Eloise reclined on the chaise lounge in the library, her hands resting gently on her belly. She only had to ring the bell beside her to summon a member of the palace staff if she needed anything—a book from the shelves, say, or a fresh glass of lemonade.

After months of living here, she was growing accustomed to being waited on, but she still felt a pang of awkwardness each time she reached for that bell. Although Masoud chided her for it, she had often chosen to go without something she wanted rather than trouble a staff member.

She had finished the book she’d been reading. Eloise had made a point to choose books by Al-Zheran authors since she’d been living here, to help her grow acclimated to her new home, and she had done her best to pull from a variety of genres.

A mystery might be nice, next, she thought, struggling to her feet.

“Eloise!” came a voice from across the room.

Eloise sighed. “Hi, Auntie Salma.”

The older woman rushed across the room, took Eloise’s arm, and guided her back down onto the chaise.

“You know you’re not supposed to get up,” she scolded. “Tell me what you need. I’ll get it for you.”

“That’s all right,” Eloise said, shaking her head.

Auntie Salma was Masoud’s aunt, and ever since Eloise had moved into the palace, she had been inescapable. The trouble was that she was so kind, it was impossible to say no to her endless gestures. At night, when they were snuggled up in their bed, Masoud and Eloise would giggle together about Auntie Salma’s overwhelming good intentions. They would speculate on what would happen when the babies arrived—no doubt, Auntie Salma would insist on moving in with them to help co-parent.

“She really is lovely, though,” Masoud said anxiously. “She was my mother’s best friend when they were growing up, and that’s why she involves herself so much in my life now. I know she looks at you as the daughter she never had.”

Eloise thought it was sweet. So, she allowed the older woman to take care of her. Besides, getting up off the chaise was difficult, now that the twins had almost reached full term. Eloise spent most of her time lying on her back or propped up in a chair, eating and drinking far more than usual to ensure the babies were getting enough.

I’m going to get fat, she thought, with some amusement, as Auntie Salma rang for the butler. They were always feeding her.

The library doors burst open, but wasn’t the butler. Instead, Ahmad and Nijah jogged across the floor, each holding takeout bags. Ahmad also balanced a tray of drinks on one hand.

“Auntie Salma,” he chided, “are you bothering her again?”

“Bothering! Of course I’m not bothering! You kids. I’m making sure she has everything she needs.” Auntie Salma picked up the paperback Eloise had finished that morning and went to whap Ahmad on the head with it, but luckily, he ducked. “You need to let her rest.”

“All she does is rest, Auntie.”

“We have ice cream,” Nijah added.

Auntie Salma looked over at Eloise. “What does your doctor say about ice cream?”

“He hasn’t said anything about it,” Eloise said.

“Maybe I should phone him.”

“Auntie!” Ahmad threw up his hands, clearly exasperated. “Pregnant women can eat ice cream. Ummah ate it when she was pregnant with us. She’s the one who told us to bring it over. You worry too much.”

Auntie Salma huffed, and for a moment, Eloise worried she wouldn’t be allowed any of the ice cream. Then, the older woman reached into one of the bags and pulled out a carton.

“This orange flavor is mine,” she said, waving it around at all of them.

Ahmad wrapped an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “Of course it is, Auntie. That’s why we bought it.”

Nijah pulled out several other cartons and lined them up before Eloise. “We have chocolate, pistachio, and cherry. Which one do you want, Eloise?”

Eloise chose pistachio. The cousins each pulled up chairs and popped open their own ice cream cartons. They had made a habit of visiting the palace and spending time with Eloise every couple of days, and she appreciated it more than she could say. It was so helpful to get to know people her own age, especially as she was stuck here in the house.

More than that, she was loving how close she had gotten to Masoud’s family. From Auntie Salma’s ridiculous concern to the friendship of the cousins, everyone had welcomed her, in their own way, with open arms. She had worried about being an outsider here, about being seen as unworthy to carry the babies of a sheikh, but her fears couldn’t have been further from the truth.

