The relationship may not be real, but these feelings she had for Wasim—these feelings were definitely real. True enough, she’d miss this country—the food, the people, the culture—her home for the past six years.
But deep down she knew she would miss Wasim most of all.
Wasim listened absentmindedly to the owner of a Brazilian tech firm who’d been talking to him for the past five minutes. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Imani again since they spoke earlier, and he longed to break away from this conversation and spend a few minutes with her so he could decompress.
He finally located her in the room, talking to one of the few women attendees. Looking regal. Talking passionately about some topic as the woman nodded constantly. He shouldn’t be surprised that she’d picked a woman to engage in conversation. By the end of the night, Imani would probably have a plan whereby the woman could compete on equal footing with the men while doubling her revenue.
The smile that had taken over his face slowly died when Wasim saw one of his father’s messengers approach. With a sickening lurch, he guessed why the man had come. As he told Imani, his father had not been doing well, and he knew this was more bad news.
The man dipped his head in respect to Wasim. “Your Royal Highness, your father has requested your presence at The Grand White Palace. He is not well.”
All along he’d known that at some point in the near future he would no longer have his father, and that sobering thought remained at the back of his mind as he worked tirelessly day and night and spent time with his father to learn as much as he could. It was a bittersweet time, one that he both appreciated and dreaded.
“Excuse me, I have to go,” he said to the Brazilian, and took off toward Imani.
As he approached, perhaps sensing he was on his way to her, she looked in his direction. Everything he felt must have been in his face, because she excused herself from the conversation and came toward him.
Her beautiful brown eyes that normally contained a teasing light were darkened with worry. “It’s King Khalid?”
Wasim nodded, his heart heavy and fear blocking his throat. She lifted her hands toward him and then clasped them together. He wanted to touch her, too. To pull her into his arms and seek the comfort he craved.
“I’ll say a prayer for him, for all of you tonight,” she said.
“Thank you.”
With a curt nod, Wasim hurried from the room with his bodyguards. The few remaining attendees stared after them as they rushed past, but all he could think about was getting to his father’s side.
11
He’d prayed often during the past two days.
Wearing a white dishdasha and white taqiyah on his head, Wasim lowered to his knees in the dimly lit prayer room and touched his forehead to the prayer mat. He remained still, only his lips moving as he uttered more prayers.
The doctors were with his father now, who earlier this evening had taken a turn for the worst since the night of the expo reception. No one was surprised, as he’d done little more than drink water the past couple of days. He’d lost his appetite and spent most of his time half-reclined out on the balcony where he could look out at the sea.
Wasim had lost his appetite, too, and worry remained an unwelcome burden in his stomach, but he did his best to hide his fears and appear strong for his father’s sake. He, his siblings, and King Khalid’s wives spent more time with his father the past couple of days—talking and laughing, reminiscing about holidays, birthday celebrations, and other events in the past. They reviewed old photos to refresh their memories and pretended that these happy moments could delay the inevitable.
His prayers completed, Wasim lifted from the floor and exited the prayer room. One of his father’s aides stood outside.
“It’s time, Prince Wasim,” he said, his voice filled with the pain they all carried.
Wasim walked briskly with him through the palace to his father’s bedroom. King Khalid lay prone on the bed, eyes closed, face pale. Two of his closest aides, three doctors, and Wasim’s brothers surrounded him. The youngest son—a teenager—had tears running down his face, while Akmal and the other three remained stoic with somber faces.
When Wasim arrived, everyone stepped back to give him privacy with his father. The oldest son, the heir had arrived.
Wasim lowered to his knees beside the bed and held his father’s hand. He closed his eyes, temporarily shielding himself from the truth—a truth he didn’t want to accept, though death was part of a greater plan. Losing his father reminded him of losing his mother as a child. Now this fresh anguish would become a part of him for the unforeseen future.
King Khalid turned his head toward Wasim. His eyes opened to mere slits. “Wasim,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“I’m here, Baba,” he whispered.
He hadn’t called his father that since he was child. But that’s how he felt, like a child. Helpless and powerless to fight off death’s tentacles as they ensnared his last living parent. Untold wealth existed at his fingertips, but he couldn’t save his father.
“You must marry Imani…soon,” King Khalid whispered.
At first, Wasim wasn’t sure he’d understood. He sorted the words in his mind, and when he did, the sword of guilt dragged its sharp edge through his chest. He gave his father’s hand a gentle squeeze.
“Promise me,” King Khalid said, sounding as if he were already taking his last breath.
“Don’t worry about that now. This world is no longer your concern.”
“Promise me, Wasim.” The words came out stronger but by his wheezing breaths, it was clear they had taken a lot of energy.
Wasim bowed his head. If he made this deathbed promise, he couldn’t go back on his word. “I cannot make that decision for her.”
“Wasim…convince her to marry soon.” A rattling sound filled the back of King Khalid’s throat.
Wasim quickly lifted his head and blinked back tears. “I will. We will be married soon.” He tightened his fingers around his father’s hand, as if by doing so he could keep the old man with him a little bit longer.
“I…” King Khalid’s voice faded to a whisper, and Wasim watched the light dim in his eyes.
He leaned close to his father’s ear and whispered, in a voice thick with sorrow, “I testify that there is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”
The phone rang beside her bed, and Imani hopped up from the chair by the window and darted to it. She set down the novel she’d been using as a distraction ever since Wasim had called to tell her King Khalid had taken a turn for the worst.
Reluctantly, she set aside her glasses and picked up the phone. It was Wasim, and already her heart couldn’t take the news she was certain he would convey.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Imani.”
His voice sounded hoarse, and her heart broke into little pieces for him. Tears welled in her eyes.
“His Excellency King Khalid of the Kingdom of Barrakesch is no longer with us.”
His pain reached across the line and snared Imani’s heart in a tight fist. “I’m sorry, Wasim.”
They knew this day was coming, yet it was still so unbearably painful. She was hurting so much because of her relationship with the king and his kindness to her. How much harder must it be for Wasim and the rest of the family to bear such a loss?