Claiming His Replacement Queen

CHAPTER ONE (#u865b0a6b-23c2-5d2f-91f8-02789bc1f79e)

‘I’D RATHER DIE than be your wife a moment longer.’

Khal opened his eyes, clean cool air filling his lungs with painful force. His surroundings were a jolt to his system, the sleek interior of the royal jet’s main cabin so far apart from the angry red sands and fathomless black water of his dream. It had just been a dream. He sat back, looking up at the ceiling as his heartbeat found its rhythm once more.

His subconscious had long ago stopped tormenting him with every detail of his last conversation with his wife before her death. Or so he had believed.

He unbuckled his seat belt and stood, stretching out the painful tightness in his shoulders. He could have chosen to sleep in any one of the three luxurious bedrooms on board, but sleep had not come easily of late. The dreams were back with a vengeance. The same dreams that had plagued him for an entire year after his wife’s death. Stress seemed to be a trigger and the past few weeks had most certainly not been a relaxing time.

He pressed a button on the panel by his side and, as if by magic, two flight attendants emerged from the end of the cabin. A tray bearing hot towels and fresh ice water was placed on the nearest table without a word. His chair was returned to the upright position and a pot of hot coffee set down within reach.

‘That will be all, thank you,’ he said, his voice unintentionally gravelly from sleep. He glanced up just in time to see one of the women visibly flinch as he waved one hand in dismissal. He fought the urge to roll his eyes with irritation. Without another word, they hurried back behind the curtain and he was alone once more. Just as he preferred it.

Most of his staff knew him well enough to disregard the rumours that had spread upon his wife’s untimely passing. Disgusting, slanderous rumours that he had worked hard to dispel even while in the first days of his grief. But still, whispers spread and somehow the idea that he was a man to be feared had stuck.

People believed him to be a villain and it suited him to keep it that way. He was not forced to make idle conversation, to pretend to care. He did not throw social functions nor did he attend a great many.

Or at least he hadn’t until recently.

Khal opened his laptop and scanned an assortment of international news articles that his press team had collated from the past week. The Most Romantic Royal Love Story of the Decade, one headline proclaimed. It was any news reporter’s dream, Princess Olivia of the tiny European kingdom of Monteverre turning her back on her lofty title to marry a man her family deemed unsuitable. One picture showed Khal’s close friend Roman Lazarov as he walked hand in hand with the beautiful redhead. What a cruel twist of fate it was that the woman he had finally chosen as his second wife, the answer to all his economic woes, would be snatched up at the last moment. And by his best friend, no less.

Remarrying had never been in his plans for his reign as Sheikh. He had been a young man on his first wedding day, filled with naïve hope for the future. That version of himself was long gone. He had no desire to find a woman to mend his broken heart, or any of the other schemes he had heard whispered by his mother and sister when they thought he could not hear. Thanks to his sister, he had two strong nephews that would carry on the Al Rhas bloodline and therefore he’d believed he had absolutely no need for a wife.

But he could no longer deny that the rumours surrounding his wife’s demise were affecting Zayyar’s international image. His country had been peaceful for over two decades, his father and grandfather before him credited with having brought their small Middle Eastern kingdom back from the brink of complete ruin. Khal had no wish for fame or a place in the history books, but he refused to be remembered as the Sheikh who had ruined all of their hard work.

Known for his careful planning, he had spent months drawing up an arrangement with Monteverre, one of the oldest and most financially troubled kingdoms in Europe. It was a deal that would solve all his problems in one fell swoop. He would provide the Monteverrian economy with a very healthy injection of capital and in return he would gain a loyal alliance in the form of the perfect bride with the perfect amount of political influence and public appeal.

By now the whole world knew that the Princess had given up her formal title to be with her scandalous Russian lover. There was no mention of a failed engagement to the Sheikh of Zayyar in any newspaper, nor would there ever be, thanks to his team. His name rarely graced any of the world media sources, nor did paparazzi images. He paid handsomely for his privacy. And a good thing too, considering he was about to arrive unannounced into a foreign country to retrieve his replacement bride.

