In the Prince's Arms - Introduction
Al-Sintra Family
Natalie’s story…
“Is that what you’re going to wear?”
Natalie’s stomach gave a familiar clench. That sharp, cold stab of dread. The words weren’t cruel on the surface—but she’d heard that tone before. The flat disapproval hidden behind faux curiosity. She turned slowly, her hand smoothing down the front of her black sheath dress.
“That was my plan,” she said, forcing evenness into her voice. “What don’t you like about it?”
Mark’s eyes skimmed over her figure. His expression didn’t change. No warmth, no admiration. Just that eerie, clinical appraisal that always made her feel like a dress form instead of a woman.
“It’s fine,” he replied at last, then checked his watch, silently implying that her outfit choice had already made them late.
Natalie bit the inside of her cheek. For years, that word—fine—had unraveled her. But not tonight. Not anymore.
“You’re trying to undermine my confidence,” she said softly, tilting her head. Her voice held curiosity now, not weakness. “Why, Mark?”
He looked at her then, eyes widening in mock confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She watched him carefully, catching the flicker in his eyes. That quick flare of irritation before the practiced surprise slid into place. He was a master at this. The gaslight. The erosion.
But not anymore.
Natalie turned away and picked up her purse, dropping her lipstick and keys inside. “It won’t work this time,” she said, tucking the slim bag under her arm.
“What won’t work?” he snapped.
Natalie ignored his furious question, feeling stronger now that she understood what Mark was doing. “I’m driving separately.”
Mark’s voice took on a harsher edge. “You know I hate that. You drive like an old lady.”
In the past, Natalie would have flinched at his harsh words. Tonight, she felt…different. Instead of replying defensively, she turned to smile politely at Mark. “I drive cautiously,” she countered, slipping her keys between her fingers. “You don’t like me driving because it means you aren’t in control.”
His nostrils flared. “This is ridiculous.” He shook his car keys. “Get in the car. I’m driving. End of debate.”
Natalie stepped outside, locking her door behind her. Mark kept walking, assuming she’d follow. But she didn’t. And when he turned back, his face twisted in angry disbelief as she walked calmly over to her own vehicle.
“Natalie, stop this nonsense!” When she simply lifted her hand, pressing the button to release the locks on her SUV, she could almost feel his fury intensify. “You begged me to come tonight,” he snarled, jabbing the air. “You hate these types of social events because you’re too shy to do this alone. Without me by your side, you’ll just hang by the wall.”
That old script again. The one he’d whispered for years. Little lies dressed as truths.
She smiled tightly, not bothering to argue with him anymore. It was pointless and only invited more insulting comments designed to tear down her confidence. “I’m fine on my own.”
His expression shifted—irritation giving way to the smile. The smile. The one that had worked too many times before.
“Nat, come on,” he said, his voice softening, cajoling. “You know I love supporting you. We’re a team.”
She thought about last Friday—how she’d requested a rare day off, planning to sleep in, maybe visit the museum exhibit she’d been dying to see. But Mark had guilted her into staying home to cook for his colleagues. “You’re such a good cook, Nat,” he’d said, wrapping his arms around her from behind in a move that felt more like a trap than affection. “It’ll mean a lot to me. Just this once.”
She’d spent the entire day in the kitchen. Mark had chopped half an onion, complained that she wasn’t seasoning the chicken right, then wandered off to play video games while she cooked everything from scratch. Later that evening, she’d stood silently by as he told his coworkers he had made the whole meal. “I just have a natural talent in the kitchen, I guess,” he’d said smugly, accepting their praise like a king accepting tribute.
Just like at the charity auction six months ago. She’d paid for the decorations out of her own pocket—floral arrangements, silk table runners, carefully curated lighting to make the ballroom glow with warmth and elegance. Mark had walked in, scoffed, and said, “Looks a little cheap, doesn’t it?” Then spent the evening telling everyone he’d had to “step in at the last minute” because the event planners had “dropped the ball.”
Or the ski trip. Natalie had saved for months. She’d bought the lift tickets, booked the cozy lodge, even picked out matching thermals for them. The night before they were set to leave, Mark had sighed dramatically and said, “Honestly? Skiing’s not my thing. Feels like a waste of money.” Two days later, she’d learned he used her saved-up funds to take his buddies to Vegas, texting her from the strip, “Treating the guys this time. You’d just get bored anyway.”
And her birthday—God, her birthday. She’d hinted for weeks that she wanted to visit the little vineyard upstate. Something quiet. Romantic. Mark had nodded, murmuring “We’ll see.” Instead, he spent the money on box seats to a football game for his buddies. Natalie had stayed home. That night, at two in the morning, her phone buzzed.
“Hey babe. Come pick us up?”
They were drunk, laughing in the background as he barked the address. She’d gone, of course. Drove through pouring rain to collect him from the curb, where he climbed into her car, reeking of beer, and muttered, “You’re lucky I didn’t call an Uber. They charge extra for throw up.”
