Prince of Her Heart - Introduction
Al-Sintra Family
Tabitha’s story…
Her fingers trembled as she stared at the message on her computer screen, the subject line taunting her with possibility. She hadn’t opened the email yet—but she didn’t need to. Deep in her gut, Tabitha knew what it said.
And if she was right, everything was about to change.
The knock at the door sliced through the silence. She jumped, hastily minimizing the screen.
“Hey, babe,” Martin called as he stepped into the room, his boots thudding heavily on the hardwood floor. There was no smile tonight. No charm. Just irritation carved into the lines of his face. “You ready or what?”
Tabitha forced a smile, but her throat was tight. “Yeah,” she said quickly, standing as she closed the laptop. Her mother’s handmade quilt, draped across the dining table, snagged her attention and she carefully folded it before placing it on the sideboard.
Martin huffed. “Come on, just leave it,” he muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You’re always working. I thought helping your dad meant you’re have more free time, not less.”
Tabitha slid the laptop into a drawer and turned slowly to face him, her expression measured. “I work hard for my dad,” she said, voice calm but clipped. “His clients depend on me. I’m not skipping responsibilities just because you want to go to another dangerous, most likely illegal, drag race.”
“It’s not dangerous,” Martin snapped, rolling his eyes.
Tabitha stared into Martin’s features. Had she really thought him handsome?
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked with exasperation. “Last year, Kyle nearly blew himself up because he rigged his nitrous tank too close to the car’s battery,” she shot back. “Someone ends up in the hospital every time you go to one of those things.”
Martin shrugged like it was no big deal. “So?”
That one syllable snapped something in her chest. She inhaled slowly, willing her voice to stay even.
“So, I don’t want to go,” she said simply. “I don’t like the noise. I don’t like the crowd. I don’t like running when the cops show up. And I have to be up early for work.”
His lip curled. “I’ve got a guy meeting me there tonight. He’s got the parts I need for my car. I need you with me, Tab.” He let out a snort of exasperation. “Just call in sick tomorrow. That’s the whole point of working for your dad, right? You can come and go as you want!” He snorted again. “Not like he’s going to fire you.”
Tabitha stared at him.
He really didn’t get it.
Not her work ethic, not her goals, not her. Ever since she’d gone off to university, they’d had this same, tedious argument. Now that she’d graduated, the arguments were coming more often and…Tabitha was done.
She looked over at the drawer that held her laptop. The email was still sitting there, unopened—but its contents pulsed in her mind like a second heartbeat. A job offer. Her dream job. In Philadelphia.
She hadn’t told Martin yet, because deep down, she already knew his answer. He hated the city. Said it was too loud, too fast, too filled with people who thought they were better than you. He wanted the quiet and stability of small town life. Martin wanted to travel down the same roads and go through the same daily routines for the next fifty years.
However, Tabitha wanted more.
And this job? It was more.
“I don’t think I’m going,” she said finally, her voice steady now. “Go ahead without me.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re seriously doing this?” he snapped. “You’re putting your dad’s job ahead of me again?”
“I’m putting myself first,” she said, lifting her chin. “For once.”
“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed. “You went off to college, leaving me behind. You’re so damn selfish, Tab!” Martin ran a hand through his hair. “When are you ever going to put me first? When are you going to settle down and become the kind of girlfriend that I need?”
Tabitha felt her stomach muscles tighten. Was he breaking up with her?
“Martin, I…!”
His face darkened and he held up a hand to stop her argument. “Forget it,” he spat, turning for the door. “I’ll go alone.”
The door slammed, rattling the pictures on the hallway wall.
Tabitha exhaled and closed her eyes, but instead of guilt, she felt… relief.
Pure, soul-deep relief.
Martin had interrupted her before she could say it aloud, but now the truth was undeniable: they weren’t right for each other. They never had been. She’d spent too long trying to mold herself into the woman he wanted, always stepping back so he could take up more space.
But not anymore.
She crossed the room and opened the laptop again. The email waited. Her fingers hovered for only a second before she clicked.
Congratulations.
The job was hers.
She smiled.
It wouldn’t be easy. Breaking things off, moving to a new city, starting over. But it would be okay. Her future. Her voice. Her life.
And this time, she wasn’t giving it away to make someone else feel like a man.
