His Hidden Heir (Al-Sintra Family #11)

Chapter 1

The destruction was absolute. Violent. Personal.

The desk—custom-built from imported walnut—hadn’t just been smashed.

It had been slaughtered. Deep gouges marred the once-polished surface like claw marks, as if someone had tried to carve their rage into the wood itself.

The drawers were strewn across the room in splintered pieces.

The chair had been reduced to jagged limbs, a pile of kindling left like a warning.

Across the wall, someone had spray-painted one word in angry, red letters:

CHEAPSKATE.

It dripped down the stark white wall like blood.

But it wasn’t just the wall. The insult had been sprayed across the carpet, the glass-topped side table, even the damn ceiling. Curtains lay in ribbons, shredded as though attacked by wild animals. The lamp shades hung in limp tatters, the bulbs still flickering.

Prince Saif Al-Sintra stood in the wreckage, breath slow, spine rigid. His first thought wasn’t fear.

It was confusion.

Why that word? Why not “liar,” or “traitor,” or even something more primal—thief, bastard, monster? Why cheapskate?

Of all the insults…

He prided himself on fairness. Born into luxury, yes—but he had seen too much of the world to mistake privilege for worth.

He paid above-market wages, offered full benefits across all levels of employment.

Warehouse staff. Factory teams. Security crews.

Every one of them had healthcare, paid leave, child care stipends. No one in his empire went unseen.

Even his mistresses had praised his generosity—often loudly, and with great enthusiasm.

His jaw flexed.

Except one.

Jemma.

That name dropped like a pebble into his mind, rippling outward. A flash of her—dark hair, quick wit, those heartbreakingly hazel eyes. He could still hear the last words she said to him, but not why she’d said them. She’d cried, but offered no explanation. Just… vanished.

No parting gift, no farewell dinner, no warning. One day she was in his bed, the next she was gone.

Not fired. Not threatened. Not even slighted.

And yet, the word still burned on the wall behind him: CHEAPSKATE.

Saif's hands curled into fists on his hips as he scanned the room again, a slow churn of unease tightening in his chest. This wasn’t random vandalism. This was deliberate. Focused.

Targeted.

And maybe—just maybe—it had nothing to do with money.

“Damn it,” he growled under his breath. A year had passed and still, still, Jemma haunted his thoughts.

Now she was haunting his office.

Or someone wanted him to think she was.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

Why did her smile—and those damn eyes—still haunt him, even now?

“Your Highness.”

The low voice cut through the silence, dragging Saif out of the memories he never seemed to escape. His lead bodyguard stepped into the wreckage with a tablet in hand, his expression tight.

“We’ve pulled the security footage. Alarms were bypassed somehow, but the cameras were operational.”

Saif turned from the ruined desk and chaos around him, jaw set. “What did you find?”

The bodyguard hesitated only a fraction before passing over the tablet. “I recognized the boy. I’ll contact my source at the Philadelphia police department. The boy will be in custody within the hour.”

Saif didn’t respond. He pressed play.

The grainy footage flickered to life. And then the breath caught in his throat.

There was Jasper.

Taller. Leaner. But unmistakably the same boy who used to tag along behind Jemma, asking questions, telling dumb jokes, and beaming with pride when his sister laughed.

Now his face was twisted in fury.

Red spray paint hissed out of the can as Jasper turned toward the wall. The letters came fast, angry, deliberate.

Cheapskate.

Saif froze the video.

He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat.

Jasper was sixteen now—almost a man—but this... this wasn’t just teenage rebellion. This was rage. Raw, feral rage. The kind that couldn’t be faked.

What the hell had happened to him?

A year ago, Jasper had been a bright, eager student with dreams of becoming a surgeon. Saif had spoken with him about those goals over dinner once. Jasper had been all elbows and ambition, talking about science and scholarships, and how he wanted to make his mother proud.

And now he was defacing property. Lashing out like a feral animal. Why?

What did cheapskate even mean?

Saif frowned, playing the video again, searching Jasper’s expression for clues. His movements were purposeful. Not rushed. Not chaotic. He was making a statement.

And somehow, Saif was at the center of it.

He lowered the tablet for a moment. “Don’t call the police. Not yet.”

The bodyguard’s eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. That was why Saif paid him so well—he knew when to ask questions and when to shut the hell up.

Saif scanned the room again. This wasn’t just vandalism. It was personal. Targeted. And if he let it go through official channels, Jasper’s future would be gone. One police report and the dream of medical school would disappear. Gone before it even began.

It didn’t add up. Jasper had been smart. Charming. Ambitious. Saif had liked the kid.

So what had changed?

He lifted the tablet and pressed play again. And again. Every frame was another question without an answer.

Finally, he paused the video and let the tablet drop to his side.

“I’ll handle this issue,” Saif said quietly, handing the device back. He turned once more to take in the wreckage. The slashed curtains. The broken furniture. The word.

This wasn’t about money.

If Jasper had done this, then this fury was about Jemma.

The betrayal of her leaving him still echoed in him, dull and sharp at once. And now her brother had walked into his office with a can of paint and a sense of vengeance that didn’t make sense.

But Saif would find out why.

And if he played it right, he’d get more than justice.

He might finally get closure.

Or something that felt dangerously close to revenge.