Epilogue 2
Loire Valley – France
One and a half years later
“Daddy, I’m a prince,” Tajj declares proudly, as if the whole world didn’t already know. “And I need a castle of my own. Can this one be mine?”
“No, this one belongs to your mother,” I tell him, amused. “But since she’s very generous, she’ll let you spend your vacations here too.”
I hide a smile, watching my firstborn and heir unfold his unique personality.
At his age, five, all I wanted was to cause trouble—run, jump, climb trees—and drive the servants insane with my mischief.
Tajj, however, seems to have been born an adult: composed, confident, already ready to rule a kingdom. He’s also a natural charmer, and one flash of his smile is enough to make anyone rush to fulfill his wishes—which forces Adeela and me to go in the opposite direction.
Even though we know the chances of him ever lacking anything material are slim, he needs to appreciate what he has and understand that just because we’re financially privileged, it doesn’t mean he can have everything he wants.
I refuse to raise another Naim, whose indulgent mother made him believe he was above right and wrong—and learned, in the worst possible way, that he wasn’t.
“And a horse?”
“Another one? You already have two in Rheadur.”
“But I don’t have one here,” he insists, walking beside me, both hands clasped behind his back, just like my father used to do. “I like horses. Princes need lots of them, Daddy.”
“Princes need good hearts more than horses, my son.”
“I’m a good boy. Mommy says so all the time.”
“You are. But it’s not enough to be good to our family—you have to be good to our people too. Then maybe, one day, you’ll be sheikh of Rheadur.”
I don’t want my son to grow up taking everything for granted.
After years of fighting the conservatives, I finally managed to change the law: now, the most qualified child will be my successor, not necessarily the eldest, and the people themselves will decide through direct vote.
Unfortunately, the idea of a sheikha was rejected, and I know it’ll take generations before that changes.
Still, we’ve restored the rights of women that had been suspended under Naim’s rule, and even gained new ones, like the right to file for a divorce and receive financial support from the husband for the first few years after separation.
Custody laws, however, remain unresolved. It’s a difficult, delicate issue. Personally, I believe it shouldn’t be pre-determined which parent will have custody—always the man or always the woman—but rather decided by a judge, case by case, with the child’s best interests in mind.
“I want to be sheikh, Dad. Will you teach me how to be good to our people?”
I crouch down to look him in the eyes. “You can bet I will, son. Your father will be by your side every step of the way.”
His little arms wrap tightly around my neck, and as always, when I have my wife and children so close, my heart warms. Being with my family makes me feel invincible, and at the same time, deeply grounded, as if some invisible shield were protecting us from all harm.
But I know better. Evil never truly disappears; it only hides.
After Arif’s death sentence was carried out—execution by hanging—there was another attack against our family, led by radicals who opposed the changes I brought to Rheadur. They met the same justice that had fallen upon my wife’s father.
“Is there room for me in that hug?”
“Mommy!” Tajj runs straight into her arms.
It’s the only time he acts his age: whenever his mother appears. She’s his kryptonite[47]. Like me, my son never tires of her presence.
We’re in the stables of the castle where we spent our honeymoon. After coming back here twice more, I finally decided it would be easier just to buy the place. Adeela loves it, and so do our two older children, so why not?
And I, the once-playboy, the so-called party-loving sheikh, have become a family man.
A wife, three children—who knows how many more on the way—and a nation to lead.
What I once thought would suffocate me . . . now makes me whole.
A nanny appears, telling Tajj it’s snack time with the magic word: cookies. He waves goodbye and bolts off running.
“Is the baby asleep?”
“Yes. Malika was playing with him, and suddenly, out of nowhere, as if someone flipped a switch, they both passed out.”
“Perfect,” I murmur, already pulling her into my arms and leading her toward one of the empty stalls where I’ve strategically left soft blankets.
“Where are we going?”
“To make up for lost time. We haven’t played in the stables since we got here. I want to see you ride me again.”
Her cheeks flush, though her eyes sparkle with excitement. “The last time we ‘played’ here, I ended up with Kareem as a souvenir nine months later,” she laughs.
“Then maybe,” I grin, “we’ll manage to give our trio another little sister this time.”