Page 6 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

The app asks me questions — my interests, my preferences — and all I can think about is how none of these checkboxes include “avoiding complicated royal entanglements.” It’s laughable, really, this idea that a handful of swipes could lead me somewhere other than back to the same conclusion: I am hopelessly out of my depth.

“Your personal life won’t fix itself,” I mutter while setting up my profile, my fingers stumbling over the keyboard. Done. I put the phone away like it’s a talisman against unwanted feelings, and stride towards my sanctuary — my office.

But he’s there.

Faiz lounges against my desk as if he owns it — and, by extension, the room, the air, and every thought I’ve tried to keep ordered. He looks up, his brown eyes locking onto mine, a hint of a question in their depths. His casual posture belies the tension I see in the set of his jaw, the same tension that knots my stomach and turns my legs to jelly. I draw the conclusion that he’s trying very hard to appear relaxed when he’s actually anything but.

“Good morning, Dr. Hague,” he says, his voice a low drawl that pulls at something primal within me.

Just like that, all my promises to myself to move on, to forget about him, are dropped to the ground, only to shatter into a million tiny pieces. I am putty in this man’s hands, the bough ready to bend.

I am a strong woman, but sometimes just not strong enough. I already know that, whatever he is here for, there’s only a tiny chance that I’ll be saying no.

CHAPTER 4

TARA

The moment stretches, a silent current humming between us. I linger at the door of my office, hand still resting on the cool metal knob, while Faiz leans back casually against my desk.

Butcasualisn’t quite right; there’s a tension in his posture that betrays him. His eyes, dark pools of mystery, hold mine with an intensity that burns through my body. Always, there’s been this… awareness. A pull towards him that I’ve scolded myself for indulging even in thought. It’s just physical, I insist, nothing more. After all, he’s a near stranger who has actually been polite to me maybe once or twice.

In a few rare moments, I’ve caught only glimpses of someone who doesn’t seem to despise life — a laugh shared with someone else, a fleeting smile that never quite warmed his eyes. Eyes that are now fixed on me as if I hold some answer to an unasked question.

Faiz straightens slightly, his hand making a subtle gesture that feels like a command.Shut the door.

I obey, the click of it shutting louder than expected in the quiet room. The walls of my office suddenly feel closer, as if they’re leaning in to listen.

“Dr. Hague,” he begins, and I’m struck by how odd my professional title sounds on his lips, “I need your help.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and unexpected. Help. From me.

My chest tightens around the words.

Faiz Al-Rashid, the man who embodies self-reliance, the stoic prince whose life is a fortress of secrets, is reaching out. To me. It doesn’t make sense, yet here we are.

“Whatever you need, Your Highness.” I stand a little taller, doing my best despite how weak his gaze makes me. “You can count on me.”

He acknowledges my pledge with a nod, sharp and decisive. But there’s something else there — a flicker of vulnerability that softens the hard lines of his face before it’s gone, tucked away once more behind the armor of royalty.

“Meet me at my palace later,” he says, the words less an invitation and more a plea. “Eleven a.m.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” I respond, my own voice betraying none of the surprise that jolts through me. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

Of course I don’t know what I can do for him, since I don’t know what’s actually going on, but words are all I have to offer him in this moment of exposed humanity. What’s the deal with him? He’s never asked for anything from me before.

With a curt nod, he turns on his heel and strides out, leaving a silence that rings louder than any spoken word. I’m rooted to the spot, questions swirling around me like leaves in a storm.Is he ill? In trouble? Why is he being so secretive about this?

The possibilities are endless and unfathomable. Clearly, though, he is hiding something. He’s not merely asking me to do a routine physical on him. If that were the case, I highly doubt he would have asked me to shut the door against any prying ears.

I get to work straightening the stacks of medical journals on my desk, my hands steady while my thoughts are anything but. His invitation to his personal residence — it’s not protocol, it’s not ordinary, and it’s certainly not something my heart should be racing over.

But it is.

As I slot each journal into its proper place, I can’t help but ponder the reason behind his cryptic summons. Could it be…

No. He’s not inviting me over for some sort of romantic rendezvous.

This is Faiz Al-Rashid — prince, handsome ghost, a man who holds his cards so close to his chest they might as well be etched onto his ribs. This isn’t about attraction; it’s about necessity. And yet, the thought is there, a persistent vine of hope that sprouts buds of “what if…?”

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