Zaiman’s mood was grim as he sat behind Bassam, watching the man guide the car through the crowd of reporters. They flocked to the car like flies to a carcass, snapping pictures and screaming questions through the closed windows.

Bassam didn’t even acknowledge them, except to blast his horn when they got too close to the bumper. Inch by inch, he guided the car toward the garage. Soon, though, he was forced to stop completely, as the wall of reporters stretched from the bumper to the garage itself.

“I can run them over,” Bassam said grimly.

“No,” Zaiman said. “They’ll follow me.”

“Zaiman, don’t—”

“Just wait until they clear out, then park the car,” Zaiman interrupted. “I’ll get out here.”

He closed the door on Bassam’s objections, and almost immediately regretted it. The reporters pressed in on all sides, shoving microphones in his face, babbling at him in three different languages, even grabbing him when he pushed through them.

Furious and fearful, Zaiman fought them off until he reached the door. There, he turned around to face them. He opened his mouth as if to make a statement, and a hush fell over the crowd.

Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Zaiman ducked inside, locking the door behind him. He found Alex pacing the foyer, ringing her hands.

“What on earth happened?” Zaiman demanded as he brushed himself off.

“I didn’t know that was going to happen,” she began, sounding strangled.

“Well, I would hope not; that would be a silly thing to orchestrate,” Zaiman said, exasperated. “Tell me.”

She swallowed hard, turning her green eyes toward him. They were wide and full of terror, and he deliberately relaxed his posture in an attempt to comfort her. It didn’t seem to help.

“Come,” he told her. “We’ll have a drink. I can’t hear myself think with that noise.”

He gestured toward the stairs, and Alex reluctantly followed him up.

The drawing room was far enough away from the front of the house to offer a buffer against the roaring sea of reporters, and that protection doubled when he closed the doors. She sat, then stood, then sat again, hovering like an indecisive humming bird.

He poured brandy for them both, and pressed a glass into her hand.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She sat, then took a sip of her drink. It seemed to shock her back to her senses, and she took a few deep breaths.

“I messed up,” she told him. “The one thing you told me not to do, over and over again. I did it, and…oh, Zaiman, I had no idea it would turn out this way.” Her voice broke, wavering on the edge of tears.

“Drink,” he told her. “Just tell me what happened.”

She took another drink, and it seemed to stabilize her.

“Amia was so depressed yesterday,” Alex said, sniffing. “We were playing, and she just couldn’t get into it at all. She broke down crying. It was so sad, Zaiman, it just broke my heart. She reached her limit, you know, with being locked up in the house. She just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Zaiman’s heart sank. A throbbing began in his temple, and he sipped his drink. He could already see where this was going, but he wanted to hear it all.

“So, I thought without you there, she would just be another little girl out with her nanny, completely anonymous. I didn’t think anyone would recognize her without you, since she’s been away from everything for so long, and she didn’t really interact with the public before that, anyway, and…”

Alex bit her lip, stemming the flow of her frantic explanation. She took a drink, cleared her throat, and began again, more slowly.

“I took her to the zoo. She had fun, but we didn’t stay long because the caged animals reminded her of herself. So we left, and went to the natural history museum. She—she wanted to see the dinosaurs.”

Alex’s lip trembled, stirring the storm of emotion brewing in Zaiman’s chest.

“She loved it. We stayed for hours, but…as we were leaving…” She broke, then, tears streaming down her face as she finished her confession. “Your brother was there, in the courtyard, and he recognized her. I didn’t understand what was happening—the way he talked to her, I figured he must know—I mean, he obviously knew her and he kept talking about her father…at worst, I assumed it was your younger brother, but…”

She shook her head, sobbing.

“Zaahir,” Zaiman finished numbly.

Alex nodded, trying to suppress her tears. She finished her drink in a single swallow, and Zaiman gestured to the bottle in silent invitation. She accepted without a word, pouring herself another drink.

They sat in silence for a long moment as Alex wrestled her nerves back under control.

“I am so sorry for the trouble I caused,” she said quietly. “I never meant for it to turn out this way. I did it for Amia. Please know that. I never wanted to hurt you, or her, and I’m so, so sorry.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet, and her eyes flashed angrily.

“But you should have heard her, Zaiman! She sounded like a prisoner who had given up hope of ever being released, and she doesn’t deserve that—she just doesn’t. She’s bright and wonderful, and she deserves to have a life!”

She swallowed several times and took a labored breath.

“You can’t keep a person trapped in a life they don’t deserve because of your own shame, Zaiman. You just can’t.”

Zaiman said nothing, only waited for her to finish. The silence stretched out, and Alex set her unfinished glass down and turned her face up to meet his eyes.

He looked across at her tear-stained face, the fierce conviction which shone behind it, saw her rebellion and stubborn adherence to personal welfare over tradition, and in that moment, he knew exactly what to do.

“You should go home,” he told her quietly. “Utah, wasn’t it? Your flight leaves in the morning. Bassam will drive you.”

Zaiman watched the blood drain out of her face and his heart nearly broke. He wrapped the pieces up in a conviction of his own and strode out of the drawing room.