Chapter 1: Prologue – Five Years Ago
1564 Words
The Dubai sun hung like a molten coin in the sky, its heat pressing down on the marina with relentless brutality. Alessia Carter wiped beads of sweat from her temple with the back of her hand, her starched maid’s uniform clinging to her skin like a second layer of shame. She adjusted the silver tray in her grip—dates arranged in a perfect spiral, a pot of Arabic coffee steaming beside a single rose in a crystal vase. The Royal Mirage Hotel’s staff corridors were a labyrinth of gilt-edged mirrors and marble floors, their opulence a stark contrast to the cramped dormitory she shared with three other interns.
*Six months*, she repeated silently, her mantra against the exhaustion. Six more months of scrubbing toilets, ironing thousand-thread-count sheets, and dodging the wandering hands of entitled guests, and she’d finally earn her hospitality degree. Then she could trade her maid’s cap for a manager’s blazer, her windowless closet of a room for an apartment with air conditioning that didn’t cough like a dying smoker.
“Suite 901. Now.” Her supervisor, Fatima, materialized like a specter, her crimson nails tapping impatiently against the champagne bottle thrust into Alessia’s free hand. “And don’t *breathe* too loudly. Sheikh Zayn Al-Maktoum doesn’t tolerate incompetence.”
Alessia’s throat tightened. She’d heard the stories—how the Al-Maktoum heir had fired a maid for rearranging his desk, another for wearing perfume he deemed “cloying.” Rumor claimed he’d exiled himself to Dubai after a scandal involving a rival family’s daughter, a broken engagement, and a bullet meant for his father that had instead struck his mother.
The elevator ride to the ninth floor felt endless. Her reflection warped in the polished brass doors: pale skin flushed from the heat, freckles scattered like cinnamon over her nose, her ginger hair scraped into a bun so tight it tugged at her scalp. *A sparrow in a peacock’s cage*, she thought bitterly.
Suite 901’s door loomed before her, its gold-plated numbers glinting like a warning. She knocked twice, her knuckles trembling.
“Enter.”
The voice was low, its accent a blend of Arabic aristocracy and British boarding-school precision. Alessia pushed the door open, eyes fixed on the floor. The suite was a tomb of shadows, heavy curtains drawn against the daylight, the air thick with sandalwood and something darker—vetiver, maybe, or danger.
“Your refreshments, sir,” she murmured, setting the tray on the ebony coffee table.
“Look at me.”
Her breath hitched. Slowly, she raised her gaze.
He lounged on the leather sofa, suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. *Zayn Al-Maktoum*. Even in the dim light, he was magnetic—sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, eyes the color of aged whiskey, a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His gaze raked over her, lingering on the flush creeping up her neck.
“Your name.” It wasn’t a question.
“Alessia Carter, sir.”
“Alessia.” He tested the syllables like a forbidden fruit. “Italian?”
“English, sir. My grandmother was from Naples.”
He rose, his height forcing her to tilt her head back. “You’re new.”
“An intern, sir. I—”
“Pour the champagne.”
She obeyed, fingers fumbling with the bottle. The cork popped with a whisper, not a bang, but she still flinched. Champagne frothed into the crystal flute, bubbles dancing like liquid gold.
Zayn took the glass, his fingers brushing hers. A spark leapt between them—static or something far more dangerous. “Sit.”
“Sir, I’m not allowed—”
“*Sit*.”
She perched on the sofa’s edge, spine rigid. He smirked, swirling his drink. “Relax, Miss Carter. I don’t bite… unless asked.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”
His smile faded. “Yes. Tell me why a girl with a King’s College acceptance letter is scrubbing bathtubs in Dubai.”
Her throat closed. *How does he know that?*
“I read your file,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “You applied for a management traineeship. My HR director denied you. Why?”
She stared at her hands. “They said I lacked… polish.”
“Ah.” He set down his glass. “Code for ‘not Arab enough,’ ‘not connected enough,’ ‘not *rich* enough.’”
Her silence was answer enough.
Zayn leaned closer, his cologne wrapping around her—oudh and salt, like a storm over the Arabian Sea. “Would you like to prove them wrong?”
