Page 7 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

Shuffling the last of the paperwork into its designated drawer, I let out a huff of laughter. The sound fills the stillness of my office, oddly out of place. It’s ridiculous, this flicker of fantasy that takes root in my mind — Faiz Al-Rashid, with his brooding eyes and quiet strength, seeking me out for personal reasons? I shake my head, feeling the warmth of absurdity paint my cheeks.

“Get a grip, Tara,” I mutter to myself, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

This isn’t some tale spun from the pages of a dog-eared romance novel tucked away in my nightstand. Those stories, with their whirlwind courtships and charming princes, they’re just an escape, not a blueprint for real life — especially mine.

And yet, as I straighten a frame on the wall, a sliver of daydream slips through my defenses. For a sweet, indulgent moment, I’m swept into a vision where it’s just Faiz and me, alone under the star-sprinkled Zahranian sky. His hands, strong and sure, cup my face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. There’s a tenderness there, in the depths of those brown eyes, a softness that contradicts the hard lines of his jaw. He whispers something, voice low and husky, and I can almost feel the brush of his breath against my skin.

I sway slightly, lost in the vivid conjuring of my own longing. My heart races with the thrill of proximity to him, to this man who embodies a paradox of power and vulnerability — a man who, despite his aloof exterior, might just harbor desires as fervent as my own.

A sharp knock on my door startles me back to reality. The fantasy evaporates like mist under the harsh glare of sunlight, leaving behind a faint ache of longing. I clear my throat, schooling my features into practiced neutrality.

“Come in,” I call out, already mourning the loss of the dream but grateful for the interruption. It’s a reminder that there’s no room for such foolishness — not here, not with Faiz Al-Rashid.

There are boundaries and duties, and whatever he needs help with, it certainly won’t be found in the fanciful recesses of my imagination.

CHAPTER 5

TARA

The gilded gate stands imposing before me, its intricate metalwork the epitome of the world I’ve been immersed in for the past two years — an elite enclave where privacy is prized above all. As the late morning sun casts long shadows over the designer lawns, a guard emerges from the sentry box, his expression unreadable behind aviator shades.

He motions for me to follow, leading me to a small table inside the tiny building where a single document lies in wait. One glance tells me it’s a non-disclosure agreement.

“Standard procedure,” he says, handing me a pen with an air of formality that feels almost ceremonial.

I can’t refrain from letting out a dry chuckle as I sign my name on the dotted line. In this world, secrets are currency, and trust is earned through the act of omission. It’s not my first time signing away my right to share the details of the lives I’m privy to, and even before coming to this country I spent years keeping details of people’s health completely secret — that’s part of my duty, after all.

But Faiz’s palace? This NDA? There’s something about it that screams uncharted territory.

The guard directs me where to park, and I follow his instructions and leave my car at the end of the driveway. The grounds are oddly quiet, the back of my neck prickling. Something is off here, and for the life of me I wish I knew what it was.

The front door opens before I even have the chance to knock, and a tall man looks out at me. The butler? A security guard? It’s hard to say. He looks like he could floor the biggest footballer with one clean tackle, though.

“Dr. Hague.” He opens the door to allow me inside, and I step into a massive foyer.

“Good morning,” I greet, trying to keep my tone light. His only response is a terse nod; he definitely isn’t here for small talk.

I follow him through a maze of huge rooms, each one more grand than the last. The wood floors are polished to a mirror-like sheen, and the walls are adorned with regal portraits of Faiz’s ancestors. Their eyes seem to follow me, silently judging their unwelcome visitor.

The man leads me into an expansive study, where a wall of windows offers a panoramic view of the emerald-green gardens. There’s an almost palpable tension in the room, and the furniture seems too perfect to sit on. It feels more like a museum than a home.

“The sheikh will be with you momentarily,” he says.

“Thank you.” I smooth my blouse and move my medical bag from one hand to the other. It only has the essentials in it, andeven though I have no clue why Faiz called me here, I figured I should bring it anyway.

The man leaves, and I’m left alone in the room. There’s no time to explore or even wonder what’s happening next, though, because there’s a brisk knock on the door and Faiz enters.

His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment, then dart away, unable to hold my gaze. His expression is inscrutable but his stiffness is telling.

“Dr. Hague,” he greets, in that low baritone of his that never fails to send shivers down my spine.

“Tara,” I correct. “Please.”

His eyes widen slightly, and I understand how out of proper protocol first names are, but his family calls me by my first name, and it’s not as if I’m expected to call him by his.

But then: “And you call me Faiz,” he says smoothly. “Please.”

I gulp against the lump in my throat. “Yes. Faiz.” I nod.

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