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

11. Tara

CHAPTER 11

TARA

W hat a week. What a morning.

Sighing, I let myself into my office at the main palace, my skin still hot after leaving Faiz’s and my hand tingling where he brushed it. The seriousness of Ali’s situation presses against my chest — a boy confined, yet another heart balancing on the edge of Faiz’s guarded world. And then there’s Faiz himself, his presence lingering in my mind like a stubborn fragrance, warm and intoxicating.

I sit at my desk, the papers in front of me a blur. My fingers fumble through them, mechanically signing off on my agreement to updates to palace policy, but my thoughts are ensnared by that last encounter with Faiz. The way his gaze held mine while he was bandaging up my hand, it was as if he too felt that jolt, that inexplicable pull between us.

Could it be? Or am I just a fool, mistaking pleasantness for something deeper?

My task is complete before I realize, the paperwork now a neat stack to my left. The screen of my computer glows invitingly. I lean forward, the chair creaking beneath me, and navigate to an online store.

A softness settles over me as I imagine Ali’s face, his young eyes lighting up at simple joys. A football, a set of colorful pencils, books with adventures leaping from their pages — I add each item to the cart, hoping these small tokens can pierce the loneliness of palace walls.

With every click, I fight the rising tide within me, the urge to do more, to be more for Ali. And hidden beneath it all, the whisper of fear that Faiz might see this care as a threat rather than a bridge. But it’s done: the order confirmed, a gift not just for Ali, but perhaps a silent message to his father that some connections, once formed, refuse to be ignored.

I log off, the screen dimming to black. The room feels colder now, emptier. The gifts will make a difference, I tell myself. They have to. Because right now, they’re the only way I know how to reach out, to weave a strand of comfort into the fabric of this complex tapestry.

I push back from the desk, the chair scraping softly against the floor. With a sigh, I stand and make my way toward the door, the weight of solitude heavy on my shoulders.

The palace is oddly quiet as I descend the wide, marble staircase that spirals down from the upper echelons. Sunlight filters through massive windows, casting intricate shadows that dance upon the walls. A subtle breeze from the seaside whispers through the hallway, carrying with it the scent of salt and freedom — just not for me, because I don’t have what it takes to go out there and join the world.

Am I really that different from Ali? Sure, he didn’t make the choice to be where he is — I did — but does that make it any better? Any more comfortable?

I wander aimlessly through the palace, finished with my day but not wanting to go home quite yet. My afternoon yawns before me, an empty canvas that I long to fill with color and life.

As I pass the kitchen, the aroma of freshly baked bread draws me inside, a temporary salve for my loneliness. One of the cooks, a woman with warm eyes and flour-dusted apron, offers me a smile that feels like home.

“Slow day, Dr. Hague?” she asks.

“Slower than I’d like,” I admit, returning her smile with a grateful one of my own.

We chat for a while, the hum of ovens and clatter of utensils providing a soothing backdrop. She tells me about her son’s latest school play, her words painting vivid images of handmade costumes and proud, teary-eyed parents. For a moment, happiness blooms inside me, a flower in the desert. Even if I don’t have my own family, it’s nice to know that other people do, that such a blessing is meant for some.

But then, another cook calls out her name, and she glances over her shoulder, her expression apologetic. “Duty calls,” she says, a hint of regret lining her voice.

“Of course,” I reply, understanding but wishing for more time, more connection.

She gives me one last smile before turning away, leaving me alone once again amid the simmering pots and baking trays. I linger for a second longer, the warmth of our conversation fading fast, replaced by the familiar ache of isolation.

Reluctantly, I step out of the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind me. Perhaps I should seek out company more often. But the thought slips away, unanchored, as I drift toward the gardens.

I step along the cobblestones. The wind picks up, bringing a bit of respite from the heat, and I can hear the distant murmur of the sea blending with the rustle of palm leaves. The tranquility here is unparalleled. Lonely… but beautiful.

