CELINE:The Sheikh Dessert Bride

Chapter one Celine wiped the final streak of polish from the mahogany nightstand, her muscles aching from hours of scrubbing and fluffing pillows in the opulent suite. The room smelled faintly of lavender cleaner mixed with the hotel's signature jasmine scent—notes that always lingered on her uniform like an unwanted perfume. She glanced at her watch: 6:45 PM. If she hustled, she'd clock out before her manager, Mr. Hargrove, made his rounds. That man was a vulture, circling for any speck of dust or crooked towel to pick at, his nasal voice dripping with fake politeness as he docked pay or threatened write-ups.She grabbed her cleaning cart, wheels squeaking softly on the marble floors of the Al-Miraj Grand Palace, the most lavish hotel in the city. Nestled in the heart of downtown, it sprawled like a gilded oasis—crystal chandeliers dripping from vaulted ceilings, fountains bubbling in the lobby, and suites that catered to celebrities and oil tycoons. Celine had worked here for two years, mopping up after the elite, but she'd never laid eyes on the owner. Rumors swirled among the staff: maybe he was a reclusive billionaire who hated the spotlight, or some ancient sheikh pulling strings from a desert palace halfway across the world. Whatever the case, the place ran like clockwork, which was more than she could say for her own life.Heart racing with a different kind of urgency, Celine darted down the service corridor, dodging a laundry cart and slipping past the kitchen doors where chefs barked orders in a symphony of clanging pots. Today marked five months with Jamal—five months of stolen kisses in her tiny apartment, late-night texts that made her blush, and dreams of something more. She'd scrimped from her tips to buy him a sleek leather wallet, engraved with their initials. Tonight, she'd surprise him. Clock out early, slip home, shower off the day's grime, and emerge in that lacy black lingerie set she'd hidden in her drawer for weeks. Red lace hugging her curves, garters whispering against her thighs—Jamal wouldn't know what hit him.The employee exit loomed ahead, a nondescript door at the back of the hotel. Celine punched her code into the panel, the lock clicking open with a satisfying beep. Freedom. She burst into the humid evening air, the city's neon lights flickering to life as the sun dipped behind skyscrapers. A grin split her face, wide and unguarded. For once, everything felt right. Jamal had texted earlier: Can't wait to see you, babe. Pizza and Netflix? She'd play along, then blindfold him for the real surprise.The bus ride home blurred by in a haze of anticipation. Celine fidgeted with the gift bag in her lap, imagining his eyes lighting up, his strong hands pulling her close. Jamal worked construction, his body honed from hauling steel beams under the relentless sun. He wasn't the flowers-and-dinner type, but he made her laugh, held her after long shifts, and whispered promises of a future—maybe even a ring someday. Five months wasn't forever, but it was enough to make her believe.Her apartment building came into view, a weathered five-story walk-up on the edge of the bustling neighborhood. Paint peeled from the railings, and the elevator hadn't worked in months, but it was home. Celine bounded up the stairs two at a time, her sneakers thudding softly. Key in hand—the spare she'd copied last month—she paused at the door to their shared place. Jamal had insisted on paying half the rent after a month, calling it "our spot." She twisted the key, the lock tumbling with a familiar click.The door swung open to darkness, save for the faint glow of a lamp from the bedroom. Odd—Jamal usually left the living room light on. "Babe? I'm home early!" she called, kicking off her shoes and padding inside. The air felt thick, heavy with a musky scent that wasn't their usual mix of takeout and her vanilla body spray. Pizza boxes? No, something earthier, primal.Celine's pulse quickened, a thrill mixing with the day's exhaustion. Maybe he'd planned something too. She set the gift bag on the kitchen counter, fingers already tugging at her uniform blouse. A hot shower first—steam to melt away the hotel's polish, then the lingerie. She flicked on the bathroom light, splashing water on her face, watching it swirl down the drain like her worries.But as she stepped toward the bedroom, a sound stopped her cold. Low, rhythmic—moans? Laughter? No, unmistakable gasps, flesh slapping against flesh. Her stomach twisted. Heart hammering, she crept forward, the floorboards creaking under her weight. The door was ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling out.She pushed it open silently, and the world shattered. ？