BY YOUR SIDE

9

CHAPTER 9

ZAYED

He wakes up by Layla's soft breathing, a quiet presence beside him. He slips out of bed silently, a restlessness stirring within him that has little to do with fatigue.

Excusing himself with a murmured word, he makes his way to the private office within his residence and closes the door behind him, seeking a moment of solitude.

He glances at the ornate clock on his desk. It reads 7:00 AM in Dubai. Knowing the time difference, he calculates that it is 5:00 AM in South Africa. He hesitates for a moment, mindful of the early hour, but the need to hear Ingrid's voice overrides his concern. He picks up his secure phone and dials the number Zara had provided.

The phone rings several times before a sleepy voice answers. "Hello?" Ingrid's tone is groggy, laced with the remnants of sleep.

A wave of unexpected warmth washes over Zayed at the sound of her voice, a feeling akin to relief mingled with a surprising tenderness he hadn't realized he was craving. "Ingrid? It is Zayed."

His own voice is low, a hint of hesitancy in his tone.

There is a brief pause on the other end, a rustling sound as if Ingrid is fully waking up.

"Zayed?" she repeats, her voice now clearer, tinged with a mixture of surprise and something else he cannot quite decipher. "It's early."

"Yes, I apologize for the hour," he says, a genuine regret in his tone. "I just wanted to check in. To see if you are alright."

Ingrid exhales softly. "I am okay, everything is normal, I suppose." There is a slight pause, a subtle inflection in her voice that suggests otherwise. "Thank you for arranging everything."

"Zara is ensuring your transition at the hotel goes smoothly," Zayed continues, wanting to reassure her. "You should be hearing from the management soon regarding your start date and training."

"Yes, she told me," Ingrid replies. "It all seems surreal."

"Surreal?" Zayed echoes, a hint of a smile touching his lips despite the distance between them. "Perhaps. But it is real, Ingrid. I meant what I said."

Another brief silence stretches between them, filled with unspoken thoughts and the lingering echoes of their shared experiences. Then, Ingrid speaks again, her voice softer this time. "Thank you, Zayed. For everything."

Hearing the genuine gratitude in her voice brings unexpected satisfaction. "You are welcome, Ingrid," he says, the words feeling sincere. "Take care of yourself. And…Ingrid?"

"Yes?"

"Do not hesitate to contact Zara if you need anything at all. Anything."

"Okay," she whispers. "Thank you, Zayed."

He ends the call, a strange sense of lightness settling within him. Hearing her voice, knowing she is safe, has brought a quiet happiness he hadn't anticipated. The complexities of their situation remain, but for this moment, across the miles and the vast differences in their lives, a fragile connection endures.

The door opens and Layla walks in, her eyes still soft with sleep, her dark hair tousled around her shoulders. She wears a silk robe, the fabric clinging loosely to her curves. "Habibi," she says, her voice husky. "I woke up and you were not there. It is far too early for you to be working."

He turns from the desk, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Just going over a few things," he replies, his gaze lingering on her.

Layla smirks and walks towards him, her movements fluid and sensual. Reaching him, she places her hands on his chest, her touch light but possessive. With a playful push, she guides him towards the large leather chair behind his desk and then climbs onto his lap, straddling him.

Her fingers work at the tie of his silk dressing gown, slowly loosening it until his nakedness is revealed. She leans down, her breath warm against his neck. "You are tense," she murmurs, her lips tracing the line of his jaw. Her hands then move lower, caressing him intimately. It does not take long for him to respond, his body awakening beneath her touch.

With a soft sigh, she guides him inside her, her movements becoming a slow, deliberate ride. Her arms wrap tightly around his neck, her mouth finding his ear, her soft moans filling the quiet office.

As she moves above him, he closes his eyes. In the haze of the moment, a different face flickers in his mind. He imagines Layla's dark eyes being wider, more innocent, her touch hesitant yet yielding.

He envisions the curve of her lips softened by a shy smile. The image of Ingrid, so unexpectedly vulnerable and yet possessing a quiet strength, intensifies his arousal.

The difference between the woman he holds and the memory that consumes him fuels a sudden urgency, and he reaches his climax quickly, his body shuddering beneath Layla's rhythmic movements.

KARIM

A familiar restlessness stirs within him, a constant hum beneath the surface of the opulent Dubai life. Zayed’s recent preoccupation, that cleaner from Cape Town, creates a ripple, a slight loosening of his brother's grip on their operations.

It is an opening, a crack in the foundation he has patiently waited for. Envy? Perhaps. Zayed, for all his ruthlessness, has always been the favored one, the natural leader in his father's eyes. He is no less capable, no less ambitious. His mind, perhaps even sharper, has always worked in the shadows, anticipating, strategizing.

The early morning finds him already awake, the city still stirring below his window. He moves with a quiet purpose, a ghost in his own home, ensuring his communications are secure, his movements discreet. Zayed, no doubt, is still occupied with Layla. It buys him precious time.

