Page 15 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

We pass portraits of ancestors, their eyes following us with silent approval or perhaps disdain — I can’t quite tell anymore. But Tara doesn’t seem unnerved by history’s gaze upon her, doesn’t shrink back from the weight of legacy that presses down on these walls. I show her the kitchens, the library, Ali’s playroom, the movie theater…

And then we arrive at the threshold of my bedroom, the door ajar. A careless mistake, since I always close it. My heart does this strange lurching thing as I imagine Tara there, tangled in sheets that have only ever known the solitary press of my own body. Heat climbs up my neck, unbidden and unwelcome.

“And this room?” she prompts.

“Mine.” My face burns, even though it shouldn’t. It’s only a bedroom, nothing more… and yet my thoughts spin it into something tremendously meaningful and erotic.

“Oh,” she says, like she’s not sure how else to react.

“Sorry,” I mumble, reaching out to close the door with more force than necessary. I hope Tara doesn’t notice the flush I can feel burning across my cheeks, or worse, understand its cause.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just… ensuring privacy.”

Privacy, indeed. Sometimes I feel it’s all I have. Privacy and secrets and this unnamable thing that stirs within me whenever Tara is near — a dangerous tendril of something that could be, but must never be.

“Shall we continue?” I ask, eager to move away from the door, from the thoughts it incites, from the fear that grips me at the idea of ever letting someone get too close.

“Of course,” she replies, her tone still kind, still professional.

We return to the bottom floor, where my house cleaner is busy dusting the shelves in the foyer. She casts us a curious look but then returns to her work. Out of all my staff, Gina is the one who seems to care the least about what I do. She does her work and goes home.

“Thank you for the tour, Faiz.” Tara turns to me. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Please make yourself comfortable when you are here.” The words, though they come from my own mouth, surprise me. I hadn’t planned on treating Tara like a guest, and yet I can’t seem to help it.

We reach the grand entrance, and I pause, torn. I’d like to spend more time with her, ask more about her life, about what brought her to this moment in time and what her dreams for the future are.

But the risks… they claw at my resolve. A personal relationship could unravel everything, and the scandal would not only be mine but Ali’s and my family’s as well.

“Have a good rest of your day, Tara.” My voice comes out more formal than I intend. I extend my hand, a barrier of propriety between us.

“Same to you.” She accepts the gesture, her handshake firm yet gentle.

As the door closes behind her, an emptiness settles within me, and I’m not sure how to fill it. I retreat to the study, where Amina waits, her intuitive gaze reading the unrest on my face.

“And how did it go with Dr. Hague?” she asks.

“Fine. She’s settling in well,” I manage to say, keeping my tone even. “But I worry about the risk. The more involved she becomes with us, the greater the chance of exposure.”

“Faiz,” Amina begins, her voice the embodiment of patience and wisdom, “Tara has shown nothing but dedication and discretion since her arrival. Trust isn’t given lightly, but sometimes it’s necessary.”

“Perhaps,” I concede, my defenses waning.

“Besides,” she adds with a slight twinkle in her eye, “she seems like someone who understands the importance of privacy. Maybe even more than you think.”

My heart stutters. Does Amina see through the façade? Can she sense the unspoken emotions that I dare not acknowledge?

“Thank you, Amina,” I say, forcing a grateful nod. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

With a soft, knowing smile, she leaves me alone with my thoughts — thoughts tangled in fears of rejection and the yearning for a connection that could cost me everything.

It’s too silent in the study, my ruminations too oppressive, so I close the door behind me and take one of the elevators upstairs.

I slip into Ali’s room, where he lies propped up by pillows, a kingdom of plush toys gathered around him like loyal subjects awaiting their king’s command.

“Abba,” he greets me, his voice brimming with the day’s stored excitement. “Can we watch a movie together? Just you and me?”

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