LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Eleven

      A SMALL RECEPTION party had lined up to welcome Prince Zahir and his new wife when they arrived back at Medira Palace. As Zahir swept them through the massive doors, Anna forced herself to smile at everyone, especially when she saw Lana and Layla, standing on tiptoes trying to get a better look at them. They looked so excited it made her want to cry.

      Little more than twenty-four hours had passed since their marriage ceremony, since they had stood side by side in the chapel in Dorrada and made their vows. But it had been long enough to spell out just what sort of a marriage it would be. Hollow and empty and desperately lonely. Long enough to firmly dash any hopes she might have foolishly fostered that they could ever be a real couple, come together as husband and wife, as lovers.

      It was also a marriage where she was going to have to be constantly on her guard, hide her true feelings from Zahir. Because to show him even a glimmer of what was in her heart would be emotional suicide. She could hardly bring herself to examine the insanity of her own feelings, let alone expose them to the cold and cruel claws of her husband.

      Her wedding night had been miserably sad, plagued by fitful dreams and long periods of wakefulness in a bed that had seemed increasingly empty as the hours of darkness had dragged by. Forcing herself to go down to breakfast this morning had taken all the will power she possessed but she’d known she had to face Zahir sometime. Somehow she had to cover up her broken heart. But as it turned out she’d been met, not by her husband, but with a note presented on a silver salver and written in Zahir’s bold hand, stating that she was to meet him at the airport in two hours’ time. That they would be flying back to Nabatean without delay. And that was it. No explanation as to where he had been all night, where he was now. No apology or excuses of any kind.

      Because, as far as Zahir was concerned, she didn’t deserve any explanations. She was now his property—by dint of their marriage, he had effectively bought her, no matter how it had been dressed up with fancy ceremonies and profuse congratulations. Now she belonged to him, in the same way as a herd of camel or an Arabian stallion. Except she was of considerably less use. If she couldn’t satisfy him in bed, couldn’t give him an heir, then, other than the connection with Europe that came with her position, what purpose did she actually serve?

      No doubt Zahir was wondering the same thing. No doubt that was the reason he hadn’t come to her bed last night and the reason he had totally ignored her on the flight to Nabatean, preferring the company of his laptop instead. The reason why his mood was as black as thunder as he briskly moved past the reception party and headed straight down the maze of corridors that lead to his private quarters.

      Anna stood in the echoing reception chamber and looked around her, breathing in the foreign air of this gilded cage. Here she was in her new role, her new life. And she had no idea what she was supposed to do with it.

      Declining the offer of refreshments, she allowed herself to be shown to the suite of rooms that had been assigned to her and Zahir. The grand marital bedroom had a raised bed centre-stage, like some sort of mocking altar, and the only slightly less grand bedroom, which she was solemnly informed was her personal room, just served to increase her sense of isolation, filled her with misery. What sort of marriage needed separate bedrooms right from the off? Sadly, she already knew the answer to that.

      Wandering downstairs again, she found herself in one of the many empty salons and sat down on a window seat that overlooked a verdant courtyard. Darkness had fallen, the night having arrived with indecent haste in this part of the world, and the courtyard was floodlit, the palm trees and the fountain illuminated with a ghostly orange glow.

      Anna felt for her phone in her handbag. She needed a distraction to stop herself from bursting into tears or running screaming into the wilderness of the desert, or both. Clicking on the site of a national newspaper in Dorrada, she scrolled through the headlines until she found what she was looking for. Just as she had expected, there was extensive coverage of the wedding of Princess Annalina to Prince Zahir of Nabatean, gushing descriptions of the beautiful ceremony, the sumptuous banquet and the glittering ball that had followed. Other European papers hadn’t stinted either, all showing the official photographs accompanied by the obligatory text describing the couple’s happy day.

      Anna studied the images. She and Zahir, standing side by side, her arm linked through his. She could see the tension in her face, that the smile was in danger of cracking. And Zahir, tall, commanding, looking impossibly handsome with his shoulders back and his head held high. But his expression was masked, closed, impossible to fathom, no matter how much Anna stared at it. She was left wondering just who this man was that she had married.

      She was about to put her phone away when a headline on one of the sidebars caught her eye. The shot of a battered face, captured by a zoom lens, by the look of it, was accompanied by the headline: Prince Henrik arrives at hospital with facial injuries.

      A cold dread swept over her. With a shaky hand, she clicked on the link.

       Prince Henrik of Ebsberg was seen arriving at a Valduz hospital on the night of his ex-fiancée’s wedding, sporting what appeared to be significant facial injuries. One can only speculate as to how he acquired them.

       Prince Henrik is known to have attended the grand ball thrown to celebrate the marriage of Princess Annalina of Dorrada to Prince Zahir of Nabatean. Could it be that the two men came to blows over the beautiful blonde princess? If so, it would appear that Prince Zahir’s reputation as a formidable opponent is fully justified. Neither Prince Henrik nor Prince Zahir was available for comment.

      No! Anna’s heart plummeted inside her. Had Zahir done this to Henrik? She didn’t want to believe it but her gut was telling her it had to be him. Head spinning, she desperately tried to think up some other explanation, figure out what could possibly have happened.

      As European royals, the King and Queen of Ebsberg had been present at the wedding but Anna had been thankful, at that point, to see that their son, Henrik, hadn’t joined them. She had completely forgotten about him until much later at the ball when out of the corner of her eye she had seen him arrive, looking unsteady on his feet, as if he had already been drinking. Having absolutely no desire to speak to him, she had deliberately kept out of his way, relieved that the relatively late hour meant she could legitimately slip away before he could corner her. But had Zahir spoken to him? Deliberately sought him out? Had it always been his intention to beat up her ex-fiancé?

      The barbaric thought made Anna feel physically sick. But there was only one way to find out if it was true.

      Leaping to

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