Ramzi’s story…
Prince Ramzi of Lativa strode through the grand marble corridors of the royal palace, his polished shoes echoing softly against the opulent walls adorned with centuries-old tapestries. As the head of several royal charities and business ventures, his days were meticulously planned, leaving little room for error. Yet, over the past few months, his personal assistant, Nigel, had managed to introduce a series of blunders that disrupted the prince’s otherwise orderly life.
Entering his expansive office, Ramzi was greeted by the sight of Nigel fumbling with a stack of papers, his tie askew and a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
“Good morning, Your Highness!” Nigel exclaimed, nearly toppling a vase as he attempted a bow.
“Morning, Nigel,” Ramzi replied, suppressing a sigh. “Do we have the agenda for today’s meetings?”
Nigel’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes! The agenda.” He rifled through the papers, eventually producing a crumpled sheet. “Here it is, sir.”
Ramzi took the paper, smoothing it out to reveal a schedule that bore little resemblance to his actual commitments.
“Nigel, this says I have a meeting with the ‘Royal Society of Beekeepers’ at 10 AM. I’m fairly certain that’s not correct.”
Nigel’s face flushed. “Oh dear, that was from last week’s schedule. Let me find the correct one.”
As Nigel scrambled, Ramzi’s mind wandered to the litany of mishaps that had plagued his days since Nigel’s appointment. There was the time Nigel had mistakenly sent an invitation intended for the Minister of Finance to a local pastry chef, resulting in a rather awkward budget meeting accompanied by an assortment of éclairs.
Then, there was the incident with the royal motorcade. Nigel had miscommunicated the departure time, leading to Ramzi arriving an hour late to a diplomatic luncheon. The foreign dignitaries had been less than amused, and Ramzi had to employ all his diplomatic charm to smooth over the faux pas.
Perhaps most memorable was Nigel’s attempt to organize a surprise birthday party for Ramzi’s mother, the Queen. In a spectacular display of misunderstanding, Nigel had booked a troupe of fire dancers, neglecting to consider the palace’s strict no-flame policy due to its historical tapestries. The ensuing chaos, complete with frantic palace guards and a near miss with a priceless rug, was the talk of the staff for weeks.
As these memories flitted through his mind, Ramzi felt a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. However, the kingdom’s affairs required precision and competence—qualities that, despite his good intentions, Nigel sorely lacked.
“Nigel,” Ramzi began gently, as the flustered assistant finally handed over the correct agenda. “We need to talk.”
Nigel’s expression shifted from frazzled to apprehensive. “Is something wrong, Your Highness?”
“Please, have a seat.”
Once Nigel was seated, Ramzi continued, choosing his words with care. “I appreciate your enthusiasm and dedication. However, I’ve noticed a series of… challenges in our daily operations.”
Nigel’s eyes darted nervously. “Challenges, sir?”
“Yes,” Ramzi nodded. “For instance, the mix-up with the Minister of Finance and the pastry chef.”
Nigel winced. “I thought ‘Minister of Fondants’ was a new title.”
“And the fire dancers at the Queen’s birthday?”
Nigel’s shoulders slumped. “I wanted it to be memorable.”
“It certainly was,” Ramzi said, allowing a small smile. “But not in the way we’d hoped.”
Taking a deep breath, Ramzi leaned forward. “Nigel, I believe your talents might be better suited elsewhere, where your creativity can truly shine without the constraints of royal protocol.”
Nigel’s face fell. “Are you… dismissing me, Your Highness?”
“I’m suggesting a transition,” Ramzi corrected gently. “Perhaps a role in event planning, where your flair for the unexpected would be an asset.”
Nigel pondered this, a glimmer of hope returning to his eyes. “Event planning? I do enjoy organizing… despite the occasional mishap.”
Ramzi smiled warmly. “Exactly. I can provide a recommendation and ensure you find a position where your skills are both appreciated and appropriate.”
Relief washed over Nigel’s features. “Thank you, Your Highness. I truly am sorry for the inconveniences I’ve caused.”
“We’ve all learned from them,” Ramzi replied, standing to signal the end of the conversation. “And I wish you the best in your new endeavors.”
As Nigel exited the office, Ramzi couldn’t help but chuckle softly. While the assistant’s tenure had been fraught with blunders, it had also brought a certain unpredictability to palace life. Still, as he turned his attention back to the day’s agenda—now blissfully accurate—he felt a sense of calm return. Order was restored, and the kingdom’s affairs could proceed with the precision they demanded.