“Ah, Tara!”

Sheikh Yusuf’s voice startles me from my reverie, the strength of it carrying clear across the manicured lawn. He stands beside Sheikha Celina and near a fountain, their silhouettes framed by sprays of water glinting in the sunlight.

“Good afternoon,” I reply, my heart sinking just a fraction. A part of me wishes to remain unseen, unnoticed, yet another part welcomes any form of human contact.

With them, now, it is… complicated. Yes, that’s the best and most considerate way to put it.

“You look… disturbed,” the sheikha says. “All is well?”

“I might have stayed up too late reading,” I say, and it’s not a lie.

I did stay up late, doing my best to distract myself from thoughts of Faiz, Ali, and this secret that I’m carrying around like it’s a boulder tethered to my chest.

Sheikha Celina gives me an insightful nod, her eyes filled with a wisdom that I find both comforting and intimidating. “Sometimes, books are the best companions,” she says, a soft smile playing on her lips. “They help us escape when reality becomes too heavy to bear.”

Her words hit closer to home than she could possibly know. Holding back a sigh, I respond with a quiet, “They certainly do.”

A silence settles over us, the airy chirping of birds and the gentle whisper of the wind filling the void as they exchange glances, their eyes speaking volumes in their secret language of shared history and mutual understanding.

Then Sheikh Yusuf breaks it. “You know you can always talk to us, Tara. You’re not just an employee here; you’re part of our family.”

His words are kind, wrapped in a well-meaning sincerity that warms my heart. Yet it also serves as another reminder — a painful one — of how much I’m withholding from them.

“Thank you,” I reply, forcing a polite smile onto my face. “That means a lot.”

They excuse themselves, disappearing into the labyrinth of lush greenery that stretches beyond the garden’s edge. Alone again, I turn around and make my way toward the staff parking lot.

I could haunt the palace all day long, but with every step I would feel that I’m overstaying my welcome. No, it’s best that I head home.

And maybe that’s not all it’s time for me to leave, I consider as I get into my car and drive away.

Back in my apartment, I sit on the couch, laptop open before me. The cursor blinks on the job-search page, a silent challenge. Could I really consider leaving? Starting anew elsewhere, where royal secrets and the echoes of unspoken feelings don’t cloud my days?

“Complicated” doesn’t begin to cover it. With every click, I feel a twinge of disloyalty, a whisper of fear at the unknown. Yet the thought of remaining amid this intricate web of obligations and hidden truths is equally daunting.

“New beginnings,” I murmur to myself, the words tasting bittersweet as I type in my qualifications and hit “search.”

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to find a place where my heart isn’t pulled in ten different directions. Where I can be more than a keeper of secrets, where the distance between duty and desire isn’t so treacherous.

I hit “submit” on yet another application, a role so far removed from my current life that it might as well be in another universe.

With each application sent, my chest tightens. An uncomfortable truth settles like a stone in my stomach — this isn’t about escaping complexity; it’s about Ali.

The image of his smile, bright and unburdened, flashes before me. How can I think of walking away when he needs someone who understands? Someone who sees him not just as a burden to be stuffed into the shadows but as the boy with boundless imagination and untapped dreams?

My fingers hover over the keys, now still. They’re cold, almost numb, echoing the chill that seeps into my resolve. I close and open my eyes, focusing on the blank screen, the cursor blinking expectantly, waiting for my next move.

“Can I really leave?” The question hangs in the air, unanswered. But deep down, I know.

A sigh escapes me, heavy with resignation and an odd sense of relief. My finger reaches out, almost of its own accord, closing the tabs one by one until the screen reflects nothing but my own conflicted gaze.

“Ali needs me,” I whisper to the empty room.

I’m staying — for him, for the chance to see his potential for true freedom unfold into reality, for the bond that goes beyond titles and walls. Because sometimes, the right choice isn’t the easiest one — it’s the one that feels like home.