The Sheikh’s Secret Heir (Sheikhs and Sweethearts #3)

1. Tara

CHAPTER 1

TARA

T he first light of dawn splashes rose-gold over the Zahrania street as I weave through the early morning traffic. It’s crazy in the Middle Eastern city-state, where every hour is rush hour, businessmen and businesswomen zipping around in their luxury cars, and street vendors selling grilled meat and sliced fruits on sticks.

I’m used to it all, though. Two years into being here and I actually find the hubbub soothing. It’s so different from the small New Jersey town I grew up in, but it’s starting to feel a little bit more like home every day.

I smile to myself, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the music — until my phone’s insistent ring shatters the calm. I glance at the screen — Mom — and a familiar knot tightens in my stomach. For a second, I consider not answering, but that would only result in her calling again.

So, instead, I turn down the music and hit the answer button.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, bracing myself for the onslaught.

“Darling! How are you? Is that sheikh going to promote you soon?” she fires off without preamble.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. “There’s no promotion to have, Mom. My job doesn’t work like that.”

“Surely there must be something more they can offer you,” Dad chimes in with that tone — a mix of expectation and subtle disapproval that always makes me feel less than. And of course he’s on the line. They’re always there to back each other up.

“You’re not just any doctor, Tara,” he adds.

It should be a compliment, and maybe that’s how he means it to come across, but it doesn’t give me anything even remotely close to warm fuzzies.

They don’t understand. They see my life through the lens of perpetual ambition, always reaching, never settling. But here, in Zahrania, I’ve found a strange peace. A place where my expertise is valued without the need for climbing some endless career ladder. Forget working sixty hours a week and scrambling to perform better than every other person in my field. None of that matters here.

“Everything is great. Really,” I assure them, my voice a touch too bright. “I’m happy here.”

“All right, dear. Just remember to keep your options open,” Mom says with a tight voice.

Keep my options open? What is she even talking about?

You’d think they’d be proud of me. Millions of doctors would love to have my job, raking in a full-time paycheck for part-time work, serving a royal family. And at first my parents were proud of me — but that was two years ago. For them, there’s always another rung on the ladder to climb, and if you’re not reaching higher, you’re falling behind.

“I should go,” I say. “I’m almost at the palace.”

“Sure, sure,” Dad says. “One more thing. When are you going to invite us out there to visit you?”

His question makes me cringe. I love my parents, but having them visit me in Zahrania? The very idea has me tensing all over.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say breathlessly. “Love you guys. Talk soon.”

I quickly hang up, an exhale hissing between my teeth. I wish our conversations didn’t have to be so fraught, so heavily hung with their expectations.

I turn onto a road lined with greenery, and the palace comes into view, a majestic structure rising from the sands like a mirage made real. It’s a world away from New Jersey, from my Ivy League university, from the US hospital that ran me ragged, from the expectations and the relentless drive to be more. Here, I am enough.

“Good morning, Dr. Hague.” The guard greets me with a friendly nod as he waves me through the security checkpoint.

“Morning,” I reply, offering him a smile.

After parking in the employee lot, I pass the lush gardens that defy the arid climate, inhaling the scent of jasmine that lingers in the air. Each step through the grand hallways is accompanied by the soft echo of my heels on marble. Staff members bustle about, preparing for the day, and I exchange pleasantries with those I know.

“Dr. Hague, lovely to see you,” one of the maids says as I turn down a corridor lined with intricate tapestries and busts of dignitaries past.

“Likewise, Fatima,” I respond.

The walk to Sheikh Yusuf Al-Rashid’s wing is a journey from reality into the quiet sanctum reserved for royalty. Today, I will perform a routine checkup on a man who, despite his regal bearing, has shown me kindness and respect since the day I arrived. My role here is simple yet vital, a comforting constant.

As I approach his private chambers, I remind myself that, despite what my parents expect of me, this is my life now: a balance of duty and solitude.

It’s a life that suits my introverted nature, yet sometimes, in the quiet hours, I wonder if the absence of chaos means I’m missing out on something wilder, something more like… love. But for now, I push those thoughts aside. There’s a heartbeat to listen to, a pulse to check, and a life to reassure.

For today, it’s more than enough.

Rounding a corner, I catch sight of someone unexpected — Faiz Al-Rashid. He stands like an ancient statue, his silhouette etched against the grand window that overlooks the gardens. Stern brows knitted together, lips pressed in a tight line; he personifies the very essence of unapproachable royalty.

He’s not usually here so early in the mornings. He’s the eldest royal son, a man who prefers to sequester himself in his own palace a few miles from here — a desire that I understand well… Then again, his parents are so loving, so kind. What is there to hide from when it comes to them?

