Cinderella and the Sheikh

Epilogue



Ignoring the crowds of guests on either side of the aisle who were admiring the most beautiful bride who had ever lived—and who just happened to be on his arm—Sheikh Rasyn ibn Bakr ibn Rahman al Jabar leaned in to his new wife's shell-pink ear, adorned with the largest pearls he could find, and whispered into it. "I am enjoying our second wedding even more than the first."

As she stepped down the red carpet, littered with jasmine petals, Her Royal Highness of the Dominion of the Sabr Valley, Libby Fay-al Jabar shot him a look that hovered between amusement and irritation. "Why do we have to have receptions in three countries again?"

Though most of his attention was in reality on his bride, who had managed not to chew off too much of the color on her lips, he nodded an acknowledgement to the tribal leader who caught his eye. "Diplomacy. First my country, then your country, then a small gathering for your friends at Hotel Scheherazade."

"Diplomacy just might kill me." She smiled as she waved a gloved hand.

"Getting married is not so bad," he said. "So long as we are doing it together."

"Easy for you to say. You're in that sexy robe. I have to wear this giant suffocating gown. It's so hot. I hope no one mistakes me for the wedding cake later."

His wife had no idea how much she'd been transformed. The Western-style dress accentuated her full curves, the skirt swishing royally around her legs. She wore her diamond tiara proudly, like the princess she now was. It sparkled as brightly as her eyes.

"Rasyn, look to my left. See the older woman in the cream dress? She's a special guest of mine."

He caught a glimpse of red hair frosted with white. "I have met your mother. Is it your aunt?"

Libby gave him a smile with a slight wicked edge. "That's Miss Elizabeth Dixon. From Toronto. The man with her is her son."

Rasyn glanced back at the love of his uncle's life. But it was her son who began to look familiar. He felt the blood drain from his face. "He looks like Uncle Anwar."

"Perhaps you won't be called on to rule Abbas," Libby said. "There may be a resort in your future after all."

Before he could process this, Libby's back stiffened, and she came to a dead stop in the procession. Her hand clenched on his arm.

"What is it?"

Pink spread across her cheeks. "I just lost my shoe. What do I do? Do I keep walking? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to screw up today."

Wishing his country's culture would permit him to kiss that worry off her face, he looked behind him. Peeking out from the hem of her dress was a white shoe.

He ignored the sound of hundreds of guests gasping as he knelt on the floor in front of his bride, holding out the shoe for her. But Libby seemed frozen in place. She'd covered her mouth with her white-gloved hands and tears threatened to spill from her beautiful eyes.

"Amira?" he said.

A wide smile slowly spread across her face, though her bottom lip trembled as if she could cry at any moment. With pure love shining in her oasis-green eyes, she lifted her skirt slightly and slipped a delicate foot into the shoe.