Chapter 2: The Reunion
1269 Words
The Burj Al Noor Hotel’s grand ballroom shimmered like a gilded cage, its crystal chandeliers scattering prisms of light over Dubai’s elite. Alessia Carter adjusted the silver tray of champagne flutes on her hip, her white gloves already damp with sweat. The air buzzed with the clink of fine china and the murmur of Arabic, French, and Russian—languages of power, money, and secrets. She hated these events. Hated the way the guests looked *through* her, as if her maid’s uniform rendered her invisible. But tonight, she needed the overtime pay.
*Two more hours*, she told herself, scanning the crowd for empty glasses. *Two more hours, and I’ll have enough for Lila’s medication.*
Her daughter’s face flashed in her mind—pale but smiling, her blue eyes bright despite the wheelchair parked by her bed. The doctors in London had called it a miracle she’d survived infancy with her rare form of muscular dystrophy. *“She’ll need constant care,”* they’d said. *“And money. A lot of money.”*
Alessia’s grip tightened on the tray. She’d sold everything—her mother’s wedding ring, her college textbooks, even her hair last year—to keep Lila breathing. Now, working double shifts at the Burj Al Noor was her last lifeline.
“Table six needs refilling,” snapped Fatima, the head housekeeper, materializing like a shadow in her black tailored suit. “And fix your hair. You look like a street rat.”
Alessia tucked a stubborn curl beneath her starched cap, her gaze drifting to the centerpiece of the room—an ice sculpture carved into the shape of a falcon mid-flight, wings spread wide. The Al-Maktoum family emblem. Her stomach lurched. Five years, and the sight of it still made her pulse skitter.
She wove through the crowd, avoiding eye contact. A man in a tuxedo dripping with diamond cufflinks leered at her, his gaze lingering on her waist. “How much for an hour, *habibti*?” he slurred, his breath reeking of cognac.
“I’m not on the menu,” she said coolly, sidestepping his grasping hand.
Her tray tilted precariously as a child darted past—a little girl in a sequined dress, giggling as she chased a stray balloon. Lila’s age. Alessia’s chest tightened. She hadn’t seen her daughter in three weeks, not since the hospital suggested palliative care. *No. I’ll find a way. I always do.*
“Watch it!”
The shout came too late. Alessia collided with a wall of muscle, champagne cascading over crisp white linen.
“I’m so sorry—” Her apology died as she looked up.
Time stopped.
Zayn Al-Maktoum stood before her, champagne dripping from his Rolex, his eyes twin flames of amber and fury.
“You,” he said, the single word a blade.
Alessia’s knees buckled. She’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times—the lies she’d tell, the composure she’d wield like armor. But faced with the man who’d haunted her dreams and nightmares, she couldn’t breathe.
He hadn’t aged. If anything, the years had honed him—sharpened his jawline, deepened the scar through his left eyebrow, hollowed his cheeks into a mask of cold perfection. His tailored tuxedo clung to broad shoulders, the diamond stud in his ear glinting like a star trapped in midnight.
“Clean this up,” he ordered his bodyguard, a hulking man with a jagged scar across his throat. “And bring her to the penthouse.”
The bodyguard—*Rashid*, his name tag read—gripped her elbow, his fingers digging into her flesh. Alessia jerked free. “I’m working. I can’t just—”
“You can, and you will,” Zayn interrupted, his voice low and lethal. “Unless you’d prefer to explain your expired visa to immigration.”
Her blood turned to ice. *How does he know?*
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Tick-tock, *habibti*.”
---
The elevator ride to the penthouse was suffocating. Alessia stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls—pale, freckled, her uniform stained with champagne. Zayn stood beside her, his presence a thundercloud. He’d grown harder in five years, his silence a weapon.
Memories clawed at her—Zayn’s hands tangled in her hair, his laugh as they raced jet skis across the Persian Gulf, his voice turning to ice when she’d shown him the pregnancy test. *“Get rid of it.”*
The elevator dinged. The doors opened to a living room of cold splendor: marble floors polished to a mirror shine, a fireplace large enough to roast a camel, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Dubai skyline. Zayn shrugged off his ruined jacket, tossing it onto a divan upholstered in gold thread.
“Sit,” he commanded, nodding to a chair carved from ebony.
She remained standing. “I’d rather not.”
His smile was a predator’s. “Still defiant. How… quaint.”
Rashid shoved her into the chair, his grip bruising. Zayn poured himself a drink, the ice clinking like bones. “You disappeared.”
“You told me to.”
“And yet here you are.” He swirled the whiskey, his gaze slicing through her. “Working at *my* hotel. Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”
“I didn’t know you owned it.” The lie tasted bitter.
“Liar.” He set down the glass. “You’re here for money. How much?”
Her nails dug into her palms. *Lila’s face. Her laugh. The way she hummed lullabies to her stuffed owl.* “I don’t want your money.”
“Everyone wants my money.” He leaned against the desk, his posture deceptively relaxed. “But you… you want something else. Redemption? Revenge?”
Alessia stood, her legs trembling. “I want to leave.”
“Sit. *Now*.”
When she didn’t obey, he closed the distance between them in two strides, his hand closing around her throat. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind her of his power. “Five years ago, you walked away. Now you’re back, drenching me in cheap champagne. You owe me answers.”
She laughed, the sound jagged. “You owe me a child.”
His grip tightened. “What did you say?”
Panic surged. *Stupid. Stupid.* “Nothing. Let me go.”
Zayn released her, his eyes narrowing. “You’re hiding something.”
“And you’re engaged,” she shot back, nodding at the newspaper on his desk—*Sheikh Zayn Al-Maktoum to Wed Socialite Leila Al-Farhan in Lavish Ceremony*.
He smirked. “Jealous?”
“Disgusted.”
Rashid’s phone buzzed. “Sir, the lawyer is here.”
“Send him in.”
A man in a pinstripe suit entered, clutching a leather folder. Zayn didn’t take his eyes off Alessia. “My father’s will stipulates I must marry to inherit his empire. Leila is… unsuitable. You, however—”
“No.”
“—are a nobody. A ghost. Marry me for one year, and I’ll make you rich.”
“Go to hell.”
He opened the folder, sliding a photo across the desk. Lila, laughing on a London carousel, her wheelchair tucked at the edge of the frame.
Alessia’s heart stopped.
“Your daughter,” Zayn said softly. “Congenital muscular dystrophy. Rare. Incurable. The Swiss clinic she needs costs twenty million euros.” He paused. “I’ll pay it. If you sign.”
The room tilted. “You’re monstrous.”
“And you’re out of options.” He handed her a pen. “Tick-tock, *habibti*.”
- Writer
