Page 47 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Okay, Baba.” His acceptance is immediate, unquestioning, yet his disappointment is palpable. He is too good. Surely, I do not deserve a son as devoted as him.

“Come here,” I whisper, pulling him into an embrace. His small arms wrap around my neck, and I hold him tight, wishing I could shield him from every shadow that falls across our lives. In his hug, I find a fragile peace, a respite from the heartbreak that haunts me whenever Tara crosses my mind.

Ali pulls back, looking up at me with that way that seems too perceptive for his age. “When can we stop hiding?” His voice is soft, but it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken dreams.

“Soon, my son,” I promise, though I wonder if I’m making a vow I can keep. “Soon.”

“Faiz.” Ahmed fills the doorway. “You have visitors… at the front gate.” He glances at Ali, holding his tongue, and I already know who he’s talking about.

It’s my parents. I’ve ignored their calls, their text messages that have been coming in all day long — all pleas for an explanation. But now, there’s no more hiding. They’re here, so I might as well face the music.

“Who?” Ali asks.

My chest tightens. He knows nothing about his extended family that has been living a few miles away his whole life.

“Amina, take Ali to his room,” I instruct quietly. My heart clenches at the thought of ushering my son away, but it’s crucialhe remains unseen until I have had a chance to speak to my parents.

Whatever anger they are coming to my home with, it should be fully directed at me, not at Ali.

Amina nods. With a gentle hand, she guides Ali away, his small form disappearing up the sweeping staircase before I turn to face the entrance.

The doors swing open, and there they are — my parents, regal and composed, with Hamza lurking behind them like a shadow. Their eyes search mine, and I steel myself against whatever judgment awaits.

“Faiz,” my father begins, his voice resonant and strong, yet tinged with something unfamiliar. Concern? Curiosity?

“Mother. Father.” I manage to keep my voice steady, despite the tightness gripping my throat. “What brings you here without warning?”

It’s a ridiculous question, of course. Each of us knows why they are here. I’m not going to be the first to reveal my cards, though, to admit to any wrongdoing. Everything I’ve done — hiding Ali — was for the good of our country.

Their glances sweep the foyer, missing nothing. It’s my mother who breaks the silence, her voice softer than expected. “We want to meet him, Faiz. Your son. Ali, yes?”

Shock jolts through me, a lightning strike to my carefully guarded heart. The walls I’ve built around Ali seem to crumble with her words, leaving me exposed, vulnerable. Yet I cannot deny them this.

“Of course,” I reply, the word a whisper.

Doubt gnaws at me, a relentless tide as I go upstairs and call Amina. I ask her to bring Ali down, telling her that there are some people who want to meet him. I don’t miss the delight pass through her eyes — this is what she’s always wanted. Just like Tara, she believes that I’ve made the wrong decision when it comes to Ali.

I head back downstairs, and seconds stretch into eons as we wait. No one says a thing, Hamza standing to the side with his hands in his pockets and his eyes downcast. And then, there he is — Ali, emerging from the shadows of the upstairs hallway, his eyes wide with wonderment. Amina’s hand rests protectively on his shoulder, but he steps forward, brave and curious.

“Ali.” I clear my throat. “These are your grandparents — my mother and father. And this is Hamza, my brother. He is your uncle.”

“Grandmother? Grandfather?” Ali laughs in delight, and I watch as something remarkable unfolds.

My parents’ faces soften, years of rigid expectation melting away in the presence of this young life. There is no scorn, no outrage, only a blooming joy that lights up the chamber like dawn breaking.

“Ali,” my mother breathes, moving towards him with arms open wide. My father follows, a rare smile creasing his weathered features as they envelop my son in a warm embrace.

“Hello, little one,” my father murmurs, his tone filled with an affection I’d never anticipated. Ali giggles, delight dancing in his eyes as he meets the grandparents he never knew he had.

I stand back, a spectator to this tender reunion, feeling something akin to hope flicker in the darkness that has so longheld my heart captive. They’re not looking at him with judgment or disappointment; they’re seeing him — their grandson — with love.

“You came to visit me!” Ali says. “I can show you my room! I have lots of toys.”

My father looks over Ali’s head at me. “We would like that very much, Ali, but first we need to speak with your father. Perhaps you can get your room set up for us, hmm? And then we will be there shortly?”

“Sure!” Ali sprints up the stairs, and Amina follows after him. Ahmed, sensing that a private family conversation is about to unfold, also makes himself scarce.

I feel naked without Ali’s presence, his innocence a shield now taken from me. It’s time to face the adults, to speak bluntly about all that has been and about what comes next.

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