Amir Al-Faisal (Amir)

The palace of Qasr Al Noor (his capital) was quiet in the late afternoon, the gold-hued sunlight spilling across its marble floors.

The air carried the faint scent of sandalwood—my mother’s favorite fragrance—lingering like a shadow.

The sun had barely touched the horizon, yet the palace was alive with its usual rhythm: servants moving with quiet precision, guards posted at every archway, the soft hum of endless planning echoing through its corridors.

I leaned against the marble balcony, my eyes tracing the courtyards below.

They said a Crown Prince never truly belonged to himself.

They were right.

From the moment I took my first breath, my life was not mine—it belonged to Al-Mazhar’s (country).

My steps were measured by duty, my words weighed against legacy, my blood bound to a throne built by centuries of kings.

And yet, tonight, as I sat in the carved sandalwood chair of my study in Qasr Al Noor—the Palace of Light—I was not thinking of my people, or my council, or the endless duties that came with the power.

I was thinking of her.

Her eyes—dark, stubborn—had once challenged me without fear.

Her smile—sharp as a blade, soft as a whisper.

The way she looked at me—as if she saw the man beneath the crown, and yet still chose to walk away.

For years, I told myself it was anger that made me remember. Anger that she had left me with questions. Anger that she had been close to my brother, Zayden. Anger that she knew him and maybe something about his death as well, that I could not reach.

But deep down, beneath the fury and pride, was something simpler.

I wanted her.

I had always wanted her.

I shut the file in front of me with more force than needed. Numbers and reports blurred when her voice echoed in my mind. I reached for a glass of water, but my grip tightened until the glass almost cracked in my hand.

My thoughts were interrupted by the soft knock on my door. It broke through the silence.

“Enter,” I snapped.

The door opened to reveal Sheikha Mariam bint Khalid, my stepmother. Regal, calm, always composed. Her silks whispered against the marble as she entered, her presence commanding quiet respect.

“When will you return to the capital, Amir?” she asked. “How long will you stay in India?”

“I’ll be back in less than a week,” I replied curtly, not looking up from my phone.

“What happened, Amir? You are restless again,” Mariam observed, her voice gentle but firm.

" Nothing! Leave me alone, please."

“You need to let out whatever is bothering you. You are the ruler of this country, your people need a steady king, Amir, not a man, lost in his shadows.”

“I am steady,” I said, setting down the glass. “Do not mistake my silence for weakness.

Her lips curved faintly, though her tone carried steel. “Your silence is growing heavier every year. Zayden has gone, we can't help it. But you must think of Al-Mazhar’s (country) future—of having heirs.” he was her son, but she was being very practical.

My jaw tightened. “Do not speak of Zayden tonight.”

But she didn’t stop. She never did when it came to duty.

“King Omar of Al-Nadir has written again,” she pressed on. “He wants you to meet his daughter, Princess Suraiya. The match would strengthen ties between our kingdoms. She is young, educated, and obedient—”

I laughed, bitterly. “Educated? Obedient? Do you think I need a doll to warm my bed and share my throne, or a silent vessel to give me a son?”

Her composure cracked, her tone sharpened. “Do not speak so lightly about your duty! Without you, the House of Al-Faisal dies. Zayden was reckless, yes, but he was still our blood. The crown could have gone to him if you refused it. But now he is gone, and you are all that remains. Do you want the throne to pass to distant cousins who care nothing for this land?”

Her words hit like arrows. Because she was right.

Without me, Al-Mazhar’s future was uncertain. Because they would never care about our land and the betterment of the people.

And yet—I could not give myself away so easily. Not while the ghost of someone's smile still haunted me.

“I like Princess Suraiya,” Mariam continued softly. “She is perfect to be considered as your future wife. It’s high time, Amir.”

I let out a quiet snort, not bothering to hide my irritation.“I do not wish to be bound by arrangements or politics. I will decide when it is right—not when others think it should be.”

She stepped closer, voice softening. “I know, Amir. But you are the Crown Prince. Your people’s well-being, your kingdom’s future—none of it can wait. You need to marry, have children, you need to give the next ruler to the kingdom, your successor. You cannot afford to ignore these matters.”

I turned away, running a hand through my dark hair, frustrated. Politics, alliances, family expectations. Always a chain around my neck.

“I will marry,” I said finally, “when and who I choose. This princess will have to wait.”

Mariam sighed softly. “Remember, Amir—the world watches you. You cannot hide behind walls of indifference when matters of alliance, loyalty and respect are at stake.”

“And one more thing,” she said, lifting a scroll with careful hands. “Dr. Vikram Singh Rathore’s son is getting married and he sent a Manuhar Patrika (A special invitation) personally, Amir. These are not ordinary requests. His father and your grandfather were best friends, they studied together in Oxford. Being in India, it would be considered impolite—not just impolite, an insult, if you don't attend. You must attend.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Ya Allah!! (O God) Even across oceans, protocol followed me. “Fine,” I said. “I will go. But only because it is unavoidable.”

Her lips curved into satisfaction. “Good. Your presence will be noted and respected.”

She paused. “Then I will invite King Omar and his daughter next week.”

My voice dropped, quiet and firm. “Enough. I will not be trapped into a political marriage.”

I turned toward the tall arched window. The moonlight poured over the desert sands, the scent of jasmine drifting through the open lattice.

For a moment, I let myself breathe.

---

India

India was a swirl of colors and sounds, I reached Jodhpur after I finished my business in New Delhi. I had taken the presidential suite at the Umaid Palace. I didn’t know why—but ever since I set foot in this country, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Maybe because, she was an Indian.

Something in me whispered that she was near.

I sent my men her photograph, every detail I knew. “Find her,” I ordered. “She is a photographer. That is all you need to know.”

I couldn’t sleep for the whole night. My thoughts were chained to her—the questions, the memories, the ache of unfinished truth.

What had she shared with Zayden?

Was she connected to his death?

And most of all—why had she vanished from my life without a trace?

---

The next day, I arrived at the Rathore estate.

The air smelled of jasmine and sandalwood, laced with the quiet luxury of old royalty. The moment I stepped from my car, the world seemed to pause. I was welcomed by the photographers, the greeting committee, a very royal and formal welcome. Guests moved gracefully across the sprawling courtyard, a delicate ballet of politics, family, and pride

The family’s hospitality surrounded me in a blur of gold and crimson.

Their palace shimmered like a jewel. Silk drapes, crystal chandeliers, and petals scattered across polished marble. The deep rhythm of drums mixed with the high notes of the shehnai, echoing through courtyards alive with celebration.

Garlands were placed around my neck, a tilak brushed across my forehead, and courtesies exchanged with folded hands. It was lavish, it was expected—just another royal function.

But my heart wasn’t here.

I had already planned my exit, excuses ready.

I had fulfilled my duty—made an appearance, shown respect as they invited me with the special invitation, Manuhaar Patrika. Soon, I could leave this golden cage and return to my silence.

I was about to greet Dr. Vikram and offer my excuses for taking a leave, when—

The world stopped.

I saw her.

Across the glittering courtyard, beneath chandeliers strung from carved arches—she stood.

Her laughter drifted through the air, light and effortless.

Her lehenga, ivory silk embroidered with rose-gold threadwork, shimmered like moonlight wrapping her curves. The fabric clung and swayed, each step whispering against her skin.

The blouse was graceful yet daring, way too daring, her bare back was being kissed by the golden light.

Yah allah!! Please keep me sane.

Why the hell was she wearing that blouse, with so many men around??