Page 35 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Perfect, Ali,” I respond, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. There’s something about watching them together —their easiness, their connection — that sends an unfamiliar ache through my chest.

I chop tomatoes, the rhythmic slicing a metronome to my thoughts. Here in the palace kitchen, it’s easy to slip into a daydream, one where the good times never end but instead just keep going on and on.

But I shake off the fantasy like water from my fingers after a rinse. It’s foolish to get lost in what-ifs. What will be will be.

“Dr. Tara, you’re good at chopping,” Ali chirps, and I laugh, the sound mingling with the crackle of oil as Faiz flips the chicken breasts in the pan.

“Thank you, Ali. And you’re an excellent assistant chef,” I say, winking at him.

“Assistant? I’m going to be the head chef!” he declares with his usual show of pride, and Faiz and I share a knowing look, the kind that makes me feel like we’ve known each other for a whole lifetime.

Dinner is a casual affair, plates passed and stories exchanged over bites of tender chicken and crisp salad. The domesticity of it is both strange and comforting, a window into a life I’ve sidelined.

It’s not that I’ve never wanted my own family. It’s just that I’ve always been too busy with other things. School, work. More work.

Every time I’ve thought about dating, about reaching out and meeting people, I’ve ended up frozen and confused, unsure of how to go forward. I’m confident when it comes to my work, but in most social situations I feel completely out of my element. Ialmost feel too awkward at this point, unable to learn something I should have picked up years ago.

It’s easier here, though, with Faiz and Ali. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s nothing more than the fact I’ve gotten to know them enough. Or maybe it’s my longing for this kind of connection that makes it all the more easy. Either way, I’m not gonna analyze it too much. Rather, I’ll just enjoy it.

Dinner done and the dishwasher loaded, we settle onto the plush sofa in the movie theater — really, a glorified living room with a huge screen covering one wall. Ali nestles between us, his head finding a resting place against my arm. I glance at Faiz, who nods as if to say it’s okay, and my heart skips, caught between the pleasure of the moment and the fear of ephemeral joys.

Not long into the film, Ali’s breathing deepens, his small body surrendering to sleep. I realize too late that my hand has found its way to his hair, stroking softly, mirroring the tenderness I’ve seen in Faiz.

“Let me take him to bed,” Faiz whispers, his voice barely above the soundtrack of the movie.

“Of course,” I reply, shifting gently to allow Faiz to scoop his son up. He rises, a father’s care etched into every movement as he carries Ali, who clings to him even in slumber. The sight of them, so effortlessly a unit, stirs a longing within me, a yearning for connections that run this deep.

I tuck my feet beneath me, the space on the couch now feeling vast and empty. I’ve paused the movie, making the room deathly quiet. There’s nothing but myself and my thoughts. I close my eyes, the image of Faiz’s retreating back imprinted on the insideof my eyelids, and I wonder what the consequences are for wanting something this badly.

“Tara?”

“Hmm?” I jerk and sit up, eyes opening, not having heard Faiz come back into the room.

“Would you like to go for a walk in the gardens?”

My heart races in response. “That sounds nice,” I answer.

I stand and follow him through the palace, every step feeling like it’s important enough to be recorded in all the world’s history books.

The moon paints silver streaks across the perfect gardens, casting a delicate glow on the path before us. I walk beside Faiz, our steps in sync. I could stay in this moment forever, our hands swinging side by side, almost touching but not quite. Truly, there’s nothing else that I need.

“Did you ever climb trees as a kid?” I ask, pointing to an ancient oak that stands sentinel over the garden.

“More times than I can count,” he admits with a soft chuckle, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “It was one of the few rebellions I could get away with.”

His answer stirs memories, and I find myself opening up about my own childhood — how I’d sneak books under the covers and read by flashlight, craving worlds beyond my small town. We share these stories, pieces of ourselves hidden from the world, and I feel the distance between us shortening with every word.

“Your parents… they had a lot of expectations?” I already know the answer, of course. Faiz was born royalty, born to one daylead a country. “Expectations” is a light way of describing what’s on his shoulders.

I want to hear more from him, though. Want to hear him talk. Want this night to never end.

“Always,” Faiz replies, his tone edged with a respectful bitterness. “To lead, to excel, to never step out of line.” He pauses, gazing at the stars as if they hold counsel. “It’s why this,” he gestures vaguely around us, encompassing the palace, the gardens, “all of it — it’s for Ali. So he knows love without conditions. I can’t give him the world… but at least I can give him a happy home here, in this little slice of existence.”

His words resonate deep within me, and I nod, feeling the weight of expectations I’ve carried too. “I understand what you mean about never being able to step out of line. The pressure to not disappoint — it can be suffocating. My parents always wanted me to be a doctor.”

“And you? Did you want it?”

I pause, not even sure how to answer. “Yes… Maybe?” I sigh. “I don’t know. It’s been hard to separate my actual wants from theirs. At this point, though, I am a doctor, and I know that I love it. Would I have chosen a different path for myself, though, if no one had been pushing me down this road?” I lift my face to the sky. “Maybe.”

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