---
Three Weeks Later
Alessia pressed her back against the penthouse balcony railing, the Burj Khalifa’s spire piercing the night sky behind her. Zayn’s mouth trailed fire down her throat, his hands mapping her waist beneath the silk robe he’d bought her—*“Chanel,”* he’d said, as if she’d know what that meant.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against her skin.
“Because you’ll break me,” she whispered.
He laughed, the sound rich and dangerous. “No, *habibti*. I’ll remake you.”
The past weeks had been a fever dream. Zayn had rewritten her life with the stroke of a pen—promoting her to “personal concierge,” a title that involved more private dinners in his suite than actual work. He’d dressed her in dresses that cost more than her tuition, fed her figs dipped in gold leaf, and unraveled her with hands that worshipped and demanded in equal measure.
But tonight felt different. Desperation coiled beneath his touch, his kisses bruising where they’d once been teasing.
“Stay with me,” he growled, nipping her earlobe. “Quit the internship. I’ll house you in the Palm Jumeirah villa, hire tutors—”
She pulled back. “I’m not a mistress, Zayn.”
His grip tightened. “What are you, then?”
“Yours,” she said softly. “Until summer ends.”
He stilled. “You’ll leave.”
“My visa expires in September. You knew that.”
For a heartbeat, she saw it—the c***k in his armor, the boy who’d lost his mother to a car bomb meant for his father, the man who trusted no one. Then it vanished.
“Then we’ll make the most of our time,” he said, lifting her into his arms.
---
Six Weeks Later
Alessia stared at the bathroom mirror, the positive pregnancy test shaking in her hand. The suite’s opulence—the rose petals strewn on the bed, the diamond bracelet winking on the vanity—suddenly felt grotesque.
She found Zayn on the terrace, phone pressed to his ear, barking orders in Arabic. He turned, his smile dying at her expression.
“What is it?”
She held out the test.
His face went cold. “Get rid of it.”
The words sliced deeper than any blade. “What?”
“You’re a distraction, Alessia. A beautiful, *temporary* distraction. Did you think I’d let some… *accident* upend my family’s legacy?” He flung the test over the railing, the plastic stick vanishing into the Dubai night. “I’ll arrange a clinic. Discreetly.”
She stumbled back. “You’re a monster.”
“And you’re a fool,” he said, icy and calm, “if you believed this was more than a transaction.”
---
Present Day
Alessia huddled in the airport restroom, clutching her boarding pass to London. The clinic’s sterile scent still clung to her skin, though her womb ached with emptiness. The doctor’s words echoed: *“There was no heartbeat. These things happen.”*
She’d texted Zayn once. *It’s done.*
His reply: *Good.*
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she splashed water on her face. A baby’s cry pierced the silence from a stall nearby. Alessia froze, her heart seizing. *No. Don’t think about it.*
“Miss?” A gentle hand touched her shoulder. An elderly nurse in scrubs stood beside her, her eyes soft with pity. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Alessia lied, forcing a smile.
The nurse pressed a tissue into her hand. “Sometimes… things aren’t as they seem. Have faith.”
Before Alessia could reply, the woman vanished into the crowd.
At the gate, she peeled off the diamond bracelet Zayn had given her—the one she’d worn every day since their first night together. It clattered into the trash bin, its sparkle dulled by coffee stains and crumpled receipts.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, she pressed her forehead to the plane’s cold window and wept.
---
Epilogue Teaser
*Five Years Later*
Alessia tightened her grip on Lila’s small hand as they stepped into the Burj Al Noor Hotel’s lobby. The scent of jasmine and money assaulted her—the same as that fateful summer.
“Mummy, look!” Lila pointed to a towering ice sculpture, her blue eyes wide. “It’s a princess!”
Alessia’s blood turned to ice. The sculpture wasn’t a princess.
It was a falcon—the Al-Maktoum family emblem.
“Miss Carter?” A familiar voice slithered through the crowd.
She turned.
Zayn stood ten feet away, his gaze locked on Lila—a child with his scarred eyebrow, his golden eyes, and a smile that mirrored his own.
- Writer
