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

19. Faiz

CHAPTER 19

FAIZ

T he warmth of the morning sun spills across the bed, but it’s Tara’s heat that envelops me, her body curled into mine. I blink awake, my chest filled with a kind of happiness that’s both exhilarating and terrifying in its intensity. Last night wasn’t a dream. She’s here, in my bed, her head resting on my pillow, her soft breaths a soothing rhythm against my skin.

“Good morning,” she whispers without opening her eyes, her lips curving up in a smile that speaks directly to my heart. I tighten my hold on her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. We linger like this, time blurring as we exchange lazy kisses, delicate touches tracing the lines of our newfound connection.

Eventually, the call of the day beckons us downstairs. The kitchen, usually just a functional space, becomes the stage for an intimate dance between us. I want to do something normal for her, something utterly American and un-royal — pancakes and bacon. I have her take a seat while I look up a recipe then mix up the batter and pour it onto the hot griddle, determined to show off a skill I don’t actually possess.

“Watch this,” I say with feigned confidence, slipping the spatula beneath the first pancake.

My attempt at flipping it ends in a half-folded mess, a splatter of batter decorating the stovetop. Tara laughs, and her happiness is enough to make all my embarrassment melt away.

“Let me guess,” she teases, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around my waist from behind. “You were aiming for abstract pancake art?”

“Exactly,” I agree, playing along, the joy of the moment loosening the last little bit of tightness inside me. Her laughter is a melody I never knew I craved, and it’s addictive, disarming my usual guarded nature.

“Can I try?” she asks.

She flips a pancake effortlessly, and I lean in for another kiss, drawn to her like gravity. Her taste, a mix of sweet and warmth, stirs a longing that’s been dormant for far too long.

“Maybe you stick to politics, and I’ll handle the cooking,” she suggests, her voice playful yet layered with an intimacy that thrums in the air between us.

“Deal,” I murmur, my smile lingering even as I serve up the misshapen pancakes.

Looking at them, then at her, I realize perfection isn’t what I seek — not in breakfast, not in life. With Tara, every flawed flip, every burst of laughter becomes a cherished memory, a step away from the isolation I’ve built around myself and my son.

The clatter of small feet on the staircase pulls me from the cocoon of warmth Tara and I have woven around ourselves. Ali appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes widening with unbridled joy when they land on Tara.

“Dr. Tara! You came back!”

I bite into my smile and look away, knowing exclusively — of course — that Tara never left the house at all.

“Of course I came back,” she says, and he rushes into her embrace like it’s where he’s meant to be.

“I’m hungry,” Ali announces.

“How about some pancakes?” I ask.

“Cake?” He climbs onto a barstool.

“It’s close,” Tara explains. “It’s what I ate sometimes for breakfast when I was your age. It’s really good.”

Together, we settle into an easy morning, our little trio finding harmony in the chaos of spilled orange juice and crumbled pancake pieces. After breakfast, Ali retreats to the living room, hypnotized by the vibrant colors and catchy theme songs of his favorite cartoons. Tara and I slip outside, where the deck bathes in the golden glow of the morning. The world seems to hold its breath, and for a moment, everything is still.

“Mmm, I love this,” she murmurs beside me, closing her eyes and breathing in the fresh air.

We sip our coffee, every little bird tweet making me feel lighter, brighter. The porcelain warms my hands, a tangible reminder of the life unfolding before me — a life that feels more complete with her in it.

“Me too,” I confess, turning my gaze towards her.

It’s almost crazy how natural this feels, how right. This came out of nowhere — the possibility of us, of a relationship in my life.

“Look at those clouds, Faiz. They’re perfect,” she whispers, pointing to the sky. I follow her finger, seeing the whimsical shapes adrift in a sea of blue.

“Perfect,” I echo, not looking at the clouds now, but at her.

In this quiet moment, with the melodies of Ali’s laughter drifting from inside and the soft touch of Tara’s hand on mine, I let myself believe in the possibility of a future unmarred by the ghosts of duty and tradition.

“What?” she asks, catching me staring at her.

“A lot,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. “I truly like having you here. A lot.”

A blush spreads across her cheeks. “I like being here.”

“I haven’t felt judged since you came into our lives. It’s… refreshing.” My admission hangs between us, delicate and candid.

