Page 1 of The Sheik's Pretend Fiancee
Chapter 1
"Care to explain why you've crashedthisgala?" Angela Al-Sintra’s voice was low and steady, but the edge was unmistakable. Her smile, perfectly timed for the hovering onlookers, didn’t quite reach her eyes—those dark, furious eyes that betrayed just a flicker of something else. Recognition. Maybe even longing. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her champagne flute, the faintest tremor giving her away. She shifted her weight, not from discomfort but to brace herself—because the man approaching was tall, maddeningly composed, and far too familiar. He walked toward her like he belonged, and despite everything, her pulse stuttered.
The man smiled with infuriating calm, a predator cloaked in charm—and somehow, it only heightened the pressure building beneath Angela’s polished façade. Her lips curved into a wider, almost syrupy smile, the kind that looked sweet but tasted of arsenic. Hidden beneath layers of chiffon, her free hand clenched into a fist, the only crack in her careful composure.
She stole a glance at the elegantly dressed crowd mingling below, nodding absently when someone glanced up. Did she look as poised as she hoped? Or were they already murmuring behind raised cocktail napkins, wondering why she was locked in conversation with the one man she was supposed to avoid?
With a soft huff—equal parts frustration and nerves—Angela amped up her smile and turned back to him.
“My assistant personally confirmed that you had no intention of attending,” she said, her voice honeyed with just the right amount of bite. “I was assured that you had other plans.”
Sheik Tiro el Maistri chuckled, the sound low and warm enough to tingle up her spine. Amusement lit his dark eyes, but it wasn’t just humor—it was interest. Deep, sharp-edged interest. “Careful, Princess,” he murmured, his gaze flicking over her like a touch, “or you might just charm me.”
He waited—waited—for her inevitable snort of irritation before continuing, as if he enjoyed every beat of her barely contained annoyance. When it came, his lips curled ever so slightly with both triumph and satisfaction. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Princess,” he added, lowering his voice just enough to make her pulse jump. His eyes swept the terrace, casually checking for eavesdroppers before turning his attention back to the glittering crowd. “I came to speak with you,” he said, his voice even, almost casual. “You’re serving as Lativa’s ambassador now, aren’t you?”
Angela took a slow, deliberate sip of champagne—less for the taste, more to cool the flicker of heat his nearness provoked. He’d shifted just slightly, angling his body toward hers with that predator’s ease, and she felt it, sharp and immediate, like a live current brushing her skin.
Why couldn’t he look like the monster he clearly was? It would be so much easier if he had horns. Or warts. Or a complexion that screamedstay away.But no—he had to be tall, immaculately dressed, and so sinfully composed it made her teeth ache.
She flashed a bright smile, all teeth. “I am. And what exactly do you hope to gain from this little chat?” Her tone was light, dismissive. Her heart, on the other hand, was thudding like a warning bell.
Tiro’s gaze didn’t waver. “That depends,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Are you here to represent Lativa, or to guard your own interests?”
Her brows lifted, just slightly. “Is there a difference?”
“There usually is.” His voice was smooth as silk, but there was something underneath—something testing. Measuring. “But I was hoping you’d be the exception.”
Angela laughed, short and dry. “You’ve mistaken me for someone cooperative.”
“Not at all,” he said, and for the first time, a faint smile curved his lips. “I’ve heard you’re an exceptional pain in the ass. I simply wanted to see it for myself.”
Unfortunately, the ruler of Ginisia was, annoyingly, handsome. Not in the traditional sense—his features were too angular, too severe. But the bold line of his nose, the precise cut of his jaw… there was something infuriatingly arresting about the whole package.
If one were inclined to ignore the ever-present scowl.
Or the fact that he governed with all the finesse of a sledgehammer.
“I’m only acting as ambassador temporarily,” she continued , adjusting her stance to shift just a few more inches away. “I’m here until the actual ambassador recovers from surgery.”
“I heard,” he said quietly. “But I imagine it’s a dangerous game—putting you in front of microphones and diplomats. The wrong words could start a war.”
Angela arched a brow. “Good thing I don’t say the wrong words.”
“Hmm.” His eyes dipped to her mouth, then flicked back up. “So far.”
She didn’t like how aware she was of his presence. She didn’t like the way his height loomed in her peripheral vision, how the scent of him—clean, expensive, infuriating—kept pulling at her focus. Most of all, she didn’t like that her gaze kept returning to his jawline, sharp enough to cut glass.
Then his eyes moved over her again—slow, deliberate, unblinking. A sweep that felt more like an assessment than a glance. Something inside her fluttered unexpectedly. It wasn’t fear. Not quite. Just... foreign.
She took a half-step back, her instinct flaring—only to stumble slightly as someone moved too close behind her.
Tiro reacted before she could, one strong hand closing around her upper arm with alarming precision. Not tight, not bruising—just...aware.Like he knew exactly how far she’d move and when. Like he’d been ready.
The contact lasted barely a second, his hand releasing her the moment she regained balance. But the heated imprint of his fingers lingered, tingling through the silk of her sleeve as though her skin remembered.
Angela looked up at him sharply, trying to mask the jolt of disorientation. But his gaze had already found hers again—cool, unreadable, too perceptive for comfort. Her breath hitched, too fast, and she turned away before he could see the confusion behind her eyes.
The ballroom below bustled with color and movement. Waiters navigated clusters of guests in glittering gowns. Crystal lights shimmered overhead, refracting across glass and champagne and diamonds. Angela had come to the balcony for a reprieve. To collect herself. To escape the noise.