He knew nothing of the youngest Sandoval Princess, only that she had been studying abroad in England for many years and had agreed to his offer of a royal marriage of convenience with very little hesitation. She had even agreed to sign a formal engagement contract without first meeting in person. He should feel relieved that his plans had not been completely derailed, and yet something seemed off.

He had amended the terms of the agreement from its original form, limiting the deal to five years of marriage in name only, followed by an easy divorce settlement. With such a solid link to European royalty provided by his bride, five years would be more than enough time for him to repair the bridges that had been burned by his reputation. Divorce was a common occurrence across the globe; Zayyar was no different. Still, he knew he would not truly rest until he had spoken to his fiancée in person.

He spent the remainder of the flight in quiet contemplation, barely noticing that they had landed until his pilot announced the incredibly low temperature in the city of London. It was the middle of May and yet he felt the need to pull up the collar of his impeccably tailored wool coat as he made the short trip from jet to limousine, grateful that he had chosen to change into Western-style clothing mid-flight. His usual flowing white robes were perfect for the desert heat, but not designed for the chilly, wet weather so common in this part of the world.

His Chief of Security sat waiting in the car, his expression stressed—Sayyid never looked stressed. Immediately Khal’s instincts stood to attention.

‘There has been a small problem,’ Sayyid said solemnly.

Khal kept his features expressionless as his trusted servant outlined the events of the past twenty-four hours’ surveillance operation. Finally, he closed his eyes, fighting the urge not to slam his fist into the door panel. ‘You believe she is a flight risk?’

‘She shows all of the signs of it, Sire.’ After a prolonged silence, Sayyid cleared his throat quietly. ‘If you give me the order, I will have the Princess collected immediately and delivered to the jet.’

‘Your men are currently in pursuit?’ Khal spoke with quiet control, hardly believing history was repeating itself so blatantly.

‘She is safely surrounded and unaware of their presence.’

Khal nodded, running a hand across the light stubble on his jaw. He had already taken King Fabian’s word once and been burned, but this time it was different. He had sent his personal secretary to London with official documents and ensured that Her Highness signed them herself in person. He had done everything within his power to ensure her complete consent before entering into a legally binding engagement to protect his investment. If she walked away from their engagement now, the repercussions for her kingdom were grave.

Surely she realised that?

But of course he had to be prepared for the fact that maybe she did not care. Nonetheless, at this moment in time she was his fiancée. And in Zayyar that was as good as already being his wife. He had a duty to ensure her safety. Princess Cressida might be having second thoughts about their marriage, but he’d be damned if he would send anyone in to talk her round this time, other than himself.

‘I’ll handle this myself.’ He spoke with a calm he did not feel. ‘Take me to her.’

* * *

The exclusive club was a secret to most Londoners, hidden away behind the rather nondescript black door of a Georgian townhouse in Mayfair. The chilly breeze brushed across her skin as Cressida Sandoval stepped out onto the pavement and looked up at the building’s dimly lit facade. The urge to abandon her plans and retreat to the warm interior of the limousine was strong. Frank, her loyal chauffeur of five years, was not happy with her insistence that he remain behind and he’d made his disapproval known by slamming the door audibly behind her.

‘Your Highness, are you sure you don’t want me to escort you inside?’ He spoke quietly, worrying his black tie with one hand.

Cressida stiffened at the honorific. The title that set her so far apart from every other twenty-four-year-old woman seeking a night of freedom. She inhaled softly, reminding herself that her freedom relied entirely on the driver’s discretion. ‘I have never asked for a favour before now.’

He shook his head, leaning back against the car bonnet. ‘Five years of driving you from home to Oxford, Oxford to home, like blimmin’ clockwork. Last night on the job and you’ve decided to give me heart failure.’

‘Two hours alone, Frank. That’s all I want.’ She understood his worry; his job would be on the line if anything happened to her on his watch. If she’d had any street sense she would probably have taken a cab, but princesses did not take cabs, nor did they sneak out unaccompanied to secret clubs in the dead of night. She’d had to dodge her two bodyguards and beg Frank, just to get him to agree to drive her and wait outside. Once the time was up, she would return to reality. Or at least the suffocating reality of what her life had recently become.

Her father’s voice rang in her ears.

‘Politically advantageous...royal duty...for the good of the kingdom.’

