Page 2 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

It’s a life that suits my introverted nature, yet sometimes, in the quiet hours, I wonder if the absence of chaos means I’m missing out on something wilder, something more like… love. But for now, I push those thoughts aside. There’s a heartbeat to listen to, a pulse to check, and a life to reassure.

For today, it’s more than enough.

Rounding a corner, I catch sight of someone unexpected — Faiz Al-Rashid. He stands like an ancient statue, his silhouette etched against the grand window that overlooks the gardens. Stern brows knitted together, lips pressed in a tight line; he personifies the very essence of unapproachable royalty.

He’s not usually here so early in the mornings. He’s the eldest royal son, a man who prefers to sequester himself in his own palace a few miles from here — a desire that I understand well… Then again, his parents are so loving, so kind. What is there to hide from when it comes to them?

Even from this distance, his presence sends a tremor through me, a shiver of something that feels suspiciously like longing. At thirty-five, Faiz is only a little over a year older than me. Tall, strong, his features cut from polished stone, he’s the kind of man who would turn heads even if he weren’t royalty.

It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself the luxury of romantic entanglements. The pang of solitude hits harder today, perhaps because Faiz, with his enigmatic aura, reminds me of all that I’ve missed out on, both growing up and in my adult years.

I shake off the feeling, taking a deep breath as I continue on my path. There is work to be done, and I cannot afford distractions — not even those fashioned from a grumpy prince who seems to wield an unexpected power over my composure.

Minutes later, I find myself in Sheikh Yusuf’s private quarters. “Good morning, Your Highness,” I greet him, already feeling better now that I have a task in front of me.

“Ah, Dr. Hague,” he responds with a warm smile, rising to meet me. “I trust you slept well?”

“Indeed, thank you,” I reply, laying out my medical instruments with practiced ease.

The checkup flows with the smoothness of routine; his pulse, strong and sure beneath my fingertips, speaks of resilience. Blood pressure, oxygen levels, reflexes — all within the desirable range. It’s clear that Sheikh Yusuf is doing remarkably well for his age, a testament to both his robust constitution and his healthy lifestyle.

As I pack up my bag, we fall into easy conversation, chatting about literature and the shifting political sands outside the palace walls. Our discussions always carry a sense ofmutual respect, a harmonious back-and-forth that transcends the boundaries of our roles. It is these moments, brief and unguarded, that remind me why I love my job — the opportunity to connect, to serve, and to be seen as more than just a doctor.

“Thank you, Tara,” he says, his eyes crinkling with sincerity. “Your dedication to your work is most commendable.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I answer, feeling my cheeks warm. In a way, I feel like he’s a surrogate father to me.

Or perhaps that’s only wishful thinking. Wouldn’t it be nice, though? To have a father who sees me for who I really am, not for what I have yet to do?

“Tara, do you ever take time away from these palace walls?” he asks. The question takes me by surprise, it’s so random.

I hesitate, biting back the instinctive flood of excuses. “No, not much,” I finally admit, feeling the reality of my solitude. “I’m a bit of a homebody. I’ve been spending a lot of time in my apartment.”

“A shame.” He tsks gently, leaning back against his daybed. “A young woman such as yourself should be among friends, having fun and being courted and romanced.” His eyes twinkle with a mix of wisdom and mischief.

“Perhaps,” I say, my cheeks warming at the thought. It’s a life foreign to me — the romance novels that pack my shelves at home a pale substitute for the reality others live.

“Then join us for dinner this evening,” he offers. “It has been too long since we’ve shared an evening together.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I reply. “I would love to.”

To dine with royalty is always an honor, even if it stirs the embers of discomfort — a reminder of the closeness I don’t share with my own family.

With the sheikh’s kind smile seeing me out, I navigate the maze that is the palace, heading for my office to collect some things. It’s not even noon, and I’m done for the day, unless some sort of emergency comes up. Basically, I’m paid to be on call for the royal family, my apartment only a ten-minute drive away.

The rest of the day stretches before me, empty and uncomfortable. I would love to put myself out there, to do something like go to the outdoor market or a meetup. It’s so foreign to me, though — stranger than moving to a new country by myself, which I’ve already done.

Sighing, I open the door to my office. And there he is again — Faiz, tall and brooding as ever, rummaging through my supplies. His presence is like a storm cloud, filling the room and making the air crackle with electricity.

I gasp. Not once has anyone ever broken into my office. Not that I know of, anyway.

“Looking for something?” I ask, not even bothering to try and hide my annoyance.

“Headache,” he grunts, barely glancing my way, his fingers deftly shuffling through pill bottles and medical instruments.

He says it as if he has every right to be here. And maybe he does. He’s royalty, after all. I’m just an American doctor who is lucky to be here.

“Here.” I retrieve a bottle of ibuprofen from a drawer and extend it to him.

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