Page 44 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Then strategize,” I say. “Yes, we will strategize. For now…” I sigh. For now, I have a hundred other phone calls to make.

“Very well,” he finally says. “We’ll handle it.”

Next, I dial my publicist, my grip tightening around the phone as it connects.

“Faiz, darling, you’re everywhere! We need to control the narrative,” she chirps, her usual exuberance grating against my frayed nerves.

“Then control it,” I demand, my voice resonating with an authority born of desperation. “I want peace. I want quiet. Do whatever it takes.”

“Of course,” she assures me, though there’s a hint of reprimand in her tone. “But you know that’s not how it works. The world wants to know about the prince’s secret son.”

“There is no secret son,” I say. “Release a statement saying that.”

“It’s a lie?”

“Sure. Someone made up the story for money. For attention.”

“Faiz, you’re asking for the impossible,” she says, a note of pity seeping through. “The source had too many details… But don’t worry, we’ll spin this. We always do.”

I hang up, my heart pumping adrenaline, the futility of the situation settling like chains around me. The whole world is talking, and no matter how much I wish it otherwise, there’s no shutting out the noise — not when it’s clamoring right outside my door.

If only things had worked out differently. If only Tara…

I close my eyes, allow myself a moment to dwell in the what-ifs and might-have-beens. My chest tightens with a pang of longing so acute it feels as though someone has reached inside and gripped my heart.

It’s absurd to miss her, isn’t it? After what she’s done. But the heart rarely follows reason, and mine aches for a woman who, I now realize, I never truly knew. The Tara I had been falling for — could she have been nothing but a façade?

I need to be strong. I can’t break down. Not in front of Ali or my staff, anyway. They need me to lead them, to remain upright through all of this.

I retreat to my study, shutting the door behind myself. Just a few minutes alone and then I can return to it all. The phone buzzes again, demanding attention, but I ignore it. Instead, I focus on the cool leather beneath my fingertips as I lean against my desk, the view of the garden beyond my window reduced to streaks of color bleeding into each other — a beautiful, blurred mess.

In this moment of solitude, I yearn for the simplicity of connection without consequence, for a time when love was not a luxury overshadowed by personal gain. Tara could have beenmy respite from the relentless demands of my birthright, but now she represents the ultimate risk: vulnerability in the face of public scrutiny.

I must choose the path of isolation once more, for Ali’s sake. The boy needs stability, not the chaotic aftermath of a scandalous romance. And so, with a heavy heart, I resolve to bury any remnants of my affection for Tara, to lock away the part of me that still hopes for a different ending.

One day soon, I will sit with Ali, and I will tell him the truth. But until then, I steel myself against the barrage of emotions, against the longing for a love that could have been, and I brace for the impact of the world’s judgment. Because in the end, the crown demands sacrifice, and my first allegiance is to my son.

CHAPTER 24

TARA

Here I am, back in bed. Except this time it’s different. I’ve retreated here, cocooned in its safe embrace, the world beyond my window nothing more than a smudge. But even as I wish to vanish into the folds of my duvet, I can’t escape the truth that’s lodged in my throat like a pill too bitter to swallow — Faiz thinks I betrayed him. The extent of his disappointment clings to me, heavy and suffocating.

I know I should be at the main palace by now; duty calls, even when your heart is in shards. So, with an effort that feels Herculean, I peel back the covers and slide out of bed. My movements are mechanical, my mind numb as I dress and try to do something with my hair, even though my heart isn’t in it one bit.

The drive to the palace is a blur, and it’s not until I see the sight outside of the gates that my vision seems to sharpen. A cacophony of voices, a siege of sound. Journalists swarm the main gates like locusts hungry for devastation. I steel myself, straighten my spine, and drive forward.

“Dr. Hague! Dr. Hague!” They shout my name at my car, each call a needle pricking my already tender skin.

How do they know who I am? Do they know about me and Faiz? Or do they know the name of every person who works at the palace?

I park in the staff lot, but their shouts reach me even there. “Is it true about Ali? What can you tell us about Faiz?” Their questions are darts dipped in poison, but I’ve built up an immunity. Or so I tell myself.

“Sorry, I can’t comment,” I say, hating the way that my voice shakes. I keep my face unreadable, eyes fixed ahead. I am the royal-family doctor, privy to their secrets, holder of my own.

The guards do their best to hold the line, their arms firm barriers against the onslaught of curiosity and greed. I duck my head and slip through the palace doors, grateful for the respite from probing eyes and insatiable questions.

Once inside, the world quiets. The halls that are normally filled with the bustling activity of staff are silent, holding their breath. I yearn to join them in their quiet vigil, but my feet carry me onward, toward the heart of the chaos, where I know Faiz’s parents must be reeling from the news.

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