I wake up to see Zahir in a suit eating breakfast and he tells me we’ll be landing in Newark soon.

“Newark?” I ask. My father’s plane always landed at Teterboro Airport because it caters to private planes. I wonder if we’re going straight to Newark because Zahir is trying to spare me more troubling memories or because his jet is too big for a smaller airport to handle.

“Yes, Newark,” he answers. Then he tells me to take a shower before I can ask him why there. A sweater dress, lacy underthings, glossy riding boots, and all my toiletries have magically appeared in the bathroom. I dry off and dress myself, all the while noticing how very different I feel in Western-style clothes. The dress is still modest, but I would never wear it in the hot desert climate of Jahwar. Only someplace where winter hasn’t quite given over to spring. I am definitely, definitely not in Jahwar anymore.

We disembark and make our way through passport control and customs, and step outside the airport to be met by a small motorcade consisting of two Mercedes with New York license plates and, to my shock, a white Mercedes Maybach that looks identical to the one we drove in to the Jahwar airport. It’s idling between the other two cars and I can clearly see it has the same long, thin license plate with the royal family’s crest.

“Uh…how did you get your car here?” I demand as we walk toward an open back passenger door.

Zahir’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Oh, did I forget to mention my plane also has a parking garage? I’ll be sure to take you for a quick tour on our way back.”

“Oh, my God!! Is that a Mercedes Maybach Landaulet???” Kasha screams before I’m barely out of the car.

The girls obviously knew we were coming because they’re waiting in matching flower-print skater dresses outside our home when we pull into the circular driveway and standing next to the broken fountain.

“Um…” I say, looking to Zahir for support.

“It is,” he replies, though the girls have yet to say so much as a hello to him.

“What?!?! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Kasha whips out her phone and poses in front of the vehicle for a selfie.

“Whoa…I thought this model was only a prototype.” Sasha looks uncharacteristically impressed.

“Just how rich are you?” Kasha demands while pulling in her twin sister to strike another pose in front of Zahir’s car.

And I’m sorry to say the questions only get more embarrassing from there.

“So…since you’re our brother-in-law now, can you arrange marry us to one of those hot rich sheikhs?” Kasha asks as she makes us a pot of coffee.

Zahir and I are seated at the kitchen counter while the twins play host and the guards hover discreetly outside the kitchen door.

I try not to notice everything wrong with the room. The peeling wallpaper, the cracked linoleum, and the janky faucet that spits water in all directions when Kasha fills the coffeepot. These are on my endless to-do list of house repairs I don’t have the money to fix.

My gaze shifts to the man beside me. You know, the one who casually throws one of his hundred cars into his private Boeing before flying over the ocean. But I know I shouldn’t feel embarrassed about the state of our house. Zahir has to realize not everyone is lucky enough to live in a palace.

Plus, we’re lucky to have a roof over our heads. The only reason my dad’s creditors didn’t take it along with the cars and everything else was because he’d put it in my mother’s name as part of some obscure tax evasion loophole. And since they were never officially married, the house went straight to me after her death. Not that my dad ever bothered to tell me this. I didn’t discover I owned the house until shortly after he died.

By then, the house had been through some hard living and needed a lot of fixing up, including foundation work, to make it worth selling. Considering the twins had already lost so much, I figured the least I could do was stay with them here, so they didn’t have to go through yet another upheaval.

But apparently Kasha’s sick of living in a dilapidated mansion. She sounds totally serious about her arranged marriage question as she eyes the what I’ve now learned is a highly coveted Mercedes-Maybach G650 Laundlet through the kitchen window. “I mean that ride is sick!”

“Kasha…” I say, my voice laced with warning.

Zahir only smiles and says, “Considering your young age, I believe it would be better for you to focus on your singing career. But if you truly wish for an arranged marriage, you are welcome to ask me again in six or seven years.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, like you’ll be around in six years.” She pours milk into a German cow-shaped creamer Dad brought back from one of his European trips.

“He might!” her romantic twin, insists. “You never know.”

“Actually, I do,” Sasha answers. “I read all about it on the internet. This temporary marriage thing is something rich Arab dudes like him do when they want to get some on the regular without pissing off their mosque and family. If he was serious about Prin, he’d let her live here and date her like a normal person instead of forcing her to stay with him in his palace.”

