Over the next few weeks, Tiffany busied herself, flying from dinners with Zarina to vigorous exercise routines at her local gym; throwing herself into work and spending long weekends with her father, Mike. As her father had been in Al Barait for years, as the U.S. Ambassador, he was assisting her with the language, helping her with her pronunciation.

Their relationship was, on the surface, a very good one. The pair never dove into “real” conversations. They didn’t talk about her mother, and they didn’t linger on the fact that Tiffany never discussed her personal life with him, or that her eyes had grown sad and withdrawn over the last few weeks. Her father didn’t ask her questions about that. And perhaps, more than anything, Tiffany appreciated this dividing line.

One Friday, about a month after the car show, Tiffany and Zarina arrived at Tiffany’s father’s house. Mike had been slaving over the stovetop for hours, preparing one of their favorite American dishes, fried chicken. He opened his arms to the girls, hugging Tiffany tightly and welcoming Zarina warmly.

“Happy weekend, girls!” he said, his voice boisterous. “Come on in. I’ve poured us some iced tea.”

“Thanks, Mr. Ashworth,” Zarina said.

“Zarina, we’ve been over this. Call me Mike.”

Zarina’s cheeks burned red with embarrassment, but she chuckled in return. “All right. Mike.”

They sat on the couch, their plates on their laps. The smell of fried chicken filled the air, making Tiffany’s mouth water. In recent weeks, she’d been insatiably hungry. As her father dropped a dollop of mashed potatoes and gravy onto her plate, she inhaled her first bite of chicken, closing her eyes.

She almost missed the words that came out of her father’s mouth next.

“The Sheikh’s in really poor health,” he said. “I’ve been in meetings all week about it.”

Zarina frowned. “That’s horrible. The last time I saw him on TV he didn’t look like he was aging so well. He looked pale.”

“Yes, he’s quite ill,” Mike continued, taking a contemplative bite of his chicken. “In fact, I wanted to check the news. See if there was anything—” He lifted the remote and clicked it, igniting a press conference on the screen.

The three of them sat in horror as they realized, all at once, that Kazra’s father, the ruling Sheikh, had passed. The Sheikh of Al Barait was no more.

Tiffany’s chicken fell out of her hands and onto her plate. Despite her rage for the man’s son, she couldn’t help but think back to their conversation from the night together. That last, wonderful night, when she’d allowed herself to believe that he was far more than he seemed.

She remembered how upset he’d been about his mother’s illness and death. His eyes had been wet and wounded, deep and dark. Tiffany had held him close, and felt the weight of his past. And now, with the death of his father—how would he go on?

“That playboy Kazra will have some big shoes to fill,” Mike said, shaking his head. “The death of a great man. It’s hard to believe.”

Tiffany continued to gape. She felt Zarina’s hand on her arm, squeezing it tight.

“Are you okay?” Zarina whispered.

“Of course,” Tiffany murmured, still incredulous. “I just can’t believe it.”

As the press conference continued, a man announced that the Sheikh had arrived for comment. The three of them watched as Kazra walked onto the stage. He was wearing traditional, colorful robes. His eyes were somber and tinged with red, as if he were drunk, or tired from crying. Tiffany assumed that both were true.

“He’s drunk. Look at him,” Mike said, scoffing slightly.

“No. He’s just sad,” Zarina whispered.

Kazra reached the microphone and cleared his throat. Around him, cameras were flashing wildly. “Good evening,” he began, sounding somber. “My father, as you know, fought valiantly the past few weeks against a horrible, sudden illness. I couldn’t have imagined, only a month ago, that it would soon be time to say goodbye.”

Tiffany shifted uncomfortably, remembering the arrogant man from the car show. That wasn’t the man she saw before her now.

“My father was a man of honor; of diligence. He loved his country more than I could possibly describe here today. And I will do my best, as I ascend to the throne, to take on his love and passion. I will say goodbye to my old life, and make peace with the new. Thank you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. No longer hungry, Tiffany shoved her plate to the side and leaned back in her chair. Letting her head hang down, she listened to Zarina and her father discuss Kazra—his past exploits, his potential.

“I’m just not sure he has it in him. His father was always such a strong-willed man,” Mike said.

Zarina eyed Tiffany with curiosity. “What do you think, Tiff?” she asked, her voice low. “Do you think a man like Kazra can change his ways?”

Feeling suddenly energized, Tiffany burst up from the couch, collecting her plate. She placed it in the sink and then scrubbed it, calling back to them from the kitchen. “I don’t think a man like that could ever change. But I guess it’s up to him to prove us wrong.”

“Agreed,” her father said, taking a final sip of iced tea. “That’s my girl. Never giving anyone an inch.”

After dinner, Tiffany and Zarina sped back toward Tiffany’s apartment. They sat in the back of the taxi, both lost in their own thoughts. After a while, Zarina reached across the middle and gripped Tiffany’s hand, forcing her to whirl around.

“Hey,” she said. “You haven’t really talked about Kazra in a few weeks. Do you want to work through anything right now?”

Tiffany pressed her lips together, feeling suddenly, horribly exhausted. “It doesn’t matter, Zar.”

“It does matter,” Zarina retorted. “You’ve already said to me, countless times, that you’re never dating again just because of him, what he put you through. That’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t give him more power over you than he already has.”

“You mean, I shouldn’t give him more power than he has as ruling Sheikh?” Tiffany asked, rolling her eyes sadly. “Zarina, that sounds insane.”

“Look. He was an arrogant asshole to you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t trust anyone,” Zarina sighed.

“It does to me,” Tiffany said, her voice low. “At least for now.”

The taxi stopped in front of Tiffany’s apartment building. After tossing a few bills in the driver’s hand, Tiffany walked into her apartment, her shoulders rolling forward, making her look defeated as well as exhausted. She sensed Zarina following her, despite not having invited her in. After a long, terrible pause, she whirled around.

“And now you’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” she asked.

“I think you could use the company,” Zarina said with a shrug. “I was watching you back there. You hardly ate your dinner.”

“What do you mean to do about that?” Tiffany sighed, unlocking the door with a click. They walked through the small foyer and collapsed on the couch. In a way, Zarina was her sister: forcing her to recognize her own emotions and calling her out on her bull.

“I’m going to order us a pizza. That’s what,” Zarina said, wrapping her arms around the Tiffany’s thin frame. “I’m not going to let you go hungry. That’s for sure.”

“You’re going to make me fat,” Tiffany chuckled, watching as Zarina dialed the nearby pizza place.

“So be it,” Zarina smirked. “Better than making you go hungry. As a single woman, you owe nothing to anyone. And as a woman wronged by the Sheikh…”

“Let’s just stop talking about it,” Tiffany said, bringing her hands to her cheeks. “Okay?”