Page 4 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

“Fine. Just held up with… matters,” Faiz replies, his voice clipped, cutting off further inquiry.

The tension hangs between us, a curtain I can’t seem to draw back. But the heat rising to my cheeks isn’t from the spice-laden dish before me — it’s from his unexpected scrutiny. It lingers, even as he turns his attention to his plate, leaving me wondering if my choice of attire was too bold, too revealing of the hopes I’ve buried deep within.

The conversation flows, returning to the upcoming festival, but Faiz’s presence is the jagged rock disrupting its course. He barely touches his food, his fork clinking against the plate in short, hurried intervals. I steal glances at him, trying to decipher the storm brewing behind those deep-brown eyes.

“Is the lamb not to your liking, Faiz?” the sheikh asks. He sounds annoyed, but like he’s trying to keep it in.

“No, it’s excellent as always,” Faiz responds, his gaze lifting only briefly from his plate before he shovels another hasty bite into his mouth. His words are mechanical, devoid of any real life.

“Then perhaps you might slow down and savor it,” I suggest, trying to make a joke of it all. “It’s not every day we get to enjoy such a feast together.”

It’s bold coming from me, a staff member and not one of this family, but I’m annoyed as well. The chef and cooks have prepared an amazing meal, and Faiz’s family is all here, eager tospend time with him, and this is how he behaves? Despite being royalty, I know for a fact that his parents raised him better than this.

He offers me a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s clear he wants to be anywhere but here. Then, as if on cue, he places his utensils neatly on the plate, pushes his chair back and stands abruptly.

“Please excuse me,” Faiz says, tone clipped. “Urgent matters at my residence require my attention.”

“But dessert is yet to come,” the sheikha protests gently. Her eyes widen, imploring him to stay, and it nearly breaks my heart.

“Send my apologies to the chef,” is Faiz’s curt reply as he strides out of the room, leaving a wake of unspoken tensions.

I exhale slowly, the air feeling heavier in his absence. His behavior tonight isn’t just rude — it’s an enigma wrapped in polite, empty talk. And I’m no closer to solving it than I am to understanding my own tangled feelings for the man.

No sooner has the door closed behind Faiz than Hamza leans forward, his dark eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something more predatory. “Looks like our future king would rather battle paperwork than engage in the simple pleasures of family and fine dining.”

His words, sharp and pointed, hang in the air. Though his tone is light, there’s an undercurrent of bitterness that suggests a lifetime of being second-best, and I really wish he hadn’t said anything at all. This whole night feels like it’s sliding down the drain, and I’m trying to convince myself it has nothing to do with my disappointment over Faiz not giving me a second glance.

“Perhaps he had a personal issue to attend to,” I offer weakly, though I know better. Faiz often seems like a man battling his own shadows, and tonight, those shadows have devoured whatever patience he possessed.

“Personal matter or not,” Hamza retorts, his smirk growing wider, “a true leader knows how to prioritize his time. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Hague?”

“Leadership comes in many forms,” I say carefully, trying to remain neutral despite knowing where Hamza’s provocations stem from. “And… everyone has their struggles.”

“Indeed,” he concedes, the edge in his voice softening as he turns his attention back to his wine. “But some struggles can lead to kingdoms falling.”

The warning in his words is as thinly veiled as the rivalry between them. Hamza might cloak his ambition in jests, but even I can see the throne is the ultimate prize he covets — no matter the cost.

The sheikh clears his throat, the sound a gentle dismissal. “Tara, my dear, I must apologize for Faiz’s abrupt departure. It’s unlike him.”

We both know that’s untrue. It’s actually very much like him. It’s polite of Faiz’s father to put it in such a way, though.

“Please, Sheikh Yusuf,” I say, “there’s no need to apologize. We all have our days.” But even as the words leave my lips, a part of me doesn’t believe them. This isn’t just adayfor Faiz; it’s a pattern, a secret stitched tightly into his being.

Our conversation shifts then to lighter topics — a pop star coming to play at the auditorium, the progress of the newlibrary — but Faiz hovers at the periphery of my thoughts like a persistent shadow. Two years of working close to him, and yet he remains a person I don’t understand at all. Who is he truly? What does he think about when he is alone at night? What is it that he conceals with such care?

Later, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, I stand before the mirror and peel away the layers of Zahranian jewels and fabric, each one dropping to the floor with a soft sigh. The dress lies defeated, a pool of richness at my feet, and suddenly I’m just Tara again, a thirty-four-year-old woman far from home, alone with her thoughts.

I sink into the couch, relishing the cushions’ soft give. The cool night air drifts in through an open window, carrying with it a sense of longing. Zahrania has been kind, but it’s offered me no confidants, no shoulders to lean on — except maybe the palace staff who I sometimes have lunch with.

I know I could be doing more. I could be going out, making friends. Meeting men.

Butdating? The very idea sends a tremor down my spine. I’ve been so engrossed in medical journals and patient charts that the idea of small talk over dinner, of flirtatious glances and tentative touches seems like a dance whose steps I never learned. Could I evenspeakto a man without referencing clinical diagnoses or treatment plans?

With a sigh, I reach for one of the romance novels that line my shelf — a guilty pleasure, a vicarious thrill. As I flip through the pages, finding solace in tales of grand love and intimate connections, I can’t help but yearn for a connection of my own, someone to share the intricacies of both heart and mind.

But another thought lingers, stubborn and unshakeable. It’s not justanyconnection I crave — it’s understanding Faiz Al-Rashid. What drives the heir apparent to live in such solitude? And why does this question consume me, wrapping around my heart with a grip that tightens with every encounter we share?

My eyelids grow heavy, and I pull a blanket over myself, dropping the book and getting cozy on the couch. Outside, the city sleeps under a canopy of stars, and I, too, surrender to the night, letting dreams weave fantasies that daylight would never dare entertain.

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