The Desert Prince's Marriage Claim

Prologue The Marriage Addendum

GAbrIEL

The scene outside the reception area for Franklin Caldwell’s office could be the Jabal al-Dhahab mountains of Zahriya, but for two important differences.

The Santa Fe mountains don’t shimmer with heat the way the Jabal al-Dhahab do near my home. Where after the sun has baked the stone on the mountainside all day, the land gives that heat back at night.

And they are not mine.

I am Prince Gabriel, Sheikh Jabal al-Dhahab.

The mountains of my homeland and the desert at their northern base are mine to rule and serve.

I am not only the CEO of Qadir Mining Co.

, but I am the governing authority with responsibility for industry and infrastructure within the borders of my territory.

That includes the hospital to which the new clinic dedicated to the diagnosis and treatment of complex dermatologic, vascular, and autoimmune conditions is attached.

"Your Highness?" The professional tone of the receptionist brings my focus away from the view out the wall-to-ceiling windows to her. "Mr. Caldwell will see you now. If you will come this way?"

She leads me to a pair of dark paneled doors and opens the one on the right, stepping back so I can enter the office.

Standing behind a heavy executive desk, Franklin Caldwell greets me with a polished smile and slight bow of his head. "Prince Gabriel."

Broad shouldered and fit, Franklin Caldwell looks every inch the billionaire chairman of a biomedical empire.

His graying blond hair is precisely cut and his tailored suit immaculate, but he has made no apparent effort to erase the lines age has carved into his face, despite presiding over a company that could do exactly that.

"Franklin." I use his first name since he has opted for the less formal Prince Gabriel, rather than Your Highness, Sheikh Jabal al-Dhahab or even Mr. Al Qadir. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."

The slight tightening around his eyes tells me he's not used to being addressed so informally in a business meeting, but he waves me toward a chair in front of his desk. "Take a seat."

I take note that he chooses to stay on his side of the desk rather than direct me to join him in the more informal seating area on the other side of his office. Both his use of Prince Gabriel and the seating arrangements are indicative of a savvy businessman setting the tone for the meeting.

He wants me to believe he is in charge.

I cross one ankle over the other and settle my body into a relaxed pose against the back of the leather tufted armchair.

And wait.

After several seconds of silence, he clears his throat and speaks. "I admit I am intrigued by the reason for this meeting. It was my understanding that all issues related to your royal house and my company had been resolved."

If by resolved he means, we did not chase further scandal by suing his company after the egregious breach of my mother's privacy while being treated in an exclusive clinic associated with it, his imagination has too limited a scope.

"Despite the debacle of last year, your family’s treatment protocols remain unmatched," I say.

"As they will remain. Our R&D teams are made up of the most innovative minds and top scientists in the medical and pharmaceutical worlds."

His words are not a boast. If we could have found access to a treatment as effective and nontraumatic elsewhere, we would have pursued it, rather than working with a company who my father and I hold tangentially responsible for my mother's ordeal last year.

Competing companies have spent years unsuccessfully attempting to replicate the CRV-7 procedures.

The fact they cannot is the reason my mother sought treatment through one of Caldwell’s clinics in the first place.

That is the reason my father now intends to bring those treatments entirely under the control of our royal house. "It is my father's wish to secure permanent licensing rights for their use within Zahriya."

And as the king of our country, my father's wishes are as good as law. In this case, it is my job to see them through.

"Permanent rights." Franklin's eyes widen and his brows draw together. "That’s a hell of an ask."

"After what happened when the queen sought treatment outside our country, a necessary one."

The clinic receptionist sold photographs and medical details of a chronic condition my mother has been dealing with most of her adult life. One that had heretofore remained out of the public eye of scrutiny.

Speculation about her health spread through tabloids and online publications for weeks afterward.

The more truthful accounts of her SLE were bad enough.

But accusations of her seeking elitist anti-aging treatments and salacious innuendos about how she might have contracted an STD that caused the rash on her face caused maman great distress.

