Page 29 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Yes, I have a dinner I can’t miss,” I tell him, keeping my tone light, hoping he doesn’t notice the strain behind my words.

“Can I come?” he asks, and there’s an earnest hopefulness in his brown eyes that nearly breaks me.

I kneel in front of him, meeting his gaze head-on. “Not this time, buddy,” I say softly, ruffling his hair. “It’s… business stuff. Boring adult things you wouldn’t enjoy.”

He pouts, clearly unconvinced, and I hate that I have to shut him out like this. But there’s no place for him where I’m going — not yet, not until I can be sure it’s safe. His existence is a truth too heavy for the busy halls of my parents’ palace, a truth that could shatter the precarious balance of our lives.

“Tell you what — we’ll do something fun this weekend. Just you and me,” I promise, and he brightens at the prospect, the shadow of exclusion momentarily forgotten.

“We can go to the circus?” he asks hopefully.

My heart sinks. No, I can’t take him to the circus. Everyone there would know me.

“We can go on a picnic,” I tell him, thinking of a secluded spot that will be perfect.

“Okay,” he says, but I can feel how disappointed he is.

I rise, feeling the burden of my double life pressing down on me. With one last hug that I wish could shield him from everything, I step away and head towards the door. I don’t look back, because if I do, I might not be able to leave.

The drive to my parents’ is short, but it feels like crossing a chasm between worlds. As the palace I grew up in comes into view, my pulse quickens, and I wonder if it’s the magnitude of the place or the thought of seeing Tara that sets my heart racing.

Tonight, I will allow myself a new vulnerability, a chance to indulge in the connection we’ve been tiptoeing around. Tonight, I will sit across from her at the dining table, share a meal, and pretend for a little while that we are nothing more than two people who enjoy each other’s company.

And for just a few hours, I will try to forget the son I’ve left behind and the walls of silence I’ve built around us.

I’m a bit early — a strategic choice to carve out moments alone with Tara — and I fully expect the butler to greet me with his usual polite demeanor. Instead, it’s my mother who sweeps into the foyer, her arms spread wide with genuine astonishment.

“Faiz, my dear! You’re early,” she exclaims.

“Traffic was kinder than usual,” I lie smoothly, because how can I tell her the truth? That I yearn for stolen seconds with someone under her very roof?

What would my parents think of me and Tara? Would they approve? She is not from royalty, of course, but I know how much they value her, both for her sweet personality and her contributions to our family.

I kiss my mother’s cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine, and she pats my hand, her diamond rings cool and hard.

“Your father will be so pleased,” she says. There’s a question there — her wondering what has suddenly changed — but I already know she won’t voice it.

“Where is he?” I ask, navigating the conversation to safer shores.

“In his study, but don’t trouble yourself. He’ll join us soon.”

I nod, and we exchange pleasantries that dance around the deeper currents of our lives until she excuses herself to see to the final dinner preparations.

Alone, I make my way through the maze of corridors, the excitement in my stomach building until it feels it will bubble over.

At last, I find the door I’ve been searching for, slightly ajar. Tara’s office. A sliver of light spills onto the plush carpet, and I hesitate. I take a deep breath, savoring the anticipation, before I knock softly.

“Come in,” calls the voice I’ve been holding in my thoughts all day.

I enter, and there she is — Tara, framed by shelves of medical texts. She looks up from her desk, eyes meeting mine, and the air between us vibrates with an energy that feels both forbidden and essential.

“Faiz.” Her voice catches on my name. “Hello. I didn’t expect to, um, see you so soon.”

“Can’t I drop by to see how you’re doing?” I reply, hoping I’m doing this flirting thing correctly. It has, after all, been years.

“Of course,” she says, rising from her chair.

Her attire is impeccable as always, a tailored blouse and form-fitting skirt, yet it’s the subtle hesitance in her movements that draws me in, whispering of nuances that I’ve yet to discover.

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