Free Possession of the Sheikh: (Interracial BWWM Erotica) (The Men of Sharjah Series Book 2) by Nadia Aidan

with radiance that had the power to lighten even the foulest of moods, no this was the one that was filled with compassion and sympathy.  I hated that smile.
    “Khalil loves you.  It’s almost heartbreaking to watch you two—so deeply in love but you so filled with bitterness and him, so filled with guilt.  No matter where he is or what he’s doing, his eyes always find their way to you, even now, he watches you with longing, hoping for just one second you will meet his gaze, but you never do, because you’re too busy festering in your misery.  The truth is he spent years maintaining a playboy image so that you wouldn’t figure out that he never got over losing you, but you’re too stubborn to see that.” Jahaan stood then, billowing skirts and all.  “So typical, you think you have it all figured out, but for someone so smart, I can’t believe how dense you’re being.  Khalil’s not a man to be forced into anything.  He’s also not a man who has ever been known to lack female attention, so if he never loved you, if he wasn’t still in love with you, then he never would have married you.” She grabbed my drink in one hand and lifted her skirt with the other.  “You can sit up here with resting bitch face all night if you want, but there’s a party going on and I plan to enjoy it.” With that, my sister literally swept off the dais, and joined our other sister Nishaan, who in my opinion was getting way too up close and personal with Amir’s youngest brother, Rahim, in a dance that belonged more in a Hip Hop video than at my wedding. I looked for our father, who should have been supervising, but he was nowhere to be found, especially with the throng of people crowding the dance floor. Typical.  My younger sisters had always gotten away with murder. 
    As I sat on the dais, watching all of the people who had come from all over the world—many of them family members and loved ones—I let Jahaan’s words sink in.  In many ways she was right, by not forgiving him, I was the one who suffered, I was the one who remained locked in my prison of bitterness.  And yet, I couldn’t find the strength to just let everything go.  The day Khalil had walked out on me, that hadn’t been the end of it.  Even after my father had told me of the betrothal contract, and that I was engaged to Amir, I hadn’t given up on us.  I’d tried contacting him, but my calls and emails had gone unanswered. I should have taken that as a sign, but I’d been young and dumb.
    Three months later, I’d decided to try and visit him at his university.  The connection we’d shared, I’d felt it, and I was certain he’d felt it too.  I even convinced myself that he was just afraid of what he was feeling, and just needed reassurance.  Reassurance my ass.  My trip to DC to reassure him had ended in more tears and humiliation when he’d answered the door to his apartment half naked.  He’d been so shocked to see me that he’d stood there speechless, but words hadn’t been necessary, because his guest had said them all for him when she’d called for him to come back to bed.
    I’d been stunned, heartbroken, and humiliated, but nothing had sent me fleeing his doorstep more strongly than my bitter anger.  He’d called my name, but I would always remember that he never did come after me.  My love for Khalil had died that day, and every time I saw a tabloid or heard a story or was misfortunate enough to attend an event where he would be, and saw yet another nameless, faceless woman draped all over him, a part of me would die all over again until I was convinced the feelings I’d once had for him were dead and buried. 
    I wished that could have been enough, that my feelings for him were forever gone, but it wasn’t.  For years, I’d remained angry, in an indignant sort of way at his total hypocrisy. He’d accused me of being a stupid, shallow, superficial, and self-centered socialite, and yet, every woman I’d ever