Page 3 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

Our hands brush as he takes it, sending a jolt up my arm that I quickly dismiss. He’s nothing more than a riddle wrapped in a furrowed brow — a grump with the face of an Adonis.

“Thanks,” he mutters, already heading for the door, his tall frame disappearing as swiftly as it appeared.

“Anytime,” I call after him, but the echo of the closing door is the only response.

Left alone amid the scattered remnants of my orderly space, I exhale slowly, my mind a whirlpool of questions. Why didn’t he just ask me for some ibuprofen? Or go down to the kitchens for some? There’s a first-aid kit in there.

I could let myself go down that path, one filled with “what-ifs” — and a few fantasies about me and Faiz — but I already know it’s a waste of time. Yes, I’m a romantic. But if anything else, I’m logical. Practical.

And me and Faiz? That’s anything but.

CHAPTER 2

TARA

“Something stunning,” I murmur to myself, trying to dispel the swarm of butterflies that has taken up residence in my stomach.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Tonight isn’t about impressing the sheikh and sheikha. Our relationship is far beyond that.

No, there’s a more troublesome thought nipping at the edges of my conscience. I want to turn his head — I want Faiz to see me not just as the family doctor, but as Tara. The thought alone feels like a betrayal of my professional poise, yet it clings to me, an undeniable truth.

The dress that calls out to me is one I’ve never dared to wear — a Zahranian beauty, drenched in rich amethyst hues and embellished with tiny jewels that catch the light like dew on morning flower petals. I remember the reckless splurge, the way the fabric felt like liquid confidence between my fingers. I’ve never worn it before, though I brought it home with dreams of taking it for a spin one day.

I step into the dress, the silk cascading down my frame and fitting snugly against my skin. With every movement, I can feel the weight of the jewels, and I almost feel like a sheikha myself.

“Pretty” seems too trivial a word as I catch a glimpse of myself, yet that is what echoes through the hallways of the palace when the staff see me. There’s a warmth in their eyes, a genuine delight that makes me want to believe them. It’s strange, this dance between humility and pride, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks under their admiring gazes.

“Dr. Hague, you look absolutely lovely tonight,” one of the maids says, her voice laced with an honesty that can’t be faked.

“Thank you, Layla,” I reply, smoothing down the front of my dress, suddenly conscious of how exposed I feel beneath their attention. It’s not just the dress they see — it’sme— and that’s both exciting and scary at the same time.

The chandeliers cast a soft glow over the royal dining hall as I’m escorted inside. The table is set with precision, the plates adorned with delicate patterns that rival the intricate designs on my dress. The sheikh and sheikha are already here, along with their younger son, Hamza. They all welcome me with warm smiles that ease the fluttering in my stomach, and I catch Hamza’s gaze lingering on me for the slightest moment too long.

“You look very nice.” He nods promptly and looks away, probably reminding himself that I’m only a doctor and not a proper consideration for a mate.

Which is fine by me. Hamza is a little rough around the edges for my liking, though he has always been cordial.

“Dr. Hague, it’s a pleasure to have you join us,” the sheikh greets me.

“Thank you for having me,” I respond, my tone practiced but sincere.

Hamza, ever the charming diplomat, offers me a seat next to him. “I hope you find the first course to your liking,” he says, gesturing toward the array of appetizers before us.

So we’re not waiting for Faiz?

I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. From talk about the palace, I’ve heard that he used to participate much more in family and main palace life. About five years ago, he began to withdraw. No one knew the reason for it. A heartbreak? A secret spat with his parents?

Regardless, he’s not the staple around here that his brother, who still lives in the main palace, is.

As we dine, the conversation flows from the recent advancements in Zahranian healthcare to the latest cultural festival. The sheikha’s laughter fills the room like music, and I find myself swept up in the rhythm of their familial harmony. Yet, I keep glancing at the empty chair where Faiz should be, despite my inner protests to remain indifferent.

“Faiz tends to lose track of time,” Hamza comments casually, catching my fleeting looks. “But if he is coming at all, he will be here by the main course.”

Just as the second course arrives, an aromatic blend of spices tickling our senses, Faiz bursts into the room. His presence commands attention, the air shifting with the urgency of his late arrival. His eyes scan the table, then fix on me. For a split second, his stoic mask falters, replaced by a flicker of something unread.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mutters, sliding into his chair without waiting for an invitation.

“Is everything well?” the sheikha asks, concern wrinkling her elegant features.

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