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your country?”
    His mouth compressed into a tight line, a flash of anger in his gaze now. “When will you realize that Siyaad is just as much a part of you as it is of me?”
    “Not in this lifetime.”
    Resignation settled over his features. And suddenly, he was the man who had had two heart attacks in the space of six months. “Whatever I say is immaterial because you’ve already decided the answer.”
    He clasped her cheek with his palm, his gaze drinking in every feature, every nuance in her expression. He is remembering my mom . Zohra knew that as clearly as if he had said her name out loud. Ever since he had suddenly reappeared in her life when she had been thirteen and dragged her to Siyaad, she had always understood one thing.
    He had loved her mother just as much as her mother had loved him. And yet, he had walked out of their lives and put duty first.
    “Ever since you were a little girl, you’ve always been stubborn. Incredibly strong but also stubborn.
    “You’ve always decided your own fate, Zohra. You decided why I had left without ever asking me. You decided to hate your stepmother when you came to live in Siyaad, even though she had been nothing but kind to you. You decided you would have nothing to do with Siyaad or your heritage.
    “You decided to love your half brother and half sister, you decided to stay in Siyaad for them when you turned eighteen. No one has or will ever tell you how to live your life.
    “What you make of this marriage, whether you view it as a cage or your freedom is, as always, up to you.”
    Saira came bursting into the room, pink high in her cheeks. “He’s arrived in the Throne Hall.”
    Zohra didn’t need to be told again who it was that was waiting for her.
    Her gaze anxiously shifting between Zohra and their father, Saira handed Zohra the bouquet of white lilies. Her palms were clammy as though she were walking to her execution rather than her wedding.
    As the sweet scent of the flowers tickled her nose, Zohra took her father’s offered hand. For a moment, she couldn’t get her legs to move, couldn’t shake off the sudden fear that descended over her.
    In the next, she was standing at the entrance to the Throne Hall, a vast chamber with a high, circular dome ceiling. The moment Zohra and her father crossed the threshold, traditional Dahaaran music blared to life from their left and right. The festive sounds set her heart thumping in tune.
    A gasp fell from her lips. The whole setting could have been torn out of her worn-out copy of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights . Back when she had still been enchanted enough to believe the magical stories spun by her father, before the reality of duty and obligation had shattered her world, before the truth of a princess’s life had forced her to grow up too fast.
    The hall was huge with at least a thousand gold-edged chairs on either side, leaving a carpeted path between for her to walk. The floor was cream-colored marble with inlaid jewels.
    The carpeted path was strewn with red rose petals. Zohra followed the path with her eyes to the other end of the hall, where there was a wide dais. Sheer gold-and-beige-colored fabrics draped across the dais which was built of steps leading to a gold-edged throne, wide enough for two. Thousands of cream-colored roses, with bloodred roses here and there, adorned every step and surface of the dais.
    And standing next to the throne, his navy uniform contrastingly starkly against the richly romantic background, a blur to her panic-stricken gaze, was her bridegroom.
    Never for a moment had she imagined such a lavish wedding, or such a forbidding-looking man waiting for her at the end of it. She had imagined the same day with Faisal so many times. A simple wedding free of obligations and duty with the man she loved, both of them able to live the life they had wanted.
    How had such a simple dream turned into dust?
    Her heart thudded hard against her rib cage, her chest incredibly