The Audi A7 glided to a halt before The Muse—Melbourne's most expensive luxury condos on St Kilda Road. The door slid open with an expensive click but the boot that thudded on the ground from within it was in stark contrast to its surroundings. Steel tipped, and dust covered, it was meant for hard construction sites rather than the very epitome of elegance of its present surroundings. But its owner was either careless or disregarding, or perhaps even both, as it merely followed the boot out to stand on the expensive driveway, impatiently tossing the key to the Audi in the palm of his hand as he waited for the valet parking service to do its thing.
A young fellow arrived, flustered from his rush and full of apology, but Sadiq was not of a mind to pay him any heed beyond tossing his key to the fumbling youth and striding away. The day had not gone as planned, and while his face remained expressionless of the ire raging within, his determined strides told all to keep out of his way. Smiles of greeting froze awkwardly, murmurs of courtesy stifled and fell silent, and in the end a great effort was made to keep out of his way. The Muse catered to the rich and famous the world over, housing many of them within its plush confines, and its staff were highly trained in catering to the whims of not just the rich but the filthy rich. But the owner of the block itself strained their efforts to the point of breaking. Not that their flat expressions decorated with a fixed smile gave any of their inner anxiety away. Still they were unable to hide the very visible tensing of their frames as Prince Sadiq the Sadist prowled silently by.
His long, lengthy strides made short work to his private elevators, then the facial recognition swept over him on entry, and without any outward instructions from him, the elevator shot up, taking him to the topmost floor of his building.
Luxury of any kind was his birthright. Being a prince in a land rich with black gold made certain of that. Even the poor were rich in his kingdom. But that did not mean he was spared the hardship of being poor. It did not mean he had been saved from experiencing the hunger that went with it. The [rince cast a sardonic eye over his domain as he stepped out of the elevator that opened up straight into his living room. Luxury dripped off every Swarovski crystal and glinted off every gold-plated rod that strung up the chandelier—the central eye-catching piece that never failed to draw gasps of awe. The prince himself merely strutted past with nary a glance. It was the wide wall-to-wall windows that beckoned his attention. That and the view of the city that lay beyond. From his vantage point he could view the harbour and the open sea from one angle, and the sprawling city in the other. But at that late hour, all he saw was vast darkness spotted with shimmers of light.
Sadiq lifted his hands to the transparent screen before him, his jacket open, his tie slung loosely over his broad shoulders. The news he had from his father had him wishing that glass gone. Sadiq dropped his head to rest it against the cool panel and squeezed his eyes closed. This was not the first time his father had thrown an ultimatum at him. Not that there had been a choice offered that first time either. But he had been all of six years old then.
"You will apprentice with my old friend Mustafa."
Young Sadiq had trembled in fear at his father's words. The name Mustafa had rung alarm bells, even in a child. Especially a child. The fearsome General Mustafa, though retired from his war-making duties, was still very much active in his camps, where boys were sent to be made into men.
"Non!" cried the king's wife. Sadiq's French-Persian mother had rushed forwards in protest, but he had known just as she had the futility of her words. There would be no changing the king's mind once he was decided on a course.
The king didn't bother with a response, but merely nodded to his man to see his order carried out. And it was. Two days later, Sadiq blinked drenched lashes over his emerald green eyes, looking more gem-like than usual with their sheen of tears. He bid farewell to a mother he would never see again. She would die of a broken heart in the nine years he was away, tortured in the pretext of training.
"I have no love for your father, boy. Make no mistake," said General Mustafa on first meeting Sadiq. "Here, we are in the middle of the desert. There are many ways in which to die. Ways that can all seem like convenient accidents."
Unlike the king's regard for the General, the General made his hate for the king known to the prince almost from the very moment of his arrival. Living amongst the desert tribes, and travelling with the wanderers who traipsed across the ebbing tides of the desert plains in an everlasting search of water had been the least of Sadiq's horrors. It was blood battles, fought for no rhyme or reason other than the flexing of power as the General's men used whatever means available to make war with the innocent and then to battle on with the not-so-innocent.
It was no wonder a hardened Sadiq returned to the city on the ninth year of his exile. A Sadiq so worn by what he had seen, experienced and done, that not even the news of the death of his beloved mother had remotely affected him.
