2. Tara
CHAPTER 2
TARA
“ S omething stunning,” I murmur to myself, trying to dispel the swarm of butterflies that has taken up residence in my stomach.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Tonight isn’t about impressing the sheikh and sheikha. Our relationship is far beyond that.
No, there’s a more troublesome thought nipping at the edges of my conscience. I want to turn his head — I want Faiz to see me not just as the family doctor, but as Tara. The thought alone feels like a betrayal of my professional poise, yet it clings to me, an undeniable truth.
The dress that calls out to me is one I’ve never dared to wear — a Zahranian beauty, drenched in rich amethyst hues and embellished with tiny jewels that catch the light like dew on morning flower petals. I remember the reckless splurge, the way the fabric felt like liquid confidence between my fingers. I’ve never worn it before, though I brought it home with dreams of taking it for a spin one day.
I step into the dress, the silk cascading down my frame and fitting snugly against my skin. With every movement, I can feel the weight of the jewels, and I almost feel like a sheikha myself.
“Pretty” seems too trivial a word as I catch a glimpse of myself, yet that is what echoes through the hallways of the palace when the staff see me. There’s a warmth in their eyes, a genuine delight that makes me want to believe them. It’s strange, this dance between humility and pride, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks under their admiring gazes.
“Dr. Hague, you look absolutely lovely tonight,” one of the maids says, her voice laced with an honesty that can’t be faked.
“Thank you, Layla,” I reply, smoothing down the front of my dress, suddenly conscious of how exposed I feel beneath their attention. It’s not just the dress they see — it’s me — and that’s both exciting and scary at the same time.
The chandeliers cast a soft glow over the royal dining hall as I’m escorted inside. The table is set with precision, the plates adorned with delicate patterns that rival the intricate designs on my dress. The sheikh and sheikha are already here, along with their younger son, Hamza. They all welcome me with warm smiles that ease the fluttering in my stomach, and I catch Hamza’s gaze lingering on me for the slightest moment too long.
“You look very nice.” He nods promptly and looks away, probably reminding himself that I’m only a doctor and not a proper consideration for a mate.
Which is fine by me. Hamza is a little rough around the edges for my liking, though he has always been cordial.
“Dr. Hague, it’s a pleasure to have you join us,” the sheikh greets me.
“Thank you for having me,” I respond, my tone practiced but sincere.
Hamza, ever the charming diplomat, offers me a seat next to him. “I hope you find the first course to your liking,” he says, gesturing toward the array of appetizers before us.
So we’re not waiting for Faiz?
I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. From talk about the palace, I’ve heard that he used to participate much more in family and main palace life. About five years ago, he began to withdraw. No one knew the reason for it. A heartbreak? A secret spat with his parents?
Regardless, he’s not the staple around here that his brother, who still lives in the main palace, is.
As we dine, the conversation flows from the recent advancements in Zahranian healthcare to the latest cultural festival. The sheikha’s laughter fills the room like music, and I find myself swept up in the rhythm of their familial harmony. Yet, I keep glancing at the empty chair where Faiz should be, despite my inner protests to remain indifferent.
“Faiz tends to lose track of time,” Hamza comments casually, catching my fleeting looks. “But if he is coming at all, he will be here by the main course.”
Just as the second course arrives, an aromatic blend of spices tickling our senses, Faiz bursts into the room. His presence commands attention, the air shifting with the urgency of his late arrival. His eyes scan the table, then fix on me. For a split second, his stoic mask falters, replaced by a flicker of something unread.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mutters, sliding into his chair without waiting for an invitation.
“Is everything well?” the sheikha asks, concern wrinkling her elegant features.
“Fine. Just held up with… matters,” Faiz replies, his voice clipped, cutting off further inquiry.
The tension hangs between us, a curtain I can’t seem to draw back. But the heat rising to my cheeks isn’t from the spice-laden dish before me — it’s from his unexpected scrutiny. It lingers, even as he turns his attention to his plate, leaving me wondering if my choice of attire was too bold, too revealing of the hopes I’ve buried deep within.
The conversation flows, returning to the upcoming festival, but Faiz’s presence is the jagged rock disrupting its course. He barely touches his food, his fork clinking against the plate in short, hurried intervals. I steal glances at him, trying to decipher the storm brewing behind those deep-brown eyes.
“Is the lamb not to your liking, Faiz?” the sheikh asks. He sounds annoyed, but like he’s trying to keep it in.
“No, it’s excellent as always,” Faiz responds, his gaze lifting only briefly from his plate before he shovels another hasty bite into his mouth. His words are mechanical, devoid of any real life.
“Then perhaps you might slow down and savor it,” I suggest, trying to make a joke of it all. “It’s not every day we get to enjoy such a feast together.”
