Bound By The Sultan's Baby

‘You are thirty-two years old, Alim. Surely it is time that you marry?’

Alim stayed silent but his eyes told his father that he did not need marriage guidance from a man who had a wife and a mistress. Alim never cheated. He was upfront in all his relationships, and there could be no confusion that what he offered was a temporary affair. Arrogant, some might say, but better that than leading someone on.

‘I shall select a bride for you,’ Oman said in threat. ‘Then you shall have no choice but to marry.’

‘We always have choices.’

The advice he had so recently given to Gabi had been tested over and over by Alim—he had long ago set his limits with his father and told him what he was and was not willing to do.

‘To choose a bride without my agreement could only serve to embarrass not just the bride but our country when the groom does not show,’ Alim warned. ‘I will not be pushed into marriage,’

‘Alim, I am not well.’

‘How unwell?’ Alim asked, for he did not trust his father not to exaggerate for gain.

‘I require treatment. I am going to have to stay out of the public eye for six months at least.’

Alim listened as his father went into detail about his health issues and Alim had to concede grudgingly that there was a battle ahead.

‘I will step in,’ Alim responded. ‘You know that.’

It wasn’t the response his father wanted, though, and he pressed his son further. ‘Our people need good news, a wedding would be pleasing for them.’

Alim would not be manipulated and stood up to his father just as he always had. ‘Our people would surely want to see the Sultan of Sultans at such a celebration. A son’s wedding without his father’s presence would send the message that the father did not approve of his son’s choice of bride, and this could surely cause our people anxiety.’ Alim watched his father’s jaw grit. ‘Let us discuss this again when you are well.’

His father would have argued further, but suddenly Alim sensed distraction as he saw Oman glance towards the adjoining door, and he guessed that his father’s lover had just arrived.

‘I shall see you in the morning for breakfast,’ Alim said, and then bowed and left.

As he walked along the corridor, though outwardly calm, inside his mood was dark. No, he could not put off choosing a bride for ever, but he had no desire to live the life that his parents did—he thought of his mother alone tonight in the palace. Always she had put on a brave face and smiled at her children as if things were just fine.

How could they be?

Alim did not want a bride chosen for him by his father.

He wanted...

What?

The maudlin feeling would not shift. Alim reminded himself that his friend Bastiano would be in town next week and that would likely cheer him up. But Bastiano was just another rich playboy, and the casinos and clubs did not hold their usual allure for Alim.

In truth, he was tired of his exhausting private life. The thrill of the chase no longer existed, for after two years in Rome women sought him out.

He walked through the foyer and, sure enough, the last of the guests were leaving.

Alim went up the stairwell and, unlocking the door, he went onto the gallery.

There were no signs of his sister and Alim assumed she was safely in her suite. The photographer had left some equipment so Alim made a mental note to lock the door as he left.

Alim glanced down at the stunning ballroom.

The staff were clearing the glasses and tables away but most of it would wait for the morning.

It was done.

The wedding had been his gift to the couple and Fleur had engineered things so that it was held at the Grande Lucia. Yet he had not taken any significant part in the proceedings.

Yes, it had been a wonderful wedding but for Alim it had been a wretched day and night.