Page 20 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

Her words should sting, but instead they feel like a lifeline thrown out to me. A whisper of a reality where things might be different.

“Ali needs more than tutors and bodyguards. He needs to run, to play… he needs friends his own age.” The raw emotion in her voice steals the air from my lungs.

Too much is at stake — too much for even Tara to comprehend. And yet, I find myself unable to deny the truth of her words. “I understand,” I say quietly.

“Do you?” Her eyes are stormy pools of challenge.

I take a deep breath and cross my arms over my chest — a defensive gesture because her words, her concern for Ali, tear at the façade I’ve built to protect my heart. “I do,” I reply, a tremor in my voice. “But understanding doesn’t make the reality any less complicated.”

She seems taken aback, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Then she nods, the slightest tilt of her head that feels more like a confession than an agreement. “I understand that too,” she says quietly, “But it doesn’t mean we should stop trying — for Ali.”

The silence settles between us again, demanding space yet pulling us closer together.

“To grow up without friends…” She bites her lip and looks away, an unexpected gesture that hints at something intensely personal.

“I know it sounds harsh.” I sigh. “I’ve lived most of my life under the same constraints Ali is now experiencing. But it’s not without reason.”

She looks back at me then, her hazel eyes flickering with a mix of sorrow and determination. “And what reason could justify denying a child his innocent joys?”

“The safety of Zahrania,” I reply, reluctantly letting the words tumble out. “The stability of our nation is bound to our family, intricately woven into every decision we make.”

There it is again. I’m attempting to explain this, not for the first time, and it is still lost on her. In some ways, we are from different worlds.

Her mouth opens to protest, but she shuts it just as quickly. Her gaze drops to the carpet beneath her feet, a hint of defeat marring her usual composure.

“I see.” She lifts her face.

I nod, wishing I had more to say but only being able to leave it at that. At the end of the day, at the end of it all, I am doing what is right.

“Thank you for coming today,” I say softly.

“You’re welcome.” She glances at the grandfather clock. “I do need to get to the main palace. I need to update some paperwork there.”

“Of course,” I say swiftly, wishing she weren’t leaving but also knowing that the less time she spends here the better.

I stride toward the door to escort her out, reaching for the handle just as she does. Our hands brush, and a jolt of electricity arcs between us, sparking something forbidden. I reel back slightly, caught in the stormy sea of her gaze.

“Sorry,” we both mutter in unison, a small moment of levity in the tension.

Tara bites her bottom lip, pink spreading across her cheeks.

“I should go,” she whispers, her eyes shuffling between my gaze and the door handle. There’s a wistful pull in her voice, one that mirrors my own silent plea for her to stay.

“Of course,” I mumble, stepping back to allow her passage.

The air shifts as she navigates past me, leaving a lingering scent of lavender and something uniquely Tara. It fills the room as surely as regret does my heart.

As the door closes behind her, I find myself rooted to the spot, every sound magnified in the silence that follows her departure. The tick-tick-ticking of the grandfather clock seems louder now, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

With a sigh, I return to my desk. It’s cold and smooth under my palms as I lean on it, my thoughts twisting like a whirlwind. There is so much at stake — too much — and yet when I close my eyes and imagine Tara, all of that falls away.

For a blissful moment here and there, whenever I lose myself to fantasies of her, it’s as if all the troubles of the world no longer matter. What matters is how her laugh sounds or how her eyes dance with life and charm, how those small moments get etched on my heart forever.

But reality, with its harsh edges and cold touch, always has a way of seeping back in, and if I don’t manage it, then no one else will.

CHAPTER 11

TARA

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