His Royal Prize. Debbi Rawlins

looked at Rose. “This may not be easy.”

      She did not react. Her attention was focused on Sharif’s wet shirt. When her gaze rose to meet his, Sharif saw comprehension dawn in her eyes. She knew about him and Olivia.

      Guilt nudged him. Which was ridiculous. A couple of kisses did not constitute an affair. And Olivia had been a willing participant. He would not have acted, otherwise.

      “Mother?” Alex frowned at her before his eyes again found Sharif.

      “You’re right, Alex.” She abandoned the tray of coffee and sank into a chair. “Let’s tell them what we know.”

      He nodded. “Okay, let’s discuss the wording and who’ll be the spokesman.”

      To Sharif’s amazement, Rose leaned forward, and resting her elbows on the table, said, “I’ve been thinking about this, and I think we should go ahead and give them a brief, factual chronological list of events.”

      Everyone nodded, no one looking the least surprised at the assertiveness in her voice or the sudden strength in her face. Fascinated by this other side of her, Sharif remained silent.

      “First, we tell them about Ibrahim’s assassination.” She paused at the mention of her husband, a brief sadness touching her face and finding a soft spot in Sharif’s stubborn heart. “How it was Azzam’s wife, Layla, who had arranged for my imprisonment. And Ibrahim’s murder.” She briefly closed her eyes. “I was wrong in accusing my husband’s brother and trying to retaliate. This is my chance to set the record straight.”

      Silence descended. It had been a shocking and ugly thing to learn that a twisted, sick thirst for power had resulted in the death of a king, and the ruin of his family. So many casualties. So many lies.

      Sharif stared at Rose with grudging respect. Thirty years in a sanitarium, drugged and separated from her children, while still grieving for her husband. Yet she had survived.