Even from this distance, his presence sends a tremor through me, a shiver of something that feels suspiciously like longing. At thirty-five, Faiz is only a little over a year older than me. Tall, strong, his features cut from polished stone, he’s the kind of man who would turn heads even if he weren’t royalty.

It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself the luxury of romantic entanglements. The pang of solitude hits harder today, perhaps because Faiz, with his enigmatic aura, reminds me of all that I’ve missed out on, both growing up and in my adult years.

I shake off the feeling, taking a deep breath as I continue on my path. There is work to be done, and I cannot afford distractions — not even those fashioned from a grumpy prince who seems to wield an unexpected power over my composure.

Minutes later, I find myself in Sheikh Yusuf’s private quarters. “Good morning, Your Highness,” I greet him, already feeling better now that I have a task in front of me.

“Ah, Dr. Hague,” he responds with a warm smile, rising to meet me. “I trust you slept well?”

“Indeed, thank you,” I reply, laying out my medical instruments with practiced ease.

The checkup flows with the smoothness of routine; his pulse, strong and sure beneath my fingertips, speaks of resilience. Blood pressure, oxygen levels, reflexes — all within the desirable range. It’s clear that Sheikh Yusuf is doing remarkably well for his age, a testament to both his robust constitution and his healthy lifestyle.

As I pack up my bag, we fall into easy conversation, chatting about literature and the shifting political sands outside the palace walls. Our discussions always carry a sense of mutual respect, a harmonious back-and-forth that transcends the boundaries of our roles. It is these moments, brief and unguarded, that remind me why I love my job — the opportunity to connect, to serve, and to be seen as more than just a doctor.

“Thank you, Tara,” he says, his eyes crinkling with sincerity. “Your dedication to your work is most commendable.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I answer, feeling my cheeks warm. In a way, I feel like he’s a surrogate father to me.

Or perhaps that’s only wishful thinking. Wouldn’t it be nice, though? To have a father who sees me for who I really am, not for what I have yet to do?

“Tara, do you ever take time away from these palace walls?” he asks. The question takes me by surprise, it’s so random.

I hesitate, biting back the instinctive flood of excuses. “No, not much,” I finally admit, feeling the reality of my solitude. “I’m a bit of a homebody. I’ve been spending a lot of time in my apartment.”

“A shame.” He tsks gently, leaning back against his daybed. “A young woman such as yourself should be among friends, having fun and being courted and romanced.” His eyes twinkle with a mix of wisdom and mischief.

“Perhaps,” I say, my cheeks warming at the thought. It’s a life foreign to me — the romance novels that pack my shelves at home a pale substitute for the reality others live.

“Then join us for dinner this evening,” he offers. “It has been too long since we’ve shared an evening together.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I reply. “I would love to.”

To dine with royalty is always an honor, even if it stirs the embers of discomfort — a reminder of the closeness I don’t share with my own family.

With the sheikh’s kind smile seeing me out, I navigate the maze that is the palace, heading for my office to collect some things. It’s not even noon, and I’m done for the day, unless some sort of emergency comes up. Basically, I’m paid to be on call for the royal family, my apartment only a ten-minute drive away.

The rest of the day stretches before me, empty and uncomfortable. I would love to put myself out there, to do something like go to the outdoor market or a meetup. It’s so foreign to me, though — stranger than moving to a new country by myself, which I’ve already done.

Sighing, I open the door to my office. And there he is again — Faiz, tall and brooding as ever, rummaging through my supplies. His presence is like a storm cloud, filling the room and making the air crackle with electricity.

I gasp. Not once has anyone ever broken into my office. Not that I know of, anyway.

“Looking for something?” I ask, not even bothering to try and hide my annoyance.

“Headache,” he grunts, barely glancing my way, his fingers deftly shuffling through pill bottles and medical instruments.

He says it as if he has every right to be here. And maybe he does. He’s royalty, after all. I’m just an American doctor who is lucky to be here.

“Here.” I retrieve a bottle of ibuprofen from a drawer and extend it to him.

Our hands brush as he takes it, sending a jolt up my arm that I quickly dismiss. He’s nothing more than a riddle wrapped in a furrowed brow — a grump with the face of an Adonis.

“Thanks,” he mutters, already heading for the door, his tall frame disappearing as swiftly as it appeared.

“Anytime,” I call after him, but the echo of the closing door is the only response.

Left alone amid the scattered remnants of my orderly space, I exhale slowly, my mind a whirlpool of questions. Why didn’t he just ask me for some ibuprofen? Or go down to the kitchens for some? There’s a first-aid kit in there.

I could let myself go down that path, one filled with “what-ifs” — and a few fantasies about me and Faiz — but I already know it’s a waste of time. Yes, I’m a romantic. But if anything else, I’m logical. Practical.

And me and Faiz? That’s anything but.