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  Ahmad wasn’t used to not having enough money to do the things he wanted to do. As a member of the royal family, he had never found cash hard to come by. He knew he never would. When it came to things like travel, luxury goods, or the ability to sit in this VIP lounge, his wealth would never be in question.

  But starting a private airline… that would take a special kind of wealth.

  He couldn’t ask his parents for help. He had asked them before, and they had made it clear that they wouldn’t lend him the money. They didn’t think he was ready for the responsibility.

  They don’t know what they’re talking about. Rafi’s the irresponsible one.

  Not that Ahmad had ever held a job before. But he could handle it. He had no doubt of that.

  I can succeed at anything if I put my mind to it. And that includes this stupid provision in Uncle Hakim’s will.

  There was no way Ahmad was going to sit back and let his dream be killed by his brothers. Inheriting alongside them was one thing, but the thought of Rafi frittering away the money by taking random young women on all-inclusive vacations or Umar letting it collect dust in a savings account drove him mad.

  At least I would put it to good use.

  And he planned to do exactly that.

  All that was needed to claim the inheritance was a baby.

  Well, Ahmad had always planned to produce an heir someday. Members of the royal family weren’t raised with that many responsibilities, but this was a big one. There always had to be a male heir. All three of the brothers had had the importance of children pressed upon them from a young age.

  So, I’ll accelerate the timeline a little bit.

  Ahmad hadn’t been planning to have a baby yet, but he was thirty years old, after all. Maybe it was time.

  Of course, there was one factor to consider, one detail that couldn’t be written off.

  If there was going to be a baby, there would have to be a mother.

  Ahmad was unmarried. He didn’t have any women in his life.

  But he wasn’t without resources. He might not have enough money to start his own airline, but he certainly had enough to pay for the medical expenses of a pregnancy—and to offer a healthy reward to the woman, besides.

  That was it, then. He would find a suitable young woman and offer her a payment in exchange for giving birth to his child.

  The plan would work. He knew it. If he started right now, he could absolutely be the first of his brothers to produce a child. Rafi was no threat. He was too in love with the life of a bachelor. He wouldn’t be able to cope with having a baby in his life. No doubt even Rafi himself had already accepted that he wouldn’t be the one to inherit.

  No, the real threat was Umar. Umar, the newlywed. His wife, Daima, was young and beautiful and would make a lovely mother. But perhaps her youth was on Ahmad’s side. She was only twenty-three years old. Perhaps she would want some time to enjoy being married before welcoming a baby.

  And hadn’t Umar said in the lawyer’s office that he and Daima hadn’t decided whether they were going to have any babies? That was quite a surprising statement, actually, coming from Ahmad’s older brother. If Umar had a son, the son would be the heir to the throne of Al-Yara. Didn’t Umar care about that?

  Strange.

  Regardless, it was enough to give Ahmad hope.

  It was possible that Umar had gone right home from that meeting and started trying to conceive. But Ahmad didn’t think it was likely. He thought that whoever among the brothers conceived first would be quick to share the news, to let the rest of the family know that he would be the one to inherit.

  Certainly Umar, who had never been able to stop himself from lording his accomplishments over his younger brothers, would be the first to let them know.

  And Daima, who was a very sweet girl, would want to share the news that she was going to be a mother.

  No, if they were expecting, it would not stay a secret for long.

  Good, Ahmad thought. Then my plan has a chance to work. I just have to find a girl and negotiate the arrangements with her.

  The arrangements would be complicated, of course. Whoever he chose would have questions about custody. He would have to find someone who was prepared to allow him to be the primary caregiver. There could be no question of an heir to the throne of Al-Yara spending half of his time away from the palace.

  He would need a woman who was circumspect enough to conduct the bargain without involving the press. This was something that had the potential to shame Ahmad’s family. Every reporter in Al-Yara would want to write a story about it. And if that happened, it could make a mockery of Uncle Hakim’s death, and that was the last thing in the world that Ahmad wanted.

  At some point, he was going to have to get a copy of that will and make sure that the situation he was considering would qualify him for the inheritance. The lawyer hadn’t mentioned anything about needing to be married in order to inherit, but it would be a shame to miss a detail like that.

  And he would have to make sure that his brothers didn’t catch on to what he was doing before he had the time to carry out his plan. Rafi probably wouldn’t do anything about it, but if Umar found out, he would accelerate his own family planning, and then it would become a race. And there was no denying that conceiving a child was going to be much easier for Umar, who, after all, had a wife right there in his home.

  Umar’s relaxing right now because he thinks there’s no way I can take the inheritance from him. If he knows I’ve spotted a loophole, everything will change.

  He looked out over the city again, frowning as the ramifications of that complication settled in.

  The problem was that Al-Yara was so small. There just weren’t that many women here, and when you narrowed that list down to unmarried women under thirty, Ahmad’s plan began to seem impossible. How was he going to find his way to a woman who could do what he needed?

  The moment I ask one, the word will be out. Someone will tell her friend or her mother, and the story will spread, and soon all of Al-Yara will know that Sheikh Ahmad is trying to have a baby.