* * *

Later, after Ahmad and Nijah had gone home and Eloise was once again alone in the library, she pulled out the notebook she had stashed under the cushion of the chaise.

Masoud had given her this book when she’d first arrived here. It had a little lock and key on it, and Masoud had hung the delicate key around her neck on a gold chain. He had told her that he understood she was far from home, and if she ever needed to get her thoughts out on paper, he wanted her to feel free to do so without worrying they would be read by anyone else.

But Eloise was using the notebook in a different way.

She still locked it when she was finished. She still concealed her writing. But she hadn’t written a word about her occasional homesickness, as Masoud might have imagined. She hadn’t written about the fact that, although he had bought a house for her parents and she no longer had to worry about their financial straits, she still missed them. She certainly hadn’t written about the story that had hit the press last week about Patrick Gainsborough being revealed to be a serial blackmailer and forced to resign from his job, although she and Masoud had made a toast to that news—him with champagne, her with sparkling apple juice.

Instead, Eloise was writing about love.

She found herself writing mostly in metaphor at first, comparing the feelings Masoud had stirred in her to all sorts of natural phenomena. There were also a few pages in the back of the book where Eloise had simply listed the events that had happened to her in order, trying to make sense of how one thing had led to another. She came up with possible titles for their love story in the margins.

Could this really be a book someday?

It seemed possible. After all, the most timeless stories in the world had to do with an ordinary person being sucked into a world of magic and wonder, didn’t they? And that was exactly what had happened to Eloise. To think, all this had started as a business trip! And now, here she was, in love with royalty, becoming a mother, being waited on hand and foot, reclining in what had to be one of the most extravagant libraries on earth.

Eloise wasn’t ready for Masoud to know she was writing. She knew he would encourage her pursuit of her dream, of course, but because he was Masoud, he would probably also pull strings. He no doubt had friends who were publishers, and he would be able to get her work in front of them just by virtue of being who he was. And, because she was romantically involved with the Sheikh, her writing would be hailed as creative genius.

Eloise didn’t want it that way. She wanted to flex her muscles, to rediscover the writing skill she knew she’d once had. She had allowed her creativity to stagnate when she’d gone to work for Patrick, and she’d spent years letting it wither. But it was still there. The seed of it had been watered by Masoud, by the love they shared, and she was ready to find her voice again.

Eloise unlocked the notebook and flipped to the first blank page, then she began to write.

Moving to a new country was wonderful and unbearable, all at the same time. Every day was an adventure, even things as simple as taking a walk down the street, by virtue of the fact that everything was so different. Here, the streets were packed sand in many places, not always paved, and when they were paved, the pavement looked different, brighter. The air smelled like cooking spices, tinged with the brine of the ocean, and everything felt richer and closer than it did back home. The sky seemed higher here than it did anywhere else in the world.

And there was music. Every day, it provided a score to the errands and activities that made up a life. You could step into one musician’s bubble and out of another’s without realizing it as the tunes wound their way together, blending into something new and beautiful. It was easy to feel propelled forward by the music, driven by the sound of hands beating out rhythms on drums.

* * *

“Want me to rub your feet?” Masoud asked.

Eloise smiled. He always made sure to spend a few hours sitting with her every afternoon, no matter how busy he was.

“Don’t you have places to be?”

“No,” Masoud said. “There isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.”

She placed her feet in his lap and he began kneading the soles with his thumbs, working to release the tension there.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Good. Ahmad and Nijah were here again.”

“They like you,” Masoud said. “Nijah wants you to join her book club after the babies come.”

“Really?” Eloise was honored. “That’s so sweet. I’d love to.”

Masoud smiled. “I’ll let her know.”

“What have you been doing today?” Eloise asked.

“I worked on the nursery,” Masoud said.

“You did?” Eloise was simultaneously pleased and disappointed. “I would have liked to be there for that.”

“No way.” Masoud shook his head. “I don’t want you around all those paint fumes in your condition. Trust me, I’m putting it together exactly the way we discussed. You’ll be very happy.”

