Three nurses ran through the gates of Al-Hadi Palace as if escaping a fire.

The first clutched her suitcase in one hand and a high heel in the other. The second cried into her phone, yelling something about suing someone. The third stopped in the middle of the parking lot, looked back at the sprawling palace, and whispered, “God help the next one.”

Emily Carter walked past them with a backpack slung over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed up on her head, and a calm smile that didn’t match the chaos around her.

“Dramatic people,” she murmured, adjusting her strap.

Just yesterday she’d been in New York City, finishing a night shift in a crowded Manhattan ER. Sirens, subway rumbles, the smell of cheap deli coffee—her normal. She’d FaceTimed her mom back in Wichita, Kansas, while wolfing down a bagel, promising this palace contract would finally help her crush her student loans. Now, instead of honking taxis and gray winter slush, she was staring at marble steps glowing under the Riyadh sun.

The palace coordinator waited at the marble entrance, a clipboard in hand and the vibe of a woman who had given up on hope a long time ago. Her name tag read: FATIMA.

“You’re the American nurse?” Fatima asked, studying Emily from head to toe as if assessing a soldier before a hopeless battle.

“That’s me. Emily Carter. Ready for duty.” Emily offered a cheerful handshake.

Fatima didn’t take it.

“Did you read the contract?”

“I did.”

“The whole contract?” Fatima narrowed her eyes. “Even the small print about not suing the palace in case of psychological trauma?”

Emily’s mouth twitched. “I thought that part was creative.”

Fatima sighed deeply. “Listen carefully. Sheikh Samir Al-Hadi is… complicated.”

“Complicated like ‘complains about the food,’ or complicated like ‘throws chairs’?”

“Complicated like fifteen nurses in six months.”

Emily blinked. “Wow. That’s almost an Olympic record.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know,” Emily said lightly. “But if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. And my mascara is only waterproof to a certain degree.”

Fatima didn’t smile. She simply handed Emily an ID badge, turned, and started walking down an endless white-marble hallway lined with crystal chandeliers and heavy silence.

Emily followed, trying very hard not to look impressed. It was impossible. The place looked bigger than three New York hospitals combined and more beautiful than anything she’d seen outside the glossy home décor magazines her mother collected in Kansas.

“He’s on the third floor, east wing,” Fatima muttered as they climbed a staircase that felt like it would never end. “Try not to take things personally. He isn’t mean. Just impossible.”

“I worked an ER in New York on New Year’s Eve,” Emily said. “Trust me, I’ve seen everything.”

Fatima stopped in front of a carved wooden double door, looked at Emily with a mix of pity and respect, and knocked three times.

“Silence! Come in,” a deep, irritated voice called from inside.

Fatima pushed the door open, gave Emily a quick little gesture that might have been encouragement or a last blessing, and practically ran off.

Emily took a breath, put on her professional smile, and stepped inside.

The suite was absurd. A king-sized bed. Silk curtains. Heated marble floors. A balcony overlooking Riyadh’s skyline, where American fast-food signs glowed faintly in the distance among Arabic lettering. It was a strange blend of worlds—one she hadn’t yet decided whether she liked.

And in the center of it all, standing near the window, was him.

Sheikh Samir Al-Hadi.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Strong jawline. Dark, tense eyes that seemed to pierce through anyone stupid enough to look too long. He held a silver cane like a medieval sword ready for battle.

His gaze swept over Emily, head to toe, with open, unfiltered disdain.

“You’re the new one,” he said.

“I am. Emily. Nice to meet you, Your Highness.” She closed the door behind her.

“You won’t last.”

Emily blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You won’t last,” he repeated slowly, as if speaking to a child. “None of them do. You can leave now and save us both time.”

Emily crossed her arms. “Well, that’s the warmest welcome I’ve ever received. Was that rehearsed or spontaneous?”

Samir narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need another nurse hovering over me, testing me, treating me like an experiment. I’m dismissing you before you even start.”

“How convenient,” she said. “But here’s the thing—I signed a contract, and unlike your other fifteen, I need this job. So, I’m sorry to say, Your Highness, but you’re stuck with me.”

His jaw tightened. No one had ever answered him like that.

“You don’t understand. I’m ordering you to leave.”

“And I’m politely declining.”

“You can’t decline a royal order.”

“I just did.”

He took two steps toward her, leaning on his cane. Even angry, even arrogant, he moved like a man in pain. Emily noticed the way his left shoulder shifted, the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in the hand gripping the cane.

Her tone softened, just a little.

“Look, I get it,” she said. “It must be awful having strangers constantly coming and going, poking, questioning, taking notes. But I’m not here to be your enemy. I’m here to help. And if you give me one chance—just one—I promise I won’t treat you like an experiment.”

Samir stared at her in silence. Those dark eyes studied every inch of her face, searching for flaws, lies, weaknesses.

Emily didn’t look away.

“One week,” he finally said, his voice low and dangerous. “If in one week you annoy me, ask a stupid question, or try to give me a lecture about positivity, you’re out.”

Emily extended her hand. “Deal.”

He looked at her hand as if it were an obvious trap. After a long moment, he shook it. His hand was warm, firm—and trembling slightly.

“By the way,” Emily added, releasing his hand, “just so you know, I’ve seen men far scarier than you whining about a fever. So relax, Your Highness. You don’t