  It would get back to his family in record time, and it would have the effect of both embarrassing them and letting Umar know what he had been up to.

  There was no way. He couldn’t just sit down next to a woman and ask her if she would be interested.

  What he needed was a woman who didn’t know who he was, or someone who wasn’t well connected in Al-Yara. Someone who wouldn’t spread gossip in the streets of Sepha, because she simply didn’t know anyone here.

  But who would that be? Where would he find such a person?

  He didn’t know.

  He got to his feet, left a tip on the table for the waitress who had served him so well all night, and left the bar.

  Ordinarily, he would have gone right back to the palace. He knew he was expected. But tonight, he felt like seeing some more of the city that was his home.

  He looked up into the sky as he stepped out of the bar and onto the street. High overhead, a commercial plane was flying by, its indicator lights winking in the night.

  Someday, he thought. Someday I’ll start the airline of my dreams. I’ll fly people around the world in luxury.

  Ahmad loved to travel, but hated to fly. Every time he took a plane, even in the first-class section, he found himself overcrowded and mobbed by curious onlookers and paparazzi.

  His airline would protect people like himself—royals, celebrities, and wealthy CEOs—from those discomforts. He would enable people to travel in style and comfort.

  But first things first. He would have to solve the problem of how to have this baby.

  Chapter 4

  Joanna

  The fever reducer worked, for the most part, keeping Joanna’s fever and other symptoms under control as long as she remembered to take it with regularity. Still, this wasn’t how she would have chosen to spend her time off of work—trapped in the house, huddled under a pile of blankets, binge-watching her favorite
reality shows.

  She wanted to get out and have a good time. She wanted to take advantage of the fact that, for the next week or so, there was nothing she had to get up for in the morning.

  But every time the fever reducer began to wear off, she was forcibly reminded of the fact that she couldn’t do the things she wanted to do. The symptoms of her illness would come surging back, leaving her clutching her pillow like a life preserver and praying for the next dose to take effect quickly.

  Two days went by without incident. Joanna plowed through three seasons of reality TV and almost an entire box of cereal. She was too exhausted to cook, to arrange anything else for herself to eat, and she didn’t want to order food. She hadn’t taken a look at herself in the mirror lately, but she thought she probably looked like a disaster.

  At least I’m keeping my meals down, though, she thought as she poured out a little more cereal.

  She ate it dry, with her fingers, because milk sounded so unappealing. She had moved to the couch in the living room, tired of the view from her bed.

  The phone rang.

  Joanna grabbed it from the nightstand. As she saw the number, her heart began to pound. It was Dr. Franco’s office.

  She pressed the button to accept the call. “Hello?”

  “Is this Joanna Perkins?”

  “It is,” she said.

  “Hold for Dr. Franco, please.” The line muted.

  Joanna reached over and grabbed a throw pillow, clutching it to her chest. Did this have to be so completely terrifying? If everything was fine, the nurse would have just said so, right?

  No, you’re reading into things. Don’t borrow trouble. You don’t know what Dr. Franco’s going to say.

  The line became active again, and Joanna heard her doctor’s calming voice. “Joanna?”

  “Yes?”

  “I just got your bloodworm back from the lab,” Dr. Franco said.

  “Do I need to come in?”

  Joanna knew enough to know that that was the litmus test. If the news was catastrophic, the doctor would ask to see her in person.

  Dr. Franco hesitated. “Would you like to come in?” she asked.

  “No,” Joanna said, but Dr. Franco had scared her now. Why wouldn’t she just say it was nothing? “What did the tests show?”

  “You’ve tested positive for Barring’s Disease,” Dr. Franco said. “I’m sure you haven’t heard of that. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said anxiously. “What is it?”

  “It’s a rare virus transmitted by mosquitoes, mostly found in Central and South America,” Dr. Franco explained. “I had never heard of it myself until it came up on your test results. There have been fewer than a hundred recorded cases here in the United States.”

  Joanna’s heart sank. Dr. Franco had said herself that the best possible scenario would be if her illness turned out to be something common.

  “What does that mean?” Joanna asked. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “Fortunately, it’s treatable,” Dr. Franco said. “And you don’t need any medication. I just want you to stay in bed and get lots of rest, and fluids, for the next couple of weeks.”

  “I’m supposed to be back at work on Monday,” Joanna said.

  “You’re going to have to take some sick time,” Dr. Franco said. “I’ll write you a note if that’s necessary.”

  “I don’t think it will be.”

  Joanna never took time off work. Her boss would believe her when she explained what had happened.

  “Will it take that long for me to get better—a few weeks? I really want to get back to my life.”

  “I understand.” Dr. Franco hesitated. “Joanna, there’s something else we should discuss about Barring’s Disease, and I want to talk to you about it right now before you have a chance to go online and start doing internet searches.”

  “You said rest and fluids would clear it up, I thought.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Franco said. “But Barring’s Disease targets the reproductive system, and it’s particularly aggressive in women.”

