“Oh, Bradley.” She shakes her head, and the look in her eyes undoes me completely. “I’m going back. To Dovlano, I’m going back home.”
The word home sticks awkwardly in my mind because I’m a selfish prick who thought maybe she’d come to think of this place as her home. “I understand,” I say, even though I don’t. “And we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”
“The time has come.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but the words are a scream in my head. “Right after Jon’s wedding. My mother is sending a private jet to come get me.”
It hits me like a sucker punch to the gut, and I take my time responding. “Okay,” I say, processing what she’s said. “All right, it’s not the end of the world. I can come see you. Or you can—”
“Bradley, no.” She shakes her head slowly, sending another tear down her cheek. “That’s not all.”
The other shoe is about to drop. I steel myself, not sure how bad this might get. It hurts like hell to think she’s breaking things off, but I need to hear her say the words. To make sure I’m not jumping to paranoid conclusions.
But she’s crying so hard now I’m not sure she can get the words out. I cup her other elbow, holding on to her like she might blow away.
“You’re ending things.” I say the words myself because her sobs make speech unlikely. “You’re wanting to call it quits before you head home. Iz, I can deal. It’s not like I’ve never had a woman break up with me b—”
“I’m getting married.” She chokes out the words in staccato bursts, like she’s spitting them out. Her eyes are frantic, searching mine for a response. “I’m getting married, Bradley.”
I stare at her, positive I’ve heard wrong. I wait for her to laugh. To tell me it’s a sick joke or I’ve misunderstood. An icy chill floods my chest as I meet her eyes. She’s telling the truth.
My God.
“I don’t understand.” A ridiculous understatement, but I’m too stunned to wrap my brain around what she’s just shared. “How—what—”
“In my culture, arranged marriages are common among the royal class,” she says slowly. “The pairings are made for political or social standing, often before the parties even meet each other.”
“Okay.” I hold her gaze, struggling to grasp what she’s saying. “All right, I spent time in small villages in Iraq. I’ve seen arranged marriage firsthand.” Sometimes horrifying examples of young girls forced into wedlock, but I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about here. “Or India, I know they have some impressive statistics about the success of arranged marriages there.”
It’s a dumb thing to say, but I want her to know I’m not judging. That I don’t kid myself into thinking American culture has a stronghold on the definition of marriage. Lord knows the traditional route hasn’t gone great in my own family.
But the way Izzy’s sobbing makes it clear she’s not thrilled with her nuptial plans. Or maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe it’s shame, a hollowed-out regret over what she and I have done together. I drop my hands, not wanting to make things worse by touching her when that might be the last thing she needs.
She gulps for air like she’s drowning, composing herself enough to get the words out. “His name is Stefano Romano Charnelton, and he’s a prince. From Saxenheim, the country that borders Dovlano on the northwest tip.”
Hearing the names, the specifics, makes it real. It also makes my head throb. A tiny flicker of anger flares to life in my chest, and I take slow, deep breaths so it doesn’t blaze bigger. Cortisol floods my system, a symptom of stress and jealousy. I urge my brain to override emotion.
My brain tells me to suck rocks.
“So, we’ve been cheating.” I cringe at my own words, though at least I managed to say “we” and not “you.” I cross my arms, then uncross them so I don’t seem like an angry prick. “It would have been nice to know I’m participating in infidelity.”
Izzy flinches like I’ve struck her. “Dovlanese arranged marriages aren’t like an American engagement. There’s no ring, no expression of devotion. Just a lot of paperwork and handshakes between parents.”
“But you’re engaged.”
Izzy bites her lip. “We don’t use that term. My family signed documents when I was seventeen, though the terms state we’re not required to wed until I’m thirty. I never met Stefano until just a few years ago. ‘Promised’ might be a more accurate term than ‘engaged,’ though perhaps I’m splitting hairs.” She looks down at her hands. “I never promised anything.”
I’m torn between sympathy and anger. Anger that she never said a word. Never mentioned this when we discussed dreams and relationships and everything else under the sun. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looks up, and the pain in her eyes sends me reeling. “I was hoping something might change. That my mother would see I’m happy here and let me stay.” She bites her lip but doesn’t break eye contact. “That maybe they’d find another match for Stefano, or he’d ask to be released from the betrothment. There’s a medical clause, an escape hatch he could use in light of my kidney transplant.” She’s talking faster now, hands balled at her sides. “I thought he might want to get out of it, assuming I’d have difficulty producing an heir. Or he might not want to endure the trauma in twenty years when the doctors say I’ll likely need another kidney transplant.” She’s gasping now, like she can’t get enough air. “Or he could be hit by a taxi, a bus maybe, or an airplane crash. I don’t wish him ill, but—but—” She chokes out a sound that’s part sob, part hysterical laugh as she covers her face with her hands. “I was hoping for a miracle.”
“Okay.” A wave of sympathy cools the embers of my anger, but I’m still mad. And confused. And jealous and reeling from at least a dozen other emotions I know shouldn’t control my response right now. “You still could have told me. Seems like the sort of thing you might have shared before we slept together.”
She flinches, then squares her shoulders. “You’re right.” Her throat moves as she swallows. “You’re absolutely right.”
“So why didn’t you say anything?”
She hesitates. “Because I wanted you. I know that’s selfish and awful, and I’m not proud.”
I am, just a tiny bit. It’s flattering to have a woman like Iz throw caution to the wind because she wants me that badly, but I can’t let my ego rule me right now. “Okay,” I say slowly. “I mean, I wanted you, too, obviously—”
But somehow it became more than that. I thought I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. I could have sworn she was on the same page, but now I’m not so sure.
“I thought we could keep things physical,” she chokes out. “Just a hot, sexy hookup before I settle down and fulfill my duties. We both knew I was leaving, so I thought we’d be okay with an end date.” She bites her lip again. “I thought I wouldn’t fall for you.”