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

6. Faiz

CHAPTER 6

FAIZ

I lean against the cool marble of the window frame, watching the front gate close behind Tara’s car. I should be suffused with gratitude — and I am — but it’s a gratitude knotted up with concern for Ali and a yearning that makes my chest tight.

Tara has this effect, has had it since the first day she walked into my life two years ago, all professionalism and subtle warmth. But even then, standing amid the family who trusts her implicitly, I sensed the undercurrent of something more — a connection, an impossible possibility. The complications of my life prohibit indulgence in such fantasies. And yet, I can’t help but feel the pull, magnetic and undeniable.

I push off from the window and make my way to Ali’s room, the path so practiced I could take it with my eyes closed. Opening the door, I find him propped up in his bed, a small frown creasing his forehead as he plays with a toy car. The sight of his furrowed brow increases some of the tension in my own.

“Hey, champ,” I say, ruffling his dark hair with affection. “How are you feeling?”

Ali looks up at me, his brown eyes brightening. A semblance of energy has already returned to them, though it can’t be because of anything more than Tara’s presence. “Better, Baba. I liked the lady doctor. She was nice. Can she come back?” His voice, still weak but hopeful, strikes a chord within me.

A smile tugs at my lips, my heart swelling with both love for my son and fear over what inviting Tara into our lives could mean.

“Yes, she’ll be back tomorrow to see how you’re doing,” I assure him, choosing not to dwell on the fact that Tara’s return is as much for Ali’s benefit as it is a concession to my own selfish desires to see her again.

Because even though it is risky introducing Tara to Ali, there’s a part of me that couldn’t wait to see her today. Even though I know nothing can ever happen between the two of us, there’s a flutter in my chest every time she’s around.

“Good.” Ali’s simple reply carries the weight of innocent expectation, so unaware of the complexities that roil just beneath the surface of my carefully maintained control.

For his sake, I must keep those complexities buried deep, knowing the precarious balance upon which our lives are built.

For now, there’s contentment in Ali’s gaze, and that’s enough to anchor me. I sit beside him, watching over him as he drifts into a peaceful sleep. It’s moments like this that remind me what’s at stake, why the walls I’ve erected around us must stand firm. And yet, as I think of Tara’s imminent return, I can’t shake the fear that one day, those walls might just come tumbling down.

“Faiz?” A soft whisper comes in through the door.

I look over and see Ali’s governess, Amina, standing in the doorway. Even though she works for me, I asked the entire staff long ago — what five of them are left — to address me by my first name. The day Ali came into my life, everything changed. I don’t even feel like a member of the royal family anymore, “sheikh” a title that doesn’t fit my changed form.

Carefully, so as not to wake Ali, I stand and walk over to Amina. The older woman peers at Ali with a soft smile, the earlier worry in her eyes gone.

“She is sending a course of antibiotics to the house,” I whisper.

Closing the door behind us, Amina and I step out of Ali’s dimly lit bedroom. The thick carpet swallows the sound of our footsteps as we move away from the quiet area where my son now sleeps.

“Thank you for calling her,” Amina whispers, her voice filled with a sense of relief that tugs at the corners of my heart.

She wanted to take him to a hospital, as our regular doctor who makes house calls is on vacation, but the walls of this palace are not just made of stone and mortar; they’re built from secrets and silent vows.

“Ali needs more than what we can give him here,” she adds.

I nod, the gesture more for myself than for her; I merely want to end this conversation before it even begins. “Tara will keep an eye on him,” I reply, the name feeling strange and dangerous on my tongue.

“Good,” she says, but her gaze lingers on me, and I still suspect that she was speaking about more than the illness.

She wants Ali to go to school. To make friends and go to the playground. While I of course want that for my only child, it’s not that simple of a situation. No one aside from the people in this house know about Ali. If he were to go to school, people would eventually find out he is my son.

And that would not do. Not at all.

We part ways in the corridor, Amina shuffling down the hallway to her room. Left to my thoughts, I drift toward the home gym, seeking solace in the familiar scent of leather and the clank of weights — things that usually drown out the world. Yet, today, Tara’s image infiltrates the space, her hazel eyes and freckled nose an imprint that refuses to fade.

Picking up a dumbbell, I let the cold metal ground me, the strain on my muscles a welcome distraction. But it’s futile. Every lift, every curl is interspersed with memories of her calm demeanor, her thoughtful speech threading through the chaos of my mind.

It was an emergency, I remind myself, setting the weight back in its cradle. Ali needed a doctor, and Tara… well, my parents trust her. That should be enough. It has to be enough, because if she can’t keep our secret — if anyone discovers that Ali is my son — the scandal would be catastrophic.

Sweat beads on my forehead, not from exertion, but from the heat of emotions I dare not fully acknowledge. Since Ali came into my life, women have been nothing but potential breaches in our fortress of solitude. And Tara — compassionate, poised Tara — is a risk I cannot afford to take.

Yet, as I shadowbox against the mirrored wall, throwing punches at my own reflection, I can’t shake the feeling of inevitability that hangs over me. The way she looked at Ali, the softness in her voice — it unraveled something within me. It’s a foolish thought, a dangerous one, and I shove it down, burying it beneath layers of responsibility and fear.

I can’t let desire compromise what I’ve built here. I can’t let Tara Hague, no matter how compelling, become more than what she is — a doctor for my son, a fleeting presence in our lives.

Despite how I feel about it, there’s nothing to be done. In this palace of secrets, there is no room for romance or heartache. There’s only room for survival — and perhaps, just beyond reach, a glimpse of longing for what can never be.