But even then, the king had not allowed Sadiq the luxury of remaining in the palace. His things were put together, his long hair shorn short, his facial hair cleaned off, the desert kaftans and sandals replaced with Armani tailored suits and shiny boots, and then he was bundled off to Eton. To undertake private tuitions that would have him catch up with his peers and mingle with the sons and daughters of other movers and shakers of the world. But the veneer of civilisation he acquired from his time there was only as thin as the crust of ice on a cool glass of chilled Martini. A condition that won him the label of the Sadist.
A name Catherine Little knew little about.
Sadiq stepped a pace back, his hands dropping loosely to his side. His breathing growing heavy as his mind drifted back to that night. A night that had never been far from his mind since it happened. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the bleached leather longue. His nimble fingers moved to his shirt next. The restriction of western ideals of civilised clothing still ate at him, even after all this time. The coarse kaftan of the desert tribes was a welcome alternative compared to this. Ties were the one thing he absolutely refused to wear. It had caused no amount of grief in his early years at Eton. But he came from money, and that, if nothing else, got him his way every single time. It was why he, unlike most royals of the world, was bent on doubling his wealth at any given opportunity. Money made the world go around. Money made people, laws, and even criminals, come to heel. Money gave him the respect he deserved.
But it hadn't given him his Catherine Little. Sadiq stepped back towards the glass plane, his breath fanning across it in a hot fog, momentarily blinding him of his view of the darkness that lay beyond. A flash of memory blurred his vision further, softly tanned skin, long nimble limbs, and a craving hot mouth bent on destruction as they moved over him, destroying his senses one by one, until all he saw, heard, felt, and tasted was Catherine Little. Sadiq bit off a moan of desire, fuelled by despair, and anger rose in its place, rapid and savage.
"You will take a bride of my choosing, Son," said the king on the day that sent him fleeing his country for Melbourne and straight to Catherine Little's arms. "And I have chosen, Son."
He had known that instantly. Just as a dog scented a bone, Sadiq had scented that trait in her that first night they met. It had lured him in, caught off-guard and unsuspecting. The raw appreciation he had seen in her eyes, had been nothing but that. A naked appreciation of what she'd seen of him. A dishevelled man in search of trouble.
His phone rang, cutting off his train of thought. Sadiq moved away from the window to reach for his jacket, digging out his phone from its inside pocket.
"Yes," was all he said into it; he was not known for telephone pleasantries, or any other kind for that matter.
"The doctor's test results are in," said the voice at the other end of the line.
Hearing that piqued his interest to daunting intensity. Thankfully, the man on the other end of the line remained oblivious to his suddenly feral gaze.
"And?" The one-worded reply had a wealth of anticipation behind it. Something the man took note of and paused uncertainly before replying.
"She tested positive, your highness." The pregnant pause that followed was ironic, and yet Sadiq had trouble getting past the sudden thickness to his throat to respond. Then, finding he couldn't, he simply clicked the line dead.
Catherine Little was pregnant.
She was pregnant, and she lied to him about it.
His fingers tightened into a fist, and then just as abruptly flexed open in relief. His breath left his lungs on a soft exhale. His eyes softened as the realisation set in. His lips spread in a smile of dawning understanding. A child. His. His smile widened impossibly. An unexpected elation flooded his being. His hand that held the phone flexed and the phone flew through the air to settle safely on the soft contours of his sofa. Sadiq kicked off his shoes and bent down to peel off his sock, needing to feel the comfort of the luxuriously soft carpet beneath his feet. Then he paced restlessly, shrugging out of his shirt as he went. His belt came off next, flung carelessly aside. He had stripped down to his pants which, unsupported, slung low over his hips. Their hem sliding beneath his feet as he walked, his brows furrowed in concentration and his thoughts confused. But then understanding dawned and his expression tightened.
She had lied to his face. She had known the results of the test. A test she had done just yesterday. A test that had alerted him to the possibility of her condition. A test easily enough picked up on by the specialist investigators he had put on her. Her little dossier was getting thicker and thicker as the moments ticked by. It now included incriminating evidence that could, and would, one day be held against him, and probably at gunpoint. To think such innocence had amassed a threat so lethal and against him. That child was deadly, a weapon easily wielded by an enemy seeking retribution. Allah knew he had wittingly and unwittingly amassed plenty of those, his own father included.
Then again, that child could be a weapon of his own against many. His brow furrowed thoughtfully as he considered the possibility. A weapon against his future bride, whoever that may be, against his father and the demands of his kingdom, and... against Catherine Little. A means to get him everything he wanted.
His green eyes flared with a sudden surge of determination. Sadiq turned to face out the window again and this time flashed a feral grin at the reflection that stared back at him. Things were finally getting interesting.