It’s bold coming from me, a staff member and not one of this family, but I’m annoyed as well. The chef and cooks have prepared an amazing meal, and Faiz’s family is all here, eager to spend time with him, and this is how he behaves? Despite being royalty, I know for a fact that his parents raised him better than this.
He offers me a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s clear he wants to be anywhere but here. Then, as if on cue, he places his utensils neatly on the plate, pushes his chair back and stands abruptly.
“Please excuse me,” Faiz says, tone clipped. “Urgent matters at my residence require my attention.”
“But dessert is yet to come,” the sheikha protests gently. Her eyes widen, imploring him to stay, and it nearly breaks my heart.
“Send my apologies to the chef,” is Faiz’s curt reply as he strides out of the room, leaving a wake of unspoken tensions.
I exhale slowly, the air feeling heavier in his absence. His behavior tonight isn’t just rude — it’s an enigma wrapped in polite, empty talk. And I’m no closer to solving it than I am to understanding my own tangled feelings for the man.
No sooner has the door closed behind Faiz than Hamza leans forward, his dark eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something more predatory. “Looks like our future king would rather battle paperwork than engage in the simple pleasures of family and fine dining.”
His words, sharp and pointed, hang in the air. Though his tone is light, there’s an undercurrent of bitterness that suggests a lifetime of being second-best, and I really wish he hadn’t said anything at all. This whole night feels like it’s sliding down the drain, and I’m trying to convince myself it has nothing to do with my disappointment over Faiz not giving me a second glance.
“Perhaps he had a personal issue to attend to,” I offer weakly, though I know better. Faiz often seems like a man battling his own shadows, and tonight, those shadows have devoured whatever patience he possessed.
“Personal matter or not,” Hamza retorts, his smirk growing wider, “a true leader knows how to prioritize his time. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Hague?”
“Leadership comes in many forms,” I say carefully, trying to remain neutral despite knowing where Hamza’s provocations stem from. “And… everyone has their struggles.”
“Indeed,” he concedes, the edge in his voice softening as he turns his attention back to his wine. “But some struggles can lead to kingdoms falling.”
The warning in his words is as thinly veiled as the rivalry between them. Hamza might cloak his ambition in jests, but even I can see the throne is the ultimate prize he covets — no matter the cost.
The sheikh clears his throat, the sound a gentle dismissal. “Tara, my dear, I must apologize for Faiz’s abrupt departure. It’s unlike him.”
We both know that’s untrue. It’s actually very much like him. It’s polite of Faiz’s father to put it in such a way, though.
“Please, Sheikh Yusuf,” I say, “there’s no need to apologize. We all have our days.” But even as the words leave my lips, a part of me doesn’t believe them. This isn’t just a day for Faiz; it’s a pattern, a secret stitched tightly into his being.
Our conversation shifts then to lighter topics — a pop star coming to play at the auditorium, the progress of the new library — but Faiz hovers at the periphery of my thoughts like a persistent shadow. Two years of working close to him, and yet he remains a person I don’t understand at all. Who is he truly? What does he think about when he is alone at night? What is it that he conceals with such care?
Later, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, I stand before the mirror and peel away the layers of Zahranian jewels and fabric, each one dropping to the floor with a soft sigh. The dress lies defeated, a pool of richness at my feet, and suddenly I’m just Tara again, a thirty-four-year-old woman far from home, alone with her thoughts.
I sink into the couch, relishing the cushions’ soft give. The cool night air drifts in through an open window, carrying with it a sense of longing. Zahrania has been kind, but it’s offered me no confidants, no shoulders to lean on — except maybe the palace staff who I sometimes have lunch with.
I know I could be doing more. I could be going out, making friends. Meeting men.
But dating ? The very idea sends a tremor down my spine. I’ve been so engrossed in medical journals and patient charts that the idea of small talk over dinner, of flirtatious glances and tentative touches seems like a dance whose steps I never learned. Could I even speak to a man without referencing clinical diagnoses or treatment plans?
With a sigh, I reach for one of the romance novels that line my shelf — a guilty pleasure, a vicarious thrill. As I flip through the pages, finding solace in tales of grand love and intimate connections, I can’t help but yearn for a connection of my own, someone to share the intricacies of both heart and mind.
But another thought lingers, stubborn and unshakeable. It’s not just any connection I crave — it’s understanding Faiz Al-Rashid. What drives the heir apparent to live in such solitude? And why does this question consume me, wrapping around my heart with a grip that tightens with every encounter we share?
My eyelids grow heavy, and I pull a blanket over myself, dropping the book and getting cozy on the couch. Outside, the city sleeps under a canopy of stars, and I, too, surrender to the night, letting dreams weave fantasies that daylight would never dare entertain.