Tomorrow she would become Princess Cressida Sandoval once more, returning to her kingdom after five years of self-imposed exile. Her father, the King of Monteverre, had barely listened to her weak argument about the European languages doctorate she had signed up for or the assistant teaching position she had been offered. ‘Princesses do not teach, Cressida,’ he had boomed in his usual way. ‘I’m sure the Sheikh will have plenty of dusty old books for you to bury your nose in, or whatever it is that you’ve been wasting your time with for the past five years.’

The Sheikh. Her future husband.

She should not feel so nervous about something that was essentially just a business arrangement. Five years of service, her father had said. How utterly romantic. Not that romance had ever played a part in her life so far, but still... She had been comfortable here in London, away from the watching eyes of the public. Was she truly ready to become a queen?

A fresh wave of anxiety fuelled her with adrenaline as she met the eyes of the burly man guarding the door to the club. She quietly spoke the code word she had overheard three nights before from one of her bodyguards. The door was opened without comment, revealing plush red carpeted stairs with sleek chrome handrails descending downwards. She paused for a moment, fear of the unknown snaking around her chest and pulling tight. The low hum of music and conversation drifted upwards like a siren’s song.

This was her last night in London, she reminded herself as she took the first step downwards. She owed it to herself to experience at least a taste of the freedom she had stupidly taken for granted before her face graced the front of every newspaper on the globe.

She had felt the walls closing in on her as she’d signed her name on each document that had been presented to her, precious control slipping through her fingers. Perhaps that was why she was acting on impulse for the first time in her life. She was overcome with the need to go somewhere new and be someone anonymous for just a few short hours before doing The Right Thing.

Because, when it came to royal duty, she always did what was asked of her. Whether she liked it or not.

She had felt on edge from the moment she’d ended that fateful phone call with her father. Knowing that she would do as he asked, even if it was not what she wanted. He knew it too. He knew that she always felt the pressure to measure up to her older sisters. It was so much more than simple sibling rivalry. He had always made it clear that she was his least favourite, the daughter he simply tolerated. Her thoughts turned dark, thinking of that fateful day when, as a twelve-year-old, she had finally found out why...

Pausing at the end of the stairway, Cressida took in the image of a sultry blonde in red and took a deep breath as she realised it was her own reflection. Her dark blonde locks fell in soft waves around her face, free from their usual tight ponytail. Her plain black glasses had been replaced by contact lenses. Her jeans and sneakers gone, in favour of a stylish red dress and heels slightly too high for comfort. She had devoted more time and research to tonight’s outfit than she’d given to her most recent thesis. She was good at research. It was the practical application that made her insides shake. But suddenly, standing looking at this strange, almost pretty version of herself, the bands around her chest loosened a little and she felt a hint of that freedom she so craved.

The club was deceptively spacious inside, much larger than it seemed from the narrow building facade. The décor was a modern monochrome with a hint of old world glamour in the large sparkling chandeliers that hung from the ceiling at various points. A small stage with a live jazz band dominated one corner of the large space while a double-sided bar with floor-to-ceiling mirrors glittered in the middle. It was like walking into an old black-and-white movie.

Cressida walked towards the bar as confidently as she could muster, ignoring the painful beat of her heart high up in her throat.

The music was fast paced but sensual, accentuated by a husky-toned singer in a scandalously short dress and elbow-length gloves. As she slid onto a bar stool she spied a line of strategically roped-off areas towards the back, some filled with very beautiful but rather bored-looking people. The nameless secret basement club was known for its A-list clientele and its air of anonymity, according to the conversation she had overheard between her two bodyguards. No paparazzi allowed.

Even though it was a weeknight, the club was filled with people dancing and moving to the music as the lighting curved around them. As she looked on, a famous blonde singer stood up on a table and began to pour a bottle of expensive-looking champagne over the people around her. The group of men and women began dancing and gyrating under the spray, laughing and singing along to the music.

She found herself smiling in wonder at the sight of such ridiculous behaviour. If she were to truly enjoy her freedom, she would just stand and join in with the dancing and no one would look twice at her... The thought came and passed as she took a seat at the end of the long bar, comfortably on the outskirts of the action.