“Where’s Mehmer? I didn’t know he wasn’t going to the ball. I thought he would just meet us here.”
Jamil suppressed a grimace, acutely aware that people were watching them. People were always watching them. “I don’t know where he is,” he said, looking in front of him. He could feel his mother’s observant gaze on his face.
“Are you quarreling?” she said after a moment. “I have noticed that you aren’t as… close you once were.”
That’s one way of putting it. Jamil was a little surprised it had taken his parents so long to speak to him about it, considering they all lived under the same roof, no matter how big said roof was.
Biting his lip, Jamil hesitated. But there was no point in trying to postpone this conversation. His mothers would find out soon enough, either way. He owed it to them to forewarn them before it hit the press.
“I asked Mehmer for a divorce this afternoon.”
His mother’s hand tensed on his arm. “What?” She forced him to stop and look at her. “You can’t be serious.”
Jamil held her gaze, refusing to feel like a small boy who had done something he shouldn’t have.
“But why?” his mother said, frowning. “Sweetheart, every relationship has rough patches. You used to be so happy together.”
“It isn’t—it isn’t a rough patch. It’s…” Jamil ran a hand through his hair, at a loss for words. What could he say?
It isn’t just a rough patch if my skin crawls whenever he touches me. It isn’t a rough patch if I feel like I haven’t been able to breathe properly for months.
Jamil said none of those things, aware of how utterly insane they would sound.
He just said, “I don’t love him anymore, Mother.” Because that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remain married to a man he didn’t love. It wasn’t fair to either of them. That was why as soon as Jamil had heard that divorce was now legal, he had asked Mehmer for one. It had been the most difficult conversation of his life, but he was sick of living a lie. Regardless of whether he and Rohan could be together or not, he wanted to stop calling Mehmer ‘husband’ when he felt nothing like one.
The worst part was, Mehmer hadn’t even looked surprised. He’d known it was coming. He would be an idiot not to, considering that Jamil flinched away from his touch and they still hadn’t had sex despite Mehmer being back home for a few months.
His eyes sad, Mehmer had smiled crookedly and said, “So are you finally going to tell me who he is?”
Jamil had just hugged him. He still loved Mehmer, and hurting him was the last thing he’d ever wanted. He just didn’t love him like a man; he loved him like a dear childhood friend, and perhaps he always had. They’d grown up together, they had shared everything, they had been best friends—friends who’d had sex with each other. Jamil had thought that that was romantic love. Now, looking back, he knew he had been incredibly ignorant about attraction and love. Mehmer had never made his heart beat faster when he smiled at Jamil. He’d never made him ache for him. He never made him feel complete the moment he entered the room. Jamil never felt like he couldn’t live without Mehmer. Of course he’d grieved when he thought he lost Mehmer, but Jamil hadn’t felt like there was a black hole in his chest eating him from the inside. He could breathe without Mehmer. He could heal and move on.
Jamil smiled ruefully. His love for Mehmer was definitely healthier for his state of mind. If he hadn’t met Rohan, he would have probably been perfectly happy with Mehmer even without their childhood bond. But after meeting Rohan, he couldn’t—he couldn’t settle for anything less now. He had tried, he honestly had, but after months of trying to feel something he didn’t, he was tired of forcing it. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make himself stop loving one man and start loving another just because the law said he was supposed to.
“I know that another scandal is the last thing our House needs right now, and I’m so very sorry, Mother, but I…” Jamil trailed off, goosebumps running up his spine. He lifted his head, his heart beating faster as the bond at the back of his mind flared to life.
He was here.
“… Jamil?”
Flinching, he looked at his mother. Jamil clasped his trembling fingers behind his back, trying to school his face into something resembling his normal expression. Judging by his mother’s frown, he didn’t succeed.
“What’s wrong with you?” she said, laying a hand on his forehead. “You’re a little warm. And your pupils are dilated. Do you feel sick?”
Jamil barely stopped himself from flinching away from his mother’s touch. His skin felt too tight, his body nearly vibrating with tension. Only with an incredible force of will did he stop himself from looking around the ballroom, like a starved thing in search of his sustenance.