Eloise sighed. “I just wish I could be more involved. I feel like I haven’t done anything in months.”

He kissed her forehead. “You’re doing the most important job of all. And I know you’re going to be an amazing mother.”

Eloise relaxed in his arms and let a smile spread across her face. She would be a good mother, she thought. Already, she felt her love for her babies growing every day. She couldn’t wait to meet them and to show them the beautiful world of Al-Zhera, their father’s homeland. And, someday, they would visit America and see where she came from, too. They had a wonderful life in store for them.

The library door swung open and a valet entered the room.

“Sir, you have a visitor.”

“Who is it?” Masoud asked.

“Mr. Haddad from Khan Capital.”

Eloise struggled to sit up as Masoud crossed the room to shake hands with the newcomer. “Please,” he said, “Pull up some chairs and visit with us! Tell me, how are things at the office?”

“Fine, just fine,” said the man. He extended a hand to Eloise. “Hello, Miss Lang. I don’t know whether you remember me. My name is Farooq Haddad.”

“Hello, Mr. Haddad.” Eloise shook his hand. “Thank you for visiting.”

“I brought gifts,” Haddad said. “I don’t know whether you’re expecting boys or girls?”

“We don’t know ourselves,” Masoud said. “We’ve decided to wait and be surprised when they’re born.”

“Very good,” Haddad said. “Well, these gifts should do well for either.”

He handed Eloise a green gift bag with an elephant on it. She opened it and pulled out several children’s books, some of which were printed in Arabic, some of which were in English.

“I guessed you would want them to learn both languages,” he said.

Eloise nodded. “Thank you. This was very thoughtful, Mr. Haddad.”

“I’m afraid I must ask for a favor, now,” he said.

Masoud smiled. “We have been friends and colleagues for a long time, Farooq. Ask me anything.”

The man nodded.

“We want you to come back, Masoud. Now that that—” he spoke a word in Arabic that Eloise suspected was a curse “—Patrick Gainsborough is out of a job, your position is no longer compromised. Especially as you and Miss Lang have made a home together, one can hardly accuse you of philandering. The company needs your financial expertise. Please, come back and work with us.”

Eloise met Masoud’s eyes. He raised an eyebrow, as if asking her what he should do. In response, she shrugged. She wouldn’t weigh in on this question. He had to make the decision for himself.

“Thank you, Farooq,” Masoud said. “I do appreciate the offer. And I want you to know that the years I spent at Khan Capital were incredibly valuable to me. I think I came away with some of the most important lessons of my life.”

“But you’re saying no,” Haddad surmised.

“I’m saying I have a different plan in mind,” Masoud said. “There’s another direction in which I’m hoping to take my life.”

“May I ask what that is?” Haddad asked.

“As you may be aware, before I came to Kahn Capital, I qualified as an architect,” Masoud said. “Now that I’m in a position to pursue a new career path, I think the time is right for me to open my own firm. These past few months I have been making preparations to do just that.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Haddad asked. “Wouldn’t your father want you to be CEO? It was his company, after all. This is your chance to uphold his legacy.”

Masoud shook his head.

“My father’s legacy wasn’t that he built Kahn Capital, it was that he built something. I would honor him far more by creating something for myself than I would by staying in a field I don’t feel strongly about. Besides, Farooq, you don’t need me to run the company. You’re more than capable.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You should be the CEO. Not me.”

After exchanging hugs and handshakes, Masoud saw his friend to the door and returned to Eloise’s side. He picked up the books she’d been given and looked through them.

“I had this one as a kid,” he said. “It’s very good.”

Eloise placed a hand on the cover, forcing him to look up at her. “You finally told them,” she grinned.

“I did. And it feels much more real now, I have to admit,” he added sheepishly. “I still have your support, don’t I?”

“Of course, my love. If it’s what you want, I can support you in anything.”

He leaned in and kissed her. “Someday, Eloise Lang, I’ll build you something beautiful.”