  “What does that mean?” Aggressive was a frightening word.

  “Every known case of a woman contracting Barring’s Disease, at any age, has resulted in eventual infertility,” Dr. Franco said. “Even when the disease is caught early and handled appropriately—keeping your fever down and making sure you don’t dehydrate too severely—the effect it has triggered in the reproductive system continues. You’ll be healthy enough to work in a couple of weeks, but the virus has almost certainly already triggered a shutdown of your reproductive system.”

  “Infertility,” Joanna repeated numbly. She had spent the last few days trying to stave off panic about death. Infertility—that was nothing.

  But it didn’t feel like nothing.

  It felt like gravity had dropped out from below her. It felt like the swooping sensation she got in her stomach when a plane started its descent toward an airport. Her fertility had always been something she had taken for granted, and now, she was being told it was as good as gone.

  “I don’t know what your reproductive plans are,” Dr. Franco said, and her voice was gentle. “I’ve had conversations like this one with many women. Some take it in stride and tell me they never planned on having children in the first place. Others are devastated. Whatever your reaction is, know that it’s normal, and if you’d like to come in and discuss things further, I’ll make an appointment for you.”

  “Okay,” Joanna managed.

  “You do have a small window,” Dr. Franco said. “It will probably be about six months before your reproductive system is completely shut down. So, if you want to consider becoming pregnant via whatever means are right for you, you have a little bit of time to do it. I urge you to speak with the people in your life, your family and friends, and come to a decision that suits you best.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m very sorry I’m not calling with better news, Joanna,” Dr. Franco said. “But the good news is that you are going to have your health back, and very soon. And that’s the most important thing here.”

  Dr. Franco was right, Joanna thought as she thanked her and hung up. At least she wasn’t dying of some mystery plague. Everything was going to be fine. In a few weeks, she would be back to normal.

  So why did she feel like she was going to cry?

  She put the phone in the pocket of her bathrobe and rose from the couch, making her way back into the bedroom. She collapsed on her unmade bed, pressed a pillow to her face, and let the tears flow.

  She had always pictured herself with a family someday.

  Dr. Franco had said that some women didn’t mind receiving the news that they were infertile, but Joanna knew she wasn’t one of those women. She had always thought that someday, when she was ready, she would become a mother.

  Now, she was being told that that would never happen. In the space of a phone call, the chance had disappeared.

  And it’s all my fault, she thought furiously. My fault for choosing a career that forced me to put marriage and children on the back burner in my twenties. My fault for putting myself in harm’s way. If I had listened to my mother and gotten a nice, safe office job somewhere, I would probably be pregnant right now.

  A week ago, if she had been asked, Joanna would have vehemently denied that that was what she wanted. She would have insisted that it was far too soon to think about pregnancy, that she was far too young to even consider it. And besides, she didn’t even have a boyfriend.

  But now, suddenly, everything was different.

  All she could think about was the window Dr. Franco had mentioned. The window of opportunity to get pregnant, if that was something she wanted to do.

  That window was closing every day. Her chance was disappearing.

  There’s no one I could have a baby with, anyway, she realized.

  The only men she knew were her coworkers. She ran down the list in her head. Some were too young. Some were too old. Most we
re simply not close enough to her for her to ask them for sperm. It wasn’t a thing you could just ask someone out of the blue.

  Dr. Franco said we could talk about options. Maybe I should do that.

  But what options? Adopting? Joanna knew enough to know how expensive that could be. She could never afford to adopt a child, not without going into debt, which would be an irresponsible foot to start out on when raising a baby.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Joanna looked at the clock. Three thirty. It was her mother, who always visited at the same time each day when Joanna was in town.

  Ordinarily, Joanna would have been reluctant to see her mother while she was this upset. She didn’t want a lecture on how her life choices had gotten her into the predicament she was in.

  But she did want someone to hold her and tell her it would be all right.

  Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robe, she went to the door and pulled it open.

  Her mother was there, holding a casserole dish, but she gasped when she saw Joanna, set the dish down, and pulled Joanna into a hug.

  “Jo, what is it?” she asked. “Are you having pain? New symptoms?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “It’s nothing like that. Everything’s… everything’s fine, really. I just heard from Dr. Franco, and she said that I just need rest and fluids and I’ll be on the mend.”

  “Well, that’s great,” her mother enthused. “Have you eaten yet? It’s your favorite: tuna noodle casserole. Let me heat it up for you, and we’ll have some to celebrate.”

  Joanna shook her head. “There’s more,” she said.

  “What more? Sit down, honey, you look exhausted. Are you hydrating?” Her mother was already pouring her a glass of water. “Remember what the doctor said about staying hydrated and how important that was.”

  Joanna nodded. Then, reluctantly, she shared the news Dr. Franco had given her.

  As she spoke, her mother came over to the table and sat down, taking Joanna’s hand in her own. She didn’t interrupt or tell Joanna that she should have given up her job as a flight attendant. She just listened, nodding and making sympathetic noises.