“Sasha,” I say, my voice not nearly as light as it was when I chided Kasha.

But Sasha just slams the milk down and says, “By the way, Prin, not to tell you how to run your game or anything, but I hope your dowry includes more than just him agreeing to release us from your contract. Because a lot of other chicks get six to seven figures to slut themselves out.”

“Sasha!!” her sister cries, her voice squeaky with shock and dismay.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Prin,” Sasha replies with a defiant tilt of her head. Her cynical gaze lasers right through me. “Tell me there is any chance of you staying with this guy when your sex contract is up.”

I stare at Sasha in open-mouthed shock, my face hot with embarrassment. Truth is, she’s not entirely wrong. This marriage really is nothing more than a marketing tactic with some unexpectedly intense sex thrown in for fun. It is definitely not a relationship, no matter how happily my heart beat last night when Zahir and I fell asleep together.

I attempt to respond, hoping some sort of non-lame sounding excuse or explanation will magically pop out. But it doesn’t, and I end up closing my mouth again, a small choking sound issuing from somewhere low in my throat.

Sasha folds her thin arms across her chest. I can hear the “yeah, that’s what I thought” about to come out of her mouth.

But before she can say another word, Zahir says, “I understand you’ve missed Prin more than you’ve been able to convey in your daily phone calls. But she is my wife, and you will not address her in this manner. Therefore, you will give her an apology for doing so. Now.”

Sasha falters, obviously not expecting any pushback. Especially from the guy she just accused of buying me for the sole purpose of 24/7 sex.

And Zahir keeps going. “Your sister has been gone for two months. You are understandably angry about this. But do not forget she cared for you and your sister for four years, sacrificing her love life and pursuing a career that was in your best interests—not hers. My wife may only be your legal guardian, but she is owed the same respect you would pay to a parent. You will accord her as much.”

Sasha looks at me, then at Zahir, then at me again, the stubborn expression slowly fading from her face.

I can see her inner struggle and I almost say something to let her off the hook. Because I get it. Seriously. The twins grew up with a mother who was almost identical to mine, and though I don’t come anywhere near Sylvie in the replacement parenting department, I’m the only reliable adult they’ve ever had. Sasha may act tough, but she must have been scared to be shoved on a plane without me and then receive a call from Sylvie telling her I wouldn’t be back for another six months. With only a few moments notice, she had been thrust into the role of not only taking care of herself, but also caring for her much less-responsible twin, and our hot mess of a house.

Could I really blame her for being mad at me? Or thinking I chose a temporary marriage with a hot sheikh over her and Kasha?

But before I can speak, Sasha uncrosses her arms and says, “Sorry, Prin.” Quick, like she’s getting a shot.

“Sorry, Prin,” Kasha echoes in that weird identical twin tandem-speak, even though she didn’t do anything.

“It’s okay,” I answer. And I mean it. I come around the counter and draw my stiff sister into a hug, kissing her on top of her silky curls. Then, deciding the Darius Ross conversation can wait, I say, “Tell you what, why don’t you show me that list of all the things that need fixing.”

“Okay, sis,” Sasha replies, curving an arm around mine in a small hug. “But it can wait until after the meeting.”

“What meeting?” I ask, stepping back.

“Duh! The one with Darius Ross,” Kasha answers with a giggle as she pours Wegman’s store brand sugar into a crystal bowl.

“He’s late,” Sasha says with an annoyed glance toward the digital clock on our kitchen wall. “But he should be here any minute.”

“Don’t be mad,” Kasha tells her sister. “Music people are always late. It’s, like, in their DNA.”

“Wait…what do mean you’re meeting with Darius Ross?” I ask. A stabbing pain knifes through my stomach just saying his name.

“Darius Ross,” Zahir says calmly. “The twins told my secretary he is the producer who requested a meeting with them. Is this correct?” He glances at the girls and then back over to me.

“Yeah, but why is he coming here? To our home?” I ask. I do not want him here. I do not want that man anywhere near the twins. Oh, God…

“Because you are my wife,” Zahir says as if that answers my question.

Before I can ask more questions, the doorbell sounds with a tinny version of the theme song from His Majesty. And one of the guards out front must get it because the next thing I hear is a loud voice asking, “Hey, man! Is that a Mercedes-Maybach Landaulet in the driveway?”