The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(82)

That had been the best night of my life. The best night of my life, just a few days ago. The best night of my life, scattered amidst all the other incredible recent experiences of my life, all of which involved Khabib. There were countless numbers of these: a gala where I’d seen my favorite actress from my favorite sitcom, a car show where I’d had the best paté I’d ever tasted, a meeting where Khabib had, out of the blue, declared to a roomful of top business executives and high-class investors that to him I was the most valuable person in the room.

Ah yes, Khabib. Who would’ve thought I would’ve been so lucky to work for such a kind man? Although he could sometimes be abrupt, there was no denying how compassionate he could be other times.

Like yesterday, when I’d received an envelope filled with a grand in cash, and the handwritten message: For your future party outfits. When I’d tried to return it, Khabib had pleaded ignorance and refused to take it, despite my insistent requests.

Leaning back further in my kitchen chair, I almost toppled the thing over. At the clattering and re-steadying that followed, Oscar gave a belligerent bark. I sighed, sat on the floor, and started petting him, my whole body still shaking like it had fallen on the floor after all.

Oscar was right. I had to be more careful. Whatever was happening with Khabib, whatever exciting events we were going to, whatever intimate moments we were sharing—he was my boss. My boss, who I was spying on. My boss, who was a notorious womanizer, who apparently had a new girl in his bed every month, if not week. I’d seen myself the way women reacted after he’d spoken to them, or when he’d even just looked at them.

Falling for him, letting my crush develop into anything more, would be nothing short of emotional suicide. If I did end up giving in to my attraction, then I could say goodbye to my job, Khabib’s respect—everything.

I stood up, took my gym membership card off the fridge, and turned it around in my hand. It had been over a month and I still hadn’t used it. Still, it was never too late to try.

So, I threw on my never-before-worn purple leggings and moisture-wicking black shirt. Yes, today I would go to the gym, and tomorrow, I would keep doing my job: helping Khabib in business-related matters. That, and only that. Nothing more.





Chapter Four





Khabib




I woke up at 6 a.m. as normal, had my usual breakfast while I scanned through the messages on my phone. More business, more girls, the usual. Leona was getting pesky; I’d have to break things off with her even sooner than I’d planned. Tonight, maybe.

After I’d fed Bruno, my dog, his breakfast, I went out onto my balcony. The city was just waking up, with lights flicking on and dozy shapes of people meandering about. Even the sky wasn’t fully bright yet; the sun couldn’t make up its mind about peeking out above the horizon.

I stared at the scene blankly. Strange. The sprawling view of the city was much like the other things in my life: the more I saw them, the less impressive they seemed. Art, movies, friends, girls—it didn’t matter; familiarity bred boredom. Just like today—the same old job, the same old investors, the same old faces.

Except her. Lucy. No, I hadn’t gotten to know her enough yet for her to be relegated “boring” like the others. Not yet. Maybe I’d never get tired of her. Maybe she and I…

No. Get your head on straight. Stick to the routine.

Once I got my sports car on the road, I saw that the streets were empty as I sped through them to work. Yes, it was too early for most. I liked waking up early, getting little sleep. It was easier to get through this life half-awake. Then, responsibilities and tasks were carried out in easy autopilot, wants were simply attained, effortlessly. No use overthinking things.

At work, Lucy underwent her work with a dedicated cheerfulness. When she caught me looking at her, she blushed, then looked away. Poor girl, she didn’t realize it was only a matter of time. I always got what I wanted and, right now, what I wanted was her. So, I let her sit there in her glass office, watched her when I got bored, let her hurry off to wherever she’d have her lunch. I was in no rush; she wasn’t going anywhere.

Today, I left the office late after returning my father’s call. It was the same conversation as usual, with him pleading me to stop the partying, the girls, the late nights, suggesting I pick up a ‘good’ hobby: badminton, golf, whatever. I said the right reassuring words, acted as if I was actually considering what he said. Then, as soon as I hung up the phone, I called Leona.

“Want to meet up?”

“Now?” Her voice was angry and yet, unmistakably, eager.

“Haven’t you missed me?”

“Well, I…”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

“Khabib…”

“I’ll pick you up in 15.”

After I hung up the phone, I reflected that Father was right, really. I should work less, drink less, party less, sleep more, and so on. Yes, he was undeniably right—I should. It would probably make me happier, more relaxed. My father understood this and yet, he didn’t really understand anything at all.

No, to stop would be to die, to have what these past few years had been come crashing around me, to have my whole life fall to my feet. No, I was too far in to stop, too far gone to even try. Once you got started, the only thing to do was keep on going, keep on going until the bitter end.