The memories burned through her now like fire, but instead of crumbling, Natalie felt steel settle in her spine.
Mark wasn’t a partner. He was a parasite.
And she was done.
“We’re not a team,” she said calmly. “You think that you’re the coach, the star player, the crowd, and the referee. And you think of me as just the water girl.”
He blinked.
“I’m going to be late,” she added, stepping into her car.
“Natalie!”
She closed the car door over the rest of his tantrum. He didn’t know the dinner’s location. He couldn’t follow her. Not tonight.
As she pulled away, she felt it—like air filling her lungs for the first time in years. The weight on her chest lifted. The ache behind her eyes eased.
Was she nervous about going alone? Hell yes.
But it was better than sitting next to a man who crushed her spirit with a smug, deprecating smile.
She looked in the mirror. The black dress hugged her body just right.
She looked powerful.
Rylan’s Story…
The boardroom was too hot. The air conditioner clicked and groaned, trying to keep up with the rising temperature inside. But Prince Rylan Al-Sintra, dressed in black slacks and a crisp, white shirt rolled at the cuffs, didn’t appear to sweat. He leaned back in the leather chair, exuding calm while everyone else shifted nervously around the table.
The CEO of Harrow Textiles cleared his throat, his voice wobbling as he said, “Your Highness, with all due respect, this company has been in my family for—”
“Three generations,” Rylan finished, looking bored. “Yes, I read your grandfather’s memoir. Unfortunately, your loyalty to nostalgia has cost you three straight quarters in the red. Now I own controlling interest.”
The CEO flushed. “We’ve had setbacks, true but… The supply chain—”
Rylan lifted a finger. Just one. But it was enough to shut the man up.
“I didn’t come here to listen to more excuses,” he said, his voice soft, almost coaxing. “The only reason I was able to buy controlling interest is because something failed. Badly.” He smiled faintly, and every person at the table suddenly remembered that Prince Rylan Al-Sintra was not a harmless investor. He’d made a fortune by becoming what some in the industry called “the clean up crew”. He gutted, streamlined, and sold the new version of the company off within eighteen months. He didn’t ask permission and he never apologized. He saved thousands of jobs, but was merciless about cutting out anything that wasn’t necessary.
Rylan slid a sleek folder across the table. “You’ve expense your daughter’s wedding venue to the corporate credit card. That’s been canceled. The company jet? The one that you and your cronies use to fly up to Maine to go fishing and hunting every weekend?” He paused, looking around the room at the others who were tense and embarrassed. “Gone. There are an additional eighty-seven redundancies across three departments that have been let go.” He paused, looking at the previous CEO. “If you’d like to keep your severance, I suggest you smile while I save your legacy from rotting in public view.”
Silence.
And then, grudging acceptance.
The CEO slumped in his chair, defeated.
Rylan stood and buttoned his jacket. “You’ve got thirty days to adjust. I suggest you make them count.”
Two hours later, Rylan stepped into the private courtyard of the Al-Sintra palace, where the scent of jasmine and orange blossom hung thick in the air. The harsh glint in his eyes softened immediately as he spotted his niece, Leena, sitting cross-legged on the tile, carefully trying to piece together the jagged edges of what used to be a flowered coffee mug.
“Princess,” he said, smiling as he crouched beside her. “Shouldn’t you be inside, terrifying your tutors?”
Leena looked up with a wrinkled nose. “They say I’m too loud.”
“You? Never.” He ruffled her dark curls and looked at the cracked mug. “Working on a masterpiece?” he asked as he crouched beside her.
Leena looked up, her dark curls tumbling into her eyes. “I broke it.”
Rylan sat back on his heels, surveying the damage. “That your Gramma Tasha’s mug?” he asked gently, recognizing the faded floral pattern. “The one she uses every morning for mint tea?”
Leena nodded solemnly. “I was pretending it was a dragon egg and it rolled off the pillow.” She paused, then whispered, “I don’t want Gramma Tasha to find out that I broke it.”
Rylan didn’t scold. He never did with his family. Instead, he nudged the broken pieces gently.
Rylan’s gaze lingered on the broken clay, then back to Leena’s determined face. “We’ll make it stronger. You know what the Japanese call it when they repair something with gold?”
She tilted her head. “What?”
“Kintsugi. They fill the cracks with gold to show the object’s history. It becomes more beautiful, not less.”
Leena’s eyes lit up. “Can we do that?”
Rylan pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll have the materials brought in by tomorrow morning.”
She threw her arms around his neck, and he held her tightly.
“You’re my favorite uncle,” she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t tell the others.”
She pulled back just enough to grin up at him. “No promises,” she said mischievously. “Depends on who brings me more chocolate.”
Rylan mock-gasped. “Blackmail? From my favorite niece?”
She shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “It’s not blackmail if you’re willing to pay.”
