Page 42 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Nothing,” I say. “Because I didn’t do it.”

He looks through me, his judgment already passed. Spinning on his heel, he opens the door and is gone in a quick moment, the door slamming shut behind him.

I stand motionless, the sting of betrayal clinging to my body like the remnants of a nightmare.

My hands ball into fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms. It’s a futile attempt to anchor myself, to not be swept away by the surge of emotions that crash over me, wave after relentless wave. How can he not see? My heart has been open only to him, to them.

His trust, once given, now retracted with the speed of a recoiling hand, leaves a hollow echo where once there was the promise of something real. I’ve spent my life on the fringes of the world, too awkward and nervous to get close to anyone, yet I let him — and little Ali — in. They saw the unguarded smiles, learned the layers that make me me — and now all of that is gone.

The silence is oppressive, heavy with the weight of words unsaid, the explanations he refused to hear. The coffeemaker beeps, signaling that it’s done, but I don’t move to take the cup.

I should cry, perhaps, or scream into the void Faiz has left behind. Yet all I can do is stand here and watch all the little pieces of the future I thought we were building turn to ash.

CHAPTER 23

FAIZ

The steering wheel is a cold, unyielding thing beneath my hands as I drive, each turn bringing me closer to the home that no longer feels safe. The roads are just asphalt and paint, but they’re like veins leading straight to the heart of my anger and hurt. I was falling for Tara, truly falling. But now, plummeted into betrayal, I question every glance, every touch. Did she ever even care? Or was it all for a check?

Was that her plan along? To gather information on me so that she could sell it to the highest bidder?

It’s not merely what she did tomethat hurts. It is also what she did to Ali. Didn’t I tell her just last night that I will reveal his existence when the time is right? Did that mean nothing?

Apparently not. Perhaps, when we were kissing in the shadows at my parents’, she had already revealed all to the news outlet. She was merely continuing to play her part so that I wouldn’t become suspicious.

Of course I can’t know for sure. I cannot truly know anything when it comes to her. There are so many unknowns, all of them plaguing me like the little devils they are.

My thoughts run rampant, wild horses with sharp hooves trampling all the good I thought Tara and I were growing. It’s ludicrous to imagine that Tara, with her thoughtful words and measured tones, could sell out my son for payment.

But what else can explain it? This isn’t the woman I thought I knew; that image has shattered, leaving me with the brutal truth that I can’t trust anyone other than the select few who were already in my circle.

I should have known better. Should have done better. But I let a beautiful face twist my logic.

Finally, the familiar gates of my palace loom before me, a barricade against the world, yet not impenetrable. The vultures are here — photographers and journalists, their cameras hungry for a scrap of scandal. Ahmed’s broad frame is a bulwark amid the chaos, his voice booming commands that fall on deaf ears. I should feel gratitude for his loyalty, but it’s suffocated by the rage that boils in my veins.

“Enough!” My voice cuts through the cacophony as I step out of the car, just outside the gate. “Have some decency! Leave us alone!”

They don’t hear me — or choose not to. Cameras click, questions barrage me like shrapnel. I want to shield Ali from this, from the ugly truth that the world can be cruel and intrusive. That sometimes people you trust betray you for their own gain.

Ahmed, along with our guard Omar, pushes them back. I take the opportunity and jump back into my car, knowing that if Istay out here I will do something regretful. As much as I would love to smash a few cameras or even toss a journalist over the hedges by their shirt collar, I’ve brought enough shame to my family for one lifetime.

My family.

That is a whole other component to this debacle that I have yet to deal with. I haven’t even spoken to my parents yet, haven’t dared to check my phone, though of course they have seen the news. They are no doubt busy beating back their own publicity disaster.

The gates close behind me, a temporary reprieve from the assault. Parking, I march toward the house, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

As I shut the door behind me, the clamor of the crowd fades into a distant murmur, but it’s quickly replaced by another kind of noise — the incessant buzzing of my phone. It vibrates against my leg, and I regret not having turned it off.

I don’t need to look at the screen to know who’s calling — my parents with their concern, my brother with his questions, old friends seeking gossip, rivals likely reveling in my misfortune. Each ring is a weight added to my shoulders, another reason why I want to build a bubble around this palace and stay in here forever.

There’s a sound behind me, and I already know who it is. Ali goes not to me, though, but to the window. His small face presses against the glass, eyes wide with wonder rather than fear. He turns to me, and I can nearly hear the gears turning in his head as he attempts to make sense of what is happening.

“Father, why are all those people shouting at our house?”

I kneel beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid reality of his small frame — a reminder of what’s at stake. “They’re just curious about the palace, Ali. It’s not every day they get to see such a beautiful place.” My words dance around the truth, painting over the cracks with half-lies.

“But they look angry,” he observes, his brow furrowing as he tries to reconcile the two images.

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