One Reckless Decision: Majesty, Mistress...Missing Heir / Katrakis's Last Mistress / Princess From the Past
blue dusk beyond.
Jessa stood in the doorway for a moment, filled with a confusing mix of panic, uncertainty and something else she did not wish to examine—something that felt like a hollow space in her chest as she looked at him, his face remote in profile, his strong back stiff, as if he expected nothing from her but further pain. She shook the thought away, suddenly deeply afraid in a way she had not been before—a way that had nothing to do with Jeremy and everything to do with her traitorous, susceptible heart. She smoothed her palms along the fine wool of the trousers she wore, pretending she was concerned about wrinkles when she knew, deep down, that was not true. And that it was far too late to worry.
Tariq had been as good as his word. When Jessa emerged from her second hot shower of the day, she had found an entire wardrobe laid out for her in the dressing room, complete with more grooming products than she had at her own home in York. All of it, from the clothes to the hair bands and perfumes, had been specifically chosen with her tastes in mind. It was as if Tariq knew her better than she knew herself, a line of thought she preferred not to examine more closely. Not knowing what the night held, and not wanting to send the wrong message or make herself more vulnerable than she felt already, Jessa had dressed for this conversation in tailored chocolate wool trousers and a simple white silk blouse. Over that, she’d wrapped a sky-blue cashmere concoction that was softer than anything she had ever touched before. Now she tightened the wrap around her middle, as if it alone could hold her together. She’d even smoothed her heavy mass of hair back into a high ponytail, hoping it might broadcast a certain calm strength her curls would not.
“I trust everything fits well,” Tariq said in a low voice, still staring out through the French doors. Jessa started slightly, not realizing he’d known she was there.
“Perfectly,” she said, and then coughed to clear the thickness from her throat.
He turned then, and Jessa was lost suddenly in the bleakness she saw on his face. It made his harsh features seem even more unapproachable and distant. She wanted to go to him, to soothe it away somehow, and then wondered who she’d confused him for, who she thought she was facing. This was still Tariq bin Khaled Al-Nur. He was more dangerous to her now, she thought, than he had ever been before. She would be wise to remember that. Oh, it was not as if she had anything to fear from him—it was her own heart she feared. Perhaps it had always been her own surrender she feared more than anything else.
“Tell me,” Tariq said, and she did not mistake his meaning.
She took a deep breath. Stalling for time, she crossed the room and perched on the edge of the buttery-soft leather sofa, but did not allow herself to relax back into it. She could not look at him, so she looked instead into the fire, into the relative safety of the dancing, shimmering flames.
There would be no going back from this conversation. She was honest with herself about that, at least.
“It was a boy,” she said, her head spinning, because she could not believe she was telling him this after so long. A sense of unreality gripped her as if she was dreaming all of it—the luxurious clothes, the fire, the impossibly forbidding man who stood close and yet worlds away. “I called him Jeremy.”
She could feel Tariq’s eyes on her then, though she dared not look at him to see what expression he wore as he digested this news. That he was, biologically, a father. Swallowing carefully, she put her hands into her lap, stared fixedly into the fire and continued.
“I found out I was pregnant when I went to the doctor’s that day.” She sighed, summoning up those dark days in her memory. “You had been so careful never to mention the future, never to hint—” But she couldn’t blame him, not entirely. “I didn’t know if it meant I would lose you, or if you would be happy. I didn’t know if I was happy!” She shook her head and frowned at the flames dancing before her, heedless of the emotional turmoil just outside the stone fireplace. “That was where I went. I stopped at a friend’s flat in Brighton. I…tried to work out what to do.”
“Those days you went missing,” Tariq said in a quiet voice. Jessa couldn’t look at him. “You hadn’t left, then, after all.”
“It’s so ironic that you thought so,” Jessa said with a hollow laugh. “As that was my biggest fear at first—that you would leave. Once you knew.” She laughed again in the same flat way. “Only when I returned to London, you had already gone. And when I saw who you really were and what you had to do, I knew that you were never coming back.”
Jessa took a deep breath, feeling it saw into her lungs. It would get no easier if she put it off, she thought. It might never get easier at all. She blew the breath out and forced herself to continue.
“I was such a mess,” she said. “I was sacked in short order, of course. I tried to get another job in the city, not realizing that I’d been effectively blackballed. My sister wanted me to move back home to York, but that seemed such an admission of failure. I…I so wanted everything to simply go on as if nothing had ever happened. As if you had never happened.”
She heard a faint sound like an exhalation or a muttered curse, but she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear to see what he thought of her. She was too afraid she would never tell the story if she didn’t tell him now. From the corner of her eye, she saw him move and begin to prowl around the room as if he could not bear to stand still.
“But I was pregnant, and…” How to tell him what that had felt like? The terror mixed in equal part with fierce, incomparable joy? Her hand crept over her abdomen as if she could remember by touch. As if the memory of Jeremy still kicked there, so insistent and demanding.
“You must have been quite upset,” Tariq said quietly. Too quietly. Jessa stared down at her lap, threading her hands together.
“At you, perhaps. Or the situation,” she said softly. “But not at the baby. I realized quickly that I wanted the baby, no matter what.” She sucked in a breath. “And so I had him. He was perfect.”
Her emotions were too close to the surface. Too raw, still. Or perhaps it was because she was finally sharing the story with Tariq, who should have been there five years ago. She had almost felt as if he was there in the delivery room. She had sobbed as much for the man who was not her partner and was not with her as she had for the pain she was in as each contraction twisted and ripped through her. Now she pressed her lips together to keep herself from sobbing anew, and breathed through her nose until she was sure she wouldn’t cry. This was about the facts. She could give him the facts.
“I had a hard labor,” she said. “There were…some complications. I was depressed, scared.” She had had postpartum depression on top of her physical ailments, of course, but it had not seemed, at the time, like something she could ever come out of whole. She snuck a look at him then. He had found his way to the couch opposite, but he did not look at her as he sat there, sprawled out before the fire. He aimed his deep frown toward the dark red Persian carpet at his feet.
Jessa wondered what he was thinking. Did this seem unreal to him? Impossible? That they could be sitting in a Parisian room, so many miles and years away from the heartache that they had caused together? It boggled the mind. It made her feel dizzy.
“I had no job, and no idea where I might go to get one,” Jessa continued, ignoring the thickness in her voice, the twist in her belly. “I had this perfect baby boy, the son of a king, and I couldn’t give him the life that he needed. That he deserved.” Her voice cracked, and she sighed, then cleared her throat. “I thought at first that it was just hormonal—just first-time mother fears, but as time went on, the feeling grew stronger.”
“Why?” Tariq’s voice was barely a whisper, and still so full of anguish. “What was missing in the life you gave him?”
Me, Jessa thought. You. But she said neither.
“I was…not myself,” she said instead. “I cried all the time. I was so lost.” It had been more than she could handle. The baby’s constant demands. The lack of sleep. The lack of help, even though her sister had tried. Had she not been so terribly, terribly depressed—near suicidal,