to me is my sister, Jazmina. The third would be my mother, but seeing her is no longer possible.

I try to push away the memory of her smile and gentle voice because it always leaves me raw. It’s incredible how, even twenty years after her death, I still ache from her absence as if she’d left yesterday.

My mother was my father’s fourth wife, and after she died, he never took another. It was always said she was his favorite, which fueled the hatred of Eiza, his first wife and Naim’s mother.

Jazmina, though my father’s youngest and much younger than I am, is the daughter of the third wife, the one who struggled for years to conceive.

I walk to the door, feeling the headache that’s been hammering me since I set foot in the palace begin to throb harder, but just as I reach the doorknob, the sound of crying makes me stop.

I hesitate for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. Whoever’s here heard my conversation with Vicenzzo, but since the odds of them speaking English are close to zero, I could just turn around and leave.

Still, I never leave things unfinished, so I turn toward the sound.

“Who’s there?”

I suspect it’s a child, upset with her parents and hiding. No one else would dare enter one of the palace’s private rooms.

“I won’t ask again.” I’m not really angry, but I don’t like wasting my time either.

“Adeela Ghazal,” a voice says. “Masa’u al-Khair[11], Your Highness. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

I ignore the good-evening greeting as I search my memory for an Adeela. It takes me almost a minute to remember.

Arif Ghazal’s daughter, one of my father’s chief advisors.

The girl who’s always been shunned for being half American.

“Step forward,” I command.

She doesn’t obey immediately, which piques my curiosity more than my annoyance. Women born and raised in Rheadur are usually submissive.

Light footsteps echo, and when she finally appears, her gaze is fixed on the floor. Her head is covered with a hijab[12], keeping me from getting a clear look at her face.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

If only she knew that what really bothers me is the fact that she’s looking at the floor...

“Look at me, Adeela.”

More hesitation.

“Now,” I insist.

Her head lifts slowly, with a graceful, almost fragile movement, like a rare flower swaying in the breeze.

Soft in her gestures, delicate in form.

The time it takes her to meet my eyes feels torturous in the best way, stirring a tension deep inside me. I’m used to Western women, bold, direct, unashamed. But Adeela, even knowing who I am, still seems unsure whether she should let me see her or not.

Of course, we shouldn’t even be in this situation. As an unmarried girl—and, I’m sure, a virgin—she shouldn’t be alone with a man who isn’t her father or brother.

Still, Adeela is in no danger with me. I know she’s still a teenager, and that alone would cool any interest, if I had any. I prefer grown women.

She’s also the daughter of a man my country trusts, which means any involvement between us would have to end in marriage.