His network operates unseen, a web of loyal contacts he has cultivated over years, independent of Zayed’s direct oversight. A coded message arrives on his secure device, Dimitri is ready.

The Eastern European deal, months in the making, is about to materialize. Arms. A volatile market, yes, but the profit margin is substantial, enough to establish a significant financial foothold, one that Zayed cannot easily dismiss.

Under the guise of a breakfast meeting with a long-standing associate, a harmless lie easily verified, he leaves the villa. His driver, one of his own men, takes a less direct route, ensuring no unwanted eyes follow. The secluded villa on the city’s edge is nondescript, unremarkable, the perfect setting for clandestine dealings.

Dimitri’s presence fills the room, a hulking figure with eyes that betray a life lived on the razor’s edge. His handshake is firm, his gaze assessing. The negotiations are brief, the terms already agreed upon through careful intermediaries. He speaks of trust, of mutual benefit. He mirrors his pragmatism, his focus solely on the transaction, the power it represents.

A flicker of satisfaction ignites within his as the deal is sealed. This is his own doing, his own risk, and the reward will be his. It is a step closer to the autonomy he craves, a subtle shift in the balance of power. Zayed’s preoccupation has been fortuitous.

Leaving the villa, the sun feels different, warmer, as if acknowledging his burgeoning independence. The lie about his breakfast meeting is delivered flawlessly. Back at the villa, he resumes his usual role, the efficient brother, the loyal partner. Beneath the surface, the landscape has shifted. The seed of ambition, long dormant, has finally begun to sprout.

INGRID

The morning of her first day at The Royale Hotel dawns with a nervous flutter in her stomach. Despite the week that has passed since her return home, the memories of her abduction within these very walls remain vivid, a chilling undercurrent beneath the surface of her anticipation.

The grand building, which once represented a terrifying unknown, now holds the promise of a new beginning, a chance at a life she had only dared to dream of. Yet, as she dresses in the smart, borrowed attire Zara had arranged, a knot of anxiety tightens in her chest. Can she truly walk back into the place where her nightmare began and embrace this unexpected opportunity?

The bus ride feels both familiar and surreal. The once distant symbol of a life beyond her reach, is now her destination. Stepping into the opulent lobby of The Royale Hotel is like crossing a threshold into another realm. The polished surfaces gleam, the air hums with quiet sophistication, and the staff move with an air of practiced elegance that makes her feel acutely aware of her own inexperience.

She approaches the reception desk, her palms slightly sweaty despite her attempts to remain calm. “I am Ingrid Iswa,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I believe I am expected to train as a Guest Relations Manager.”

The impeccably dressed receptionist smiles warmly, a stark contrast to the cold professionalism she had encountered during her brief, terrifying stay here. “Ah, Ms. Iswa, welcome. Mr. Al-Fayed’s office informed us to expect you. Please allow me to escort you.”

The receptionist leads Ingrid through the hushed grandeur of the lobby, past elegant lounges and shimmering water features, each step amplifying her sense of being an outsider looking in. They take an elevator to a higher floor, the doors opening onto a quieter corridor lined with plush carpets and discreetly marked offices.

“Ms. Iswa, this is Mr. Davies, the Head of Guest Relations,” the receptionist says, gesturing to a tall, affable man who greets her with a welcoming smile. “Mr. Davies will be overseeing your training.”

Mr. Davies shakes Ingrid’s hand warmly, his manner immediately putting her slightly at ease. “Welcome to The Royale, Ingrid. We are delighted to have you join our team. Mr. Al-Fayed speaks very highly of you.” His words, though intended to be reassuring, send a fresh wave of nervousness through Ingrid. What exactly did Zayed say? What expectations do these people have of her?

The training begins immediately, a whirlwind of information about hotel operations, guest etiquette, reservation systems, and complaint handling. Mr. Davies is patient and thorough, guiding her through each process with clear explanations and encouraging words. He introduces her to various members of the staff, each interaction a mix of polite curiosity and professional courtesy.

Throughout the day, however, the underlying tension of her past experience here remains. Every familiar corridor, every glimpse of a security guard, triggers a fleeting memory of fear. She finds herself constantly scanning her surroundings, a subconscious vigilance that belies her attempts to appear attentive and engaged in her training.

During a brief lunch break in the staff cafeteria, a kind older waitress notices Ingrid’s unease.

“You seem a little quiet, dear,” she says gently. “First day nerves?”

She manages a weak smile. “Something like that,” she replies, unable to articulate the true complexity of her emotions.

The day progresses in a similar vein, a blend of absorbing new information and battling the resurfacing trauma of her abduction. Mr. Davies expresses his satisfaction with her quick learning and her polite demeanor, offering words of encouragement for the days ahead.

As the training concludes for the day, she feels exhausted, both mental and emotional. Walking back out into the bustling city, she carries with her the weight of her new responsibility and the lingering shadow of the events that brought her here, a constant reminder of the dangerous man who now holds the key to her future.