The Sultan Demands His Heir

The reporter’s gaze grew a touch wary. ‘Are you alleging that Sultan Al-Ameen is directly culpable for what happened to your father?’

The woman hesitated, her plump lower lip momentarily disappearing between her teeth before emerging, gleaming, to be pressed into a displeased line. ‘It’s apparent that something’s wrong with the system. And since he’s the one in charge, I guess my question to him is what’s he doing about the situation?’ she challenged.

Zaid hit the button, blocking out the rest of the interview just as his intercom buzzed.

‘Your Highness, a thousand apologies for you having to witness that.’ The voice of his chief advisor, travelling in the SUV behind him, was almost obsequious. ‘I have just contacted the head of the TV studio. We are taking steps to have the broadcast shut down immediately—’

‘You will do no such thing,’ Zaid interjected grimly.

‘But, Your Highness, we can’t let such blatant views be aired—’

‘We can and we will. Ja’ahr is supposed to be a country that champions freedom of speech. Anyone who attempts to stand in the way of that will answer directly to me. Is that clear?’

‘Of course, Your Highness,’ his advisor agreed promptly.

As his motorcade passed the last of the protestors, he caught one last, brief glimpse of the woman on a much closer screen. Her head was tilted, the sunlight slanting over her cheekbone throwing her face into clear, more captivating lines. His jaw tightened at the further sizzle of electricity, until he was sure it would crack.

‘Do you wish me to find out who she is, Your Highness?’

He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who she was.

Esmeralda Scott.

Daughter of the criminal he intended to prosecute and put behind bars in the very near future. ‘That won’t be necessary. But have her brought to me immediately,’ he instructed.

As he hung up, he allowed the inner voice to question why he was going out of his way to trigger such a knee-jerk reaction. A second later, he smashed it away.

The why wasn’t so important. What mattered was her maligning the fragile pillars of the very things he was fighting to restore in his country. Integrity. Honour. Accountability.

Esmeralda Scott needed to answer a few questions of her own. After which he would take pleasure in pointing out the errors of her ways to her.

* * *

Esme gave in to the frantic urge to slide her clammy palms down her skirt as the black town car with tinted windows sped her towards an unknown destination. She’d cautioned herself a dozen times against letting fear take over. So far it hadn’t.

Perhaps it had something to do with the bespectacled, harmless-looking man sitting across from her and his reassurance that her interview had gained her the right audience on behalf of her father.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked for the second time, her mind still spinning at the swiftness at which her appearance on TV had earned her attention.

The question earned her a slightly less warm smile. ‘You will see for yourself when we arrive in a few minutes.’

The fear she’d staunched looming a little larger, Esme glanced out the window.

She began to notice that the landscape was growing more opulent, the parks even greener and studded with staggeringly beautiful works of art. Why that triggered a stronger sense of trepidation, Esme wasn’t sure. Sweat that had been steadily beading the back of her neck, despite the air-conditioning of the car, rolled between her shoulders.

‘My father’s prison hospital is on the other side of the city,’ she attempted again.

‘I am aware of that, Miss Scott.’

Alarm trickled through her. ‘You never said how come you knew my name.’ She’d only given the journalist her first name during the interview.

‘No, I did not.’

She opened her mouth to press for a clearer answer but closed it again as the car swerved in a wide circle before approaching huge double gates painted in stunning gold leaf. They slowed long enough for armed guards to wave them through.

‘This...is the Royal Palace,’ she mumbled, unable to stop her voice from shaking as she stared at the immense azure-coloured dome that could rival St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

‘Indeed,’ the man responded, not without a small ounce of relish.

The town car drew to a firm stop. The sweat between her shoulders grew icy. She cast another, frantic glance outside.

The penny finally dropped. She was here, at the Royal Palace. After publicly calling out the ruler of the kingdom.

Dear God, what have I done?

‘I’m here because of what I said on TV about the Sultan, aren’t I?’

A sharply dressed valet opened the door and the chief advisor stepped out. He signalled to someone out of sight before he glanced down at her. ‘That is not for me to answer. His Highness has requested your presence. I do not advise keeping him waiting.’

Before she could answer, he walked away, his shoes and those of his minders clicking precisely on the white and gold polished stone tiles that led to the entrance steps of the palace.

Esme debated remaining in the car as alarm flared into full-blown panic. The driver was still seated behind the wheel. She could ask him to take her back to her hotel. Even beg if necessary. Or she could get out and start walking. But even as the thoughts tumbled she knew it was futile.

Another set of footsteps approached the car. Esme held her breath as a man dressed in dark gold traditional clothes paused beside the open door and gave a shallow bow. He, too, was flanked by two guards.

They seem to travel in threes.

She was tossing away the mildly hysterical observation when he spoke. ‘Miss Scott, I am Fawzi Suleiman, His Royal Highness’s private secretary. If you would come with me, please?’

The question was couched in cultured diplomacy, but she had very little doubt that it was a command.

‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked anyway, half hoping for a response in the affirmative.

The response never came. What she witnessed instead was the firmer, watchful stance of the bodyguards, even while Fawzi Suleiman bowed again and swept out his arm in a polite but firm this-way gesture.

Esme alighted into dazzling sunshine and a dry breeze. She took a moment to tug down her knee-length black pencil skirt and resisted the urge to adjust her neckline. Fidgeting was a sign of weakness, and she had a feeling she would need every piece of her armour in place.

Slowly, she raised her chin and smiled. ‘Lead the way.’

He took her words literally, walking several steps ahead of her as they entered the world-famous Ja’ahr Palace.

At first sight of the interior her steps slowed and her jaw dropped.

Tiered Moorish arches framed in black lacquer and gold leaf veered off half a dozen hallways, all of which converged in a stunning atrium centred by a large azure-tiled fountain.

She dragged her gaze away long enough to see that they’d arrived at the bottom of wide, magnificent, sweeping stairs. Carpeted in the same azure tone that seemed to be the royal colour, the painstakingly carved designs that graced the bannisters were exquisite and grand.

Truly fit for a king.