Page 11 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Good,” she says, but her gaze lingers on me, and I still suspect that she was speaking about more than the illness.

She wants Ali to go to school. To make friends and go to the playground. While I of course want that for my only child, it’s not that simple of a situation. No one aside from the people in this house know about Ali. If he were to go to school, people would eventually find out he is my son.

And that would not do. Not at all.

We part ways in the corridor, Amina shuffling down the hallway to her room. Left to my thoughts, I drift toward the home gym, seeking solace in the familiar scent of leather and the clank of weights — things that usually drown out the world. Yet, today, Tara’s image infiltrates the space, her hazel eyes and freckled nose an imprint that refuses to fade.

Picking up a dumbbell, I let the cold metal ground me, the strain on my muscles a welcome distraction. But it’s futile. Every lift, every curl is interspersed with memories of her calm demeanor, her thoughtful speech threading through the chaos of my mind.

It was an emergency, I remind myself, setting the weight back in its cradle. Ali needed a doctor, and Tara… well, my parents trust her. That should be enough. It has to be enough, because if she can’t keep our secret — if anyone discovers that Ali is my son — the scandal would be catastrophic.

Sweat beads on my forehead, not from exertion, but from the heat of emotions I dare not fully acknowledge. Since Ali came into my life, women have been nothing but potential breaches in our fortress of solitude. And Tara — compassionate, poised Tara — is a risk I cannot afford to take.

Yet, as I shadowbox against the mirrored wall, throwing punches at my own reflection, I can’t shake the feeling of inevitability that hangs over me. The way she looked at Ali, the softness in hervoice — it unraveled something within me. It’s a foolish thought, a dangerous one, and I shove it down, burying it beneath layers of responsibility and fear.

I can’t let desire compromise what I’ve built here. I can’t let Tara Hague, no matter how compelling, become more than what she is — a doctor for my son, a fleeting presence in our lives.

Despite how I feel about it, there’s nothing to be done. In this palace of secrets, there is no room for romance or heartache. There’s only room for survival — and perhaps, just beyond reach, a glimpse of longing for what can never be.

CHAPTER 7

TARA

It’s early. Too early to be up. Yet here I am, sitting cross-legged on my bed, laptop perched in front of me. My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitant. The cursor blinks back at me, prodding me to type in the search terms that might unravel the mystery of Ali’s parentage.

“Faiz Al-Rashid son,” I murmur as I punch the keys, and then I pause. “Ali Al-Rashid mother?”

But the internet, like a sealed vault, offers no clues. Pages of official royal statements and philanthropy work line my screen, a meticulously curated image devoid of scandal. If there was ever a leak — a hint of Faiz’s potential indiscretions — it’s been cleansed away with ruthless efficiency.

Maybe my hunch about Ali being Faiz’s son is wrong, and Ali’s parents work for Faiz. But that begs the question: where were they yesterday?

A sigh escapes me, the weight of unanswered questions pressing on my chest. Where is Ali’s mother? If she’s not around, does heask about her? Are even his best days tinged with the shadow of her absence?

Giving up on sleuthing, I get dressed for the day and go about my housework. My phone is silent, meaning I’m not needed at the main palace. I suppose that’s good. No one there will be wondering where I am, what I’m getting up to, what I have to do with Faiz’s strange life.

I do have one place to be, though. Back at Faiz’s. Back to check on Ali.

I’m both dreading and looking forward to setting foot back in that massive home. While I want to see Ali — and still Faiz, despite trying to talk myself out of it — I also know that whatever this situation is at their palace, it’s complicated. Just by knowing them, I’m inextricably involved.

At Faiz’s, the guard opens the gate the moment he sees me. This time there’s a wave but no smile, which I suppose is fine. I’m not here to make friends. I never was good at that anyway.

Faiz is on the front steps, his hands in his pants pockets, his eyebrows furrowed, a slight frown on. My heart does a flip —is it Ali? Is he all right?

Parking, I open the door and call to Faiz over the hood of the car. “Is everything okay?”

He looks surprised by my question. “Yes. Why?”

“Because…” I trail off, biting my lip. So, that’s just going to be his normal expression when he looks at me now. Got it. “Never mind. How are you?”

He hesitates before answering, his gaze still locked on me in that intense, brooding way. “I’m… fine.”

It’s the kind of “fine” that’s shrouded in questions left unasked and answers that lie in wait. But I decide not to probe. This isn’t about Faiz or his secrets or the mystery that paints this palace with shades of intrigue. Today, it’s about Ali.

Grabbing my bag, I walk up to him. His gaze feels like a tether on my face, drawing me closer with each step, a knot around me that I couldn’t untie if I wanted to.

Not that I want to.

“You look nice,” he suddenly says.

---