Page 8 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Thank you for coming.” He draws in a long breath, his shoulders rising. “Will you… follow me, please?”

“Of course.”

He holds the door open for me, and then leads me down a carpeted hallway. With each further step into the inner sanctum, anticipation coils tight in my chest. I’ve heard whispers about Faiz’s personal residence, a place few have entered and even fewer understand. What lies inside these walls is a mystery.

But it’s not any strange activity that catches my attention; it’s the silence. The quiet in this palace is so at odds with the usual buzzing hive of the main royal residence. Here, the absence ofvoices, the lack of hurried footsteps, the scarcity of staff — it all hangs heavy in the air, like a thick velvet curtain muffling the world outside.

At the main palace, I would have seen dozens of staff by now. Here, it’s only been the guard and the man who opened the front door.

It’s beautiful, yes, but there’s a coldness here, an impersonal touch that leaves me feeling unsettled. In every corner, in every shadow, the questions linger — unspoken yet deafening in their silence. What compels a man like Faiz to retreat into such seclusion? What fears drive him to keep the world at arm’s length?

Each step we take is measured, his gait rigid with tension. His broad shoulders are squared like ramparts, holding back an unseen siege. I can almost feel his unease, and it presses against my own chest, heavy and foreboding.

“Everything here… it’s so quiet,” I venture, my voice a soft intrusion in the hallowed halls.

“Privacy has its price,” Faiz replies, the words clipped and curt as if spoken through gritted teeth.

Right, then. Whatever that means.

The silence stretches taut between us again, and I look for something to say to fill the space but there’s nothing. I’ve never been good at small talk, and I’m not about to suddenly take to it now.

We arrive at a door, carved tall, like all the other ones in this mansion. Faiz hesitates for the span of a heartbeat before pushing it open. The room beyond is awash in soft blues andgreens, everything cheery and so unlike the rest of the palace. Stuffed animals perch on shelves and windowsills, their marble eyes watching over a child-sized bed where a young boy of about six or seven lies listlessly.

I stand in the doorway, blinking, trying to comprehend.What is a child doing here? Is he the son of one of the staff?

“I would like you to examine him,” Faiz says.

“Oh.” I clear my throat and smile at the boy. “Of course.”

Now, this I know how to do — be a doctor. Small talk, flirting… those things trip me up, but when it comes to medicine, I am in my element. “What are the symptoms?” I ask.

“Persistent cough, fever, trouble breathing at night,” Faiz rattles off, and I can hear the worry in his voice.

I approach the bed, my movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to startle the child. He watches me with big, curious eyes that seem too bright for his pallid face.

“Hi.” I set my bag on the floor next to the bed. “I’m Dr. Hague, but you can call me Tara if you like. I’m going to check you out, okay?”

He nods his head against the pillow. “Okay,” he rasps.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

He shrugs his tiny shoulders. “Bad. I keep coughing. It’s hard to breathe in sometimes.”

I smile reassuringly as I press my stethoscope to his chest, listening to the telltale crackles of congestion. The exam is short — thankfully. That means there’s nothing too terrible afflicting him.

“Sounds like a chest infection,” I say. “A course of antibiotics will clear it up.”

“Is it serious?” Faiz asks, the iron-clad control in his voice wavering for the first time. I try not to stare at him, so caught off guard by his demeanor shift. Where is the distanced, tough man I’ve known the last two years?

“Very common in children. We caught it early; he’ll recover well,” I assure him. I smile again at the boy. “You’ll be much better and playing again soon. I bet you’ve been happy to miss school though, huh?”

The boy’s face cracks into a grin. “Yes,” he chuckles. “I can’t go down to class with Amina. We get?—”

“You should rest.” Faiz touches the boy’s arm. “Talking will strain your voice.”

“TV?” the boy asks hopefully.

“Yes.” Faiz hands him the television remote before nodding his head at me.

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