The Forbidden Sheik - Introduction
Al-Sintra Family
Marianna’s Story…
Marianna stared at the stranger occupying the well-worn sofa—the same spot where she and her mother had shared countless movie nights. They’d whip up a massive bowl of buttery popcorn, grab their favorite sodas, and stretch out on the cushioned ottoman. Together, they’d mock sappy romantic scenes, debate political plots, or sob in unison at tragic endings.
But those cherished rituals had ended abruptly. Her mother had passed away just days ago, leaving Marianna enveloped in a fog of grief.
Lifting her eyes to the man, she blinked back the newest wave of tears and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but what did you just say?” she asked, striving for politeness despite the turmoil roiling inside of her.
The man, perched comfortably on the sofa, repeated, “Your brothers have instructed me to take you to Lativa.”
Marianna clutched the damp tissue, confusion knitting her brow. “Why would I go to Lativa?”
The man appeared uncomfortable for a moment. “Your father passed away several years ago, Ms. Al-Sintra,” he explained, as if she needed reminding. “With your mother’s recent passing, your eldest half-brother, Sheik Khal Al-Sintra, is now your legal guardian.”
Her gaze drifted to the delicate curtains she and her mother had hung together. They’d fumbled with a power drill, laughed at their crooked handiwork, and celebrated completion of the task with takeout pizza.
“But… I don’t know my half-brother. I’ve never even met him,” she protested, anger flaring—a welcome change from the numbness. “In fact, until two minutes ago, I didn’t even know I had a half-brother!”
The man offered a patient smile. “Actually, Your Highness, you have three half-brothers: Sheik Khal, Crown Prince Joran, and Prince Raj.” He nodded as her jaw dropped. “Yes, you are the youngest sibling in the Al-Sintra family.”
She blinked, tilting her head as if that might allow her to hear, or understand, better. Blinking, she lifted her hand, one finger lifted. “I’m sorry, but what did you just call me?”
The stranger seemed taken aback by her ignorance. “You are Princess Marianna Al-Sintra, daughter of Sheik Al-Sintra.”
For a long moment, she simply stared at the man, unable to process what he was saying. Then she stood abruptly, pressing a hand to her forehead. “But… I’m not!” She gestured around the modest Parisian apartment. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I’m just… Marianna.”
The man—she really should ask his name again—folded his hands over the documents in his lap. “You are Princess Al-Sintra,” he reiterated with a forebodingly polite, patient expression.
She huffed, shaking her head as she began pacing, but the small, cluttered space wasn’t conducive to a frantic pace. Marianna wiggled her fingers at the man, shaking her head. “You can repeat the title all you want; that doesn’t make it true.”
His smile tightened, patience waning. “And you can deny facts all you want; that doesn’t change them.”
Ooh, snarky, she thought. That was a welcome transition from the previously bland tone.
“And what if I don’t want to travel to…” She paused, searching her memory.
“Lativa,” he supplied. “It’s a country located—”
She briefly closed her eyes, shaking her head impatiently. “I know where Lativa is,” she interrupted, though her knowledge was embarrassingly scant.
He stood, adopting a more authoritative tone. “We need to leave, Your Highness. It’s not safe for you here.”
Her eyes widened. “You expect me to leave… now?” She glanced around, panic rising. “I’m not packed. I don’t even know the language. I can’t find my passport—my mother kept it somewhere in her office.”
He was already shaking his head. “I understand this is sudden, but there’s a very real threat of kidnapping.”
Wait…! What? “Kidnapping? Who’s going to be kidnapped?”
“You,” he replied gravely. “Living here without bodyguards, in an unsecured home—it’s dangerous, Your Highness.” He added a bow, but Marianna considered the gesture to be one of obligation and not respect.
Ignoring the pompous bow, she clenched her fists. “Please, stop calling me that!”
Another man entered, clad in body armor and loaded down with weapons.
“The car’s ready, Your Highness. The plane’s fueled, but we need to move. We’re picking up some chatter.”
Marianna looked back at the first man, baffled. “Chatter?”
He approached, urgency in his eyes. “Let’s continue this in the car. I’ll answer all your questions, but we must leave now. You’re in grave danger.”
Thirty minutes later, Marianna found herself strapped into a luxurious leather seat as the private jet ascended. She stared out the window, watching Paris shrink away from her. What in the world was happening?
Amit’s Story…
Crown Prince Amit el Sandir of Uftar prided himself on his decisiveness, effortlessly making a hundred decisions daily. He could manipulate markets to benefit his nation, detect lies through subtle shifts in body language, and grasp the psychology behind political movements. Yet, one woman had unraveled his composure: Marianna.
Her beauty had captivated him, but he had failed to notice the heartache and confusion in her eyes during their first, and most likely last, interaction. Approaching her at the wrong moment, he had insulted her deeply. The memory of her wounded expression haunted him, and he clenched his fists in frustration. She was the half-sister of his enemy; he had no business thinking about her.
“Your Highness?” his personal assistant prompted, snapping Amit back to the present.
Amit blinked, realizing he had lost track of the meeting. The expectant faces around the conference table awaited his decision. He straightened, masking his distraction.
“I need more data,” he stated, his voice steady. Without waiting for a response, he rose and exited the room, his jaw tight.
Halfway down the corridor, his father’s voice halted him.
“Amit!”
He turned, schooling his features into a neutral expression. His father approached, his once robust frame now frail, his complexion sallow. The spark in his eyes had dimmed—a silent acknowledgment of his declining health.
“Yes, Father?” Amit asked, his tone respectful.
“What did you decide about General Osim’s retirement party?”
Heat crept up Amit’s neck. Had that been the meeting’s focus? He forced a calm demeanor.
“I told them I needed to think about it,” he replied, omitting his earlier lapse. Seeking to divert the conversation, he inquired, “How was your security briefing?”
His father sighed, shoulders sagging. “I think it’s time you take over those briefings, son.”
Walking alongside his father, Amit’s chest tightened. The man who had led their country through decades of prosperity was fading. Amit squared his shoulders, resolving to honor his father’s legacy and not let personal distractions interfere with his duties.
