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Part I
“Can I kiss you, Khalid?”
Khalid
Ilounged on the blue velvet armchair as if it was my obsidian throne. Lifting the fragile China cup to my mouth, I took a sip, relishing the burn of whiskey from the half empty bottle before the interview started. I already had the half bottle before the art show started and needless to say, I was tipsy as fuck.
“What’s the inspiration behind your paintings?” She asked, the cameras zooming in on my face.
I answered with a straight face. “Suffering and fucking.”
The female interviewer turned into a flustered mess, people whispering to each other as my agent glared at me, imitating as if he was slicing his throat. He either meant he wanted to die or wanted me to cut it out.
I gulped down the whiskey from the cup. I couldn’t care less what the art critics had to say about me or the interview when it airs. I was Khalid Al Latif. A Prince and an artist. If they didn’t want my honest answers, they could go fuck themselves while I watch.
Talking about fucking.
I eyed the people walking slowly among the crowd, hoping for a certain someone to arrive and to take her to the suite. It had been some time since I got laid. About a few months. I had been busy with my brother’s marriage, Sultan of Azmia, and making sure our palace was well protected before I could travel to London for my art show.
The interviewer cleared her throat and gestured the camera crew to roll as she crossed her legs, her skirt inching up her thigh. I wished she would hurry up with the questions instead of fluttering her lashes at me.
“Your painting,Limerence,” she started.Finally. Her tone remained professional despite the way her eyes raked over my dark suit, the top of my shirt where I had unbuttoned top two buttons. She licked her lips before continuing, “It has been auctioned for two-hundred million dollars. More than Pablo Picasso’sWomen of Algiers Version O. That is certainly an enormous deal in the art industry and for your country as well. Do you think the fame of the painting has any relation with you being the Prince and the brother of Sultan of Azmia?”
I had sketched and paintedLimerence, my most famous painting yet, when I was nineteen. I had painted it after the night I killed my father with his sword, a family heirloom that my brother, Zain, the Sultan of Azmia, possessed. All I could see was the flashes of crimson blood coating my shirt and his tunic, the nightgown of my little sister, and the beige wall splattered with his blood.
Flashes of red blood, and bright golden red hair with a toothy grin had conjured in my head. The image of the young girl I had met at fifteen and the living nightmare of murdering my father had made me want to pour it all out on a canvas.
Clenching my jaw, I answered in deep voice, “I didn’t wantLimerenceto be released to the public, but my family, my brother and sister, urged me to. My royalty certainly gave advantage for it to be recognised and I am proud that it offers more appreciation to my culture and Azmia.”
After the art show, I knew my agent would be thrilled for the smooth reply without cursing again on the live telecast.
“That is lovely. Are you seeing anyone at the moment, Your Highness? Our fans, especially the youngsters, are quite curious if there’s someone in your mind who could be a future Princess of Azmia.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
I glanced at the abstract painting I had finished before landing in London. I wasn’t going to display that painting in the gallery, but my agent had insisted. I was surprised by the attention it had garnered in a few moments. It was nothing but slashes of paints and a unique form of a figure in blue. I had to paint it after waking up from a nightmare.
The interviewer waited for my answer patiently.
I replied without hesitation. “No, I am not dating anyone, nor do I plan to. Will that be all?”
I was only capable of loving my family and my country.
Besides, who in the world would want to love a monster who had killed his own father?
* * *
Sophia Gora hummedin her sultry voice, examining the framed painting before us. Her manicured black painted nails hovered over the canvas as she traced an invisible line of the shades of paint.
“It looks brilliant, Khalid. You have outdone yourself this time.”
The corner of my lips curled, receiving the flat praise from our sponsor’s daughter, also a famous lingerie model.
I bowed my head a little. “Thank you, Ms Gora.”
She scrunched her nose, her dark red painted lips pouting at me. “You can call me by my first name, you know? You don’t always have to be so posh and royal.”
We walked side by side to see the next painting. The marble chrome tiles matched with the deep navy velvet folds of the wall where all my paintings were displayed with a dim lighting. Tucking my hands in the pockets of the suit pants, I mindlessly examined the people who were invited for the event. Celebrities, models, art patrons, musicians, art critics, and a few art hungry students scribbling notes as they gaped at the paintings.