Chapter 12
“Who the hell are you?”
Ramzi had been enjoying himself—surprisingly so.
He’d been socializing with Stacy and John as well as being introduced to the Jones’ neighbors.
At the moment, he was grabbing beers for himself and Tabitha, but had paused, watching Tabitha laugh and flit from one friend to the next at the Thursday night barbecue had been a rare pleasure.
Her green dress fluttered as she bent to retrieve a stuffed bear for a toddler, and his gaze lingered a bit longer than it should have.
She was warm and radiant under the strings of lights, the soft glow catching in her hair as if it had been arranged just for him.
But that rude question shattered the moment.
Ramzi turned slightly, taking his time. He wasn’t inclined to respond to the disrespect in the man’s tone—especially from someone like this man.
He didn’t need to be told who it was. The beer in the guy’s hand and the bitter glint in his eye confirmed it: Martin.
The ex-fiancé. The man who had traded Tabitha for a woman with louder makeup and less sense.
Normally, Ramzi would offer his hand, introduce himself with perfect decorum. But then again, nothing about this visit had been “normal.” He wasn’t used to being approached like this, not without layers of protocol and filters.
People didn’t talk to him this way.
Ever.
The weight of his title—the Crown Prince of a sovereign nation—usually acted as an invisible shield. Diplomats, CEOs, ambassadors—they all played the game with tact. Even their insults were swaddled in courtesy and wrapped in plausible deniability.
This, though? This was just crude and loud.
Around them, conversations had slowed. More than a few people paused with half-filled paper plates or cups in hand, waiting for his response.
Curious. Suspicious. Ready for gossip. Ramzi noted how few people here actually knew who he was.
Even Tilda and Ben—sweet and kind as they’d been—probably just thought he was some corporate suit.
A visiting executive. Maybe a tech billionaire, at best.
Had Tabitha only told them he was her boss?
“My name is Ramzi,” he said finally, keeping his voice calm and even. No arrogance. No steel. No title. Just…Ramzi. He let the words settle, ignoring the flickers of tension from his bodyguards nearby. They were watching everything, but had orders not to intervene unless there was a true threat.
Martin stepped closer, lifting his beer and gesturing toward him with an exaggerated, drunken sweep. “Yeah, we got that. But who the hell are you?”
The sneer grated. Ramzi didn’t blink.
Leandra appeared next to Martin, swaying slightly as she joined the confrontation, her lipstick smudged and her eyes glassy from too much alcohol. “He’s a faker,” she scoffed, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “I think Tabitha hired this guy to play the part. Probably paid for the whole act.”
Her gaze slid toward the bodyguards. “Them too. Actors. She’s trying to impress us. Pathetic.”
Ramzi tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. The sharp, greedy gleam in her eyes told him everything. This wasn’t about truth or status. It was about her being outshined, about her not being the center of attention.
“Is that what you think?” he asked, not bothering to mask the amusement in his voice. He’d never been spoken to like this in his life—and oddly, he found it…entertaining. This whole mess would be a fantastic story to share with his cousins. Zayn, especially, would howl with laughter.
Leandra smirked, emboldened by the watching crowd. “It’s obvious. You’re just some hired pretty boy. And Tabitha?” She sniffed. “She couldn’t face coming home a failure, so she faked a fiancé.”
She grabbed Martin’s arm. “Come on, baby. Let’s get dessert. We have real friends.” She gave Ramzi one last look, the kind meant to cut—disdainful and smug.
And then someone shouted, “He’s a prince!”
Everything stopped. A strange silence bloomed in the space around them.
Ramzi turned his head, following the voice. A man was holding up his phone, scrolling rapidly, then turning the screen for others to see. People pressed closer. Murmurs rippled. “Is that him?” “Oh my gosh, it is!” “Look at the sash!” “That’s a real crown!”
Ramzi sighed inwardly. So much for blending in.
He shifted his gaze back to Martin and Leandra. The change was immediate. Leandra’s face drained of color, her mouth slightly open as her eyes darted between Ramzi and the small crowd forming around the phone.
She released Martin’s arm and took an uncertain step forward. “Is that true?” she asked, her voice no longer taunting but breathless. “Are you…royalty?”
Ramzi groaned, irritation tightening his jaw. This whole evening had taken an unfortunate turn. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the crowd until it found Tabitha.
She was chatting with a group of women, laughing at something one of them had said. And yet, the moment his eyes landed on her, she looked up—as if she’d felt him searching for her. That small reaction eased something inside him.
“Excuse me,” he said aloud, brushing past the group still muttering about royalty. “I’m going to dance with my fiancée.”
He handed the cold beers to the person nearest, still mildly surprised at how incredible the food had been.
The plastic forks and dented trays might’ve lacked elegance, but the taste had rivaled a five-star kitchen.
Well…some of the casseroles were aggressively bland, but the ribs, the brisket, and that peach cobbler? Outstanding.
Not that he cared about the food anymore. He wanted her.
As he made his way toward Tabitha, she stood slowly, her eyes never leaving his. It was the quietest invitation.
“You’ve been neglecting me, habibi,” he murmured, sliding an arm around her waist and brushing a kiss against her lips.
It was light, too light for what he wanted, but still enough to feel her respond.
Her lips moved softly against his, and Ramzi had to rein himself in before he forgot they were in public.
“Dance with me,” he said, low and rough.
It wasn’t a question.
And instantly, he realized how that sounded—demanding, not a question. He half-expected her to push him away or correct him on the spot.
But instead, Tabitha placed her hand on his chest, her smile slow and knowing.
“I’d love to dance. Thank you for asking.”
There it was.
That graceful correction. Sweet and subtle…and infuriatingly arousing.
Or maybe it was the curl of her mouth. The slight teasing tone in her voice. Or the way her fingers lingered against his shirt.
He didn’t bother to analyze it. She was close. That’s all that mattered.
When she pulled back, he nearly groaned again. But the sound died in his throat as she reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his and guiding him toward the dance floor.
Once they stepped into the music, he didn’t hesitate.
Ramzi slid his arms around her, pulling her close, relishing the way her body settled against his.
The band had chosen a slow song—perfect.
Older couples began swaying nearby, and the space filled with the sound of laughter, music, and the rustle of summer dresses.
The extra bodies on the dance floor gave him the cover he needed. No one could complain about how closely he held her.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered into her ear, savoring the way she shivered slightly. “Where did you get that dress?”
It was green, soft cotton, and sprinkled with tiny flowers.
The hem brushed her calves, but the front buttons—particularly the ones she’d left open—gave him a maddening view of her legs.
She’d also undone the top button, revealing a delicate dip between her breasts that had nearly driven him to distraction all evening.
Absolutely stunning.
And right now, she was all his.