The humiliation she endured despite our legal team's quick action still enrages my father. My own fury is barely banked under the thin veneer of civility I am forced to wear for this meeting.

A muscle clenches in Franklin's jaw. "The individuals responsible were terminated and prosecuted."

"And yet the damage remains."

"Yes." The acknowledgment is grudging.

"My father has no intention of placing members of our family in the care of foreign clinics again," I continue. "We require sovereign oversight. Zahriyan facilities. Zahriyan medical and support staff. Zahriyan security."

"For the regenerative vascular therapies and autoimmune recovery treatment your mother received while in Switzerland?" he asks.

"For all treatments related to the CRV-7 systems." As this man knows, conditions like maman's can become resistant to treatment protocols and require adjustments.

Our royal doctors will be in a position to make those adjustments if that time comes.

"That is a very costly endeavor on your part," Caldwell observes. "You will have to buy the medical equipment as well as the license to use it."

"We are aware." I outline our offer for the long-term licensing agreements.

It includes far more than mere financial remuneration for the use of the patents. My father wants to fund further research. He has already built a dedicated medical facility capable of treating the same conditions and diseases as the clinic in Switzerland.

It only lacks the proprietary medical equipment and access to training on the treatment protocols for the elite team of doctors that staff it.

Caldwell listens without interruption, elbows on his desk, fingers steepled.

When I finish, silence settles between us.

"The financial package is generous," he says at last.

But.

The unspoken word hangs between us.

"Tell me the nature of your concerns," I demand. "And I will alleviate them."

"Not so much concerns as…conditions."

Rage surges through me. He dares to give conditions? After what my mother endured?

"What are they?" I force myself to ask in an even tone.

He relaxes back in his executive chair, a calculated move to downplay the importance of the condition or conditions he wants to introduce. My instincts go on high alert.

"In Zahriya, arranged marriages are still common among your class," he says casually.

If by class, he means the royal family, then yes. But it is also true among our greater populace. "The culture of my country prioritizes family involvement in the process of choosing a spouse."

Caldwell smiles. "Even better. I understand your older brother, the Crown Prince's marriage was the result of a contract signed when he was still a boy."

"It is not common knowledge."

"But neither is it a secret."

"No." There is no reason to hide the long-standing marriage alliance that led to my older brother marrying the princess of an ally nation.

They had only been married six months when the princess died tragically of a brain aneurism. My eldest brother has never been the same since. He was always a serious man, less inclined to smile than the rest of our family. Now, he is unquestionably dour.

"Duty. Alliances. They are building stones in your country's history and its present." Franklin's gaze turns shrewd, satisfaction bracketing his mouth. "Trading in blood and names as much as in gold and oil."

He is not wrong. We are a country with significant mineral and oil resources, but we are not large and strategic alliances have been a cornerstone of the protection of our country's independence for centuries.

"What does my brother’s contract have to do with the matter at hand?" I ask, my voice even.

"Only this." He slides the file toward me, but keeps his fingers resting on it so I cannot take it yet. "I have a daughter."

According to my information, he has three children. A son and two daughters.

"She’s twenty-four. Smart as hell, though she wastes it working part-time at the ranch as an assistant." He shakes his head. "Could have gotten a medical or business degree without breaking a sweat."

"You are disappointed she does not use her intelligence to further the interests of your company." It's not a stab in the dark.

The man's exasperation with his daughter saturates his words.

"Juliana marches to her own drummer." That Caldwell doesn't like the beat of that drum is obvious. "She's like her mother. Cares about the community and volunteers at the horse rescue ranch as well as working there."

"As fascinating as this list of your daughter's attributes is." I keep the impatience I feel out of my tone. "I gather you have a reason for sharing them?"

"Her older sister is married." His tone turns blunt. "Juliana is not."

There can be no question where he is going with this. I return him bluntness for bluntness. "You want her to be."

"Yes."

"My extended family is not lacking in men of rank," I say carefully. "If what you want is an arrangement—"

"What I want," he cuts in. "Is a marriage that looks like a love match to my daughter."