Tara shifts slightly, her gaze lingering on the garden before meeting mine. She offers me a small, reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Can I… tell you something?” she asks.

I tilt my head. Why does she look so nervous? “Of course.”

“Faiz, you’re an incredible father. Ali adores you, and it’s clear why,” she says.

The compliment settles over me like a warm blanket, but the hesitance in her tone nudges at my defenses. I wait, knowing there’s more she wants to say.

She takes a deep breath, and the air around us feels charged. “But I worry about him,” she confesses, and the words land with a weight I wasn’t prepared for. “When I was young, my parents pushed me away from friendships, drove me into my studies. Now, as an adult, I find myself isolated. I don’t know how to reach out and make friends.”

Her vulnerability echoes my own fears — a reflection in a mirror I’ve avoided looking into for too long.

“Ali needs to be with other children, not just hidden away in this palace,” she continues, her fingers twisting around a lock of her hair. “He can’t stay here forever. What’s your plan for when he gets older?”

Her question slices through the morning’s tranquility, and suddenly, the coffee in my gut turns bitter. Who is she to challenge the life I’ve built, the sacrifices I’ve made?

Clearly, she doesn’t understand any of this at all. My heart races, a drumbeat of panic at the thought of exposing Ali to the world that may not understand or accept him. And then there are the political consequences. My country needs to know their future leader is moral, just. I can at least pretend to be that, but not if everyone knows about Ali. While Zahrania is a progressive country, in some ways things are still very old-fashioned here, and even though Tara is from America, I’m surprised that she doesn’t understand this.

“Overstepping, Tara,” I snap, the words sharper than I intend. “Who are you to tell me how to raise my son?”

Her eyes widen, hurt flickering within them, and instantly I regret the harshness of my tone. But the damage is done, the fear of losing control over the carefully constructed walls around my life causing me to lash out. The possibility of intimacy, once so tantalizingly close, now feels like a threat to the safe bubble I’ve built for Ali and me.

A silence falls, heavy and oppressive, as we sit amid the shattered remnants of the morning’s peace. Tara rises from her chair, her movements stiff, the grace that usually defines her nowhere to be found.

“Faiz, I…” She presses her fingers to her lips. The sentence hangs incomplete, a thread pulled loose from the fabric we’ve been weaving together.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I offer, but it’s a hollow sound, something that doesn’t quite bridge the space that’s opened up between us.

I’m aware that it doesn’t sound like an apology at all, not the way I’ve put it, but I’m too wound up. I’m white-knuckling my way through the conversation, through the moment.

She gives me a small, tight smile, one that doesn’t reach those hazel eyes that just moments ago were alight with sweetness and warmth. Now they’re guarded, shadowed by the results of my defensiveness. My heart clenches at the sight, an echo of loneliness I recognize all too well.

“Please don’t apologize. I understand,” she says, her voice steady but distant. There’s a kindness there, the sort that’s meant to soothe, but it only serves to underscore the divide.

I sigh. “I spoke too harshly, but I stand by my words.”

She bites her lip and looks away. “Perhaps I should go.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Is she right? Was this whole thing between us nothing more than a mistake?

I watch helplessly as she gathers her things, her every move deliberate, yet there’s a tremble in her hands that betrays her calm facade. I want to reach out, to pull her back into the bubble of contentment we shared this morning, but the fear clings to me, a second skin I can’t shed.

“Take care, Faiz,” she whispers, the words almost lost beneath the songs of the birds and the rustle of the leaves.

She walks into the house. It’s a physical ache, watching her go, knowing that I’m the reason for the distance now measured in more than just steps.

The front door closes softly behind her, and for some reason that hurts more than a slam would. She has nothing to prove, no show of anger or pride to leave me with. She is simply, undramatically, done. Alone on the deck, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The sun is still shining, but its warmth no longer reaches me, eclipsed by the cold realization of what I’ve just lost.

I had imagined mornings like this, sharing them with someone who understood both the weight and the wonder of raising a child alone. Someone who could soften the sharp edges of my reality with a look, a touch, a word.

But I pushed her away. Not because I wanted to… but because I needed to.

“Damn it,” I mutter to myself, the bitterness rising in my chest. The deck is suddenly too vast, the house too silent, the world outside the walls too immense and daunting without her by my side.

The morning has lost its luster, and with it, perhaps, the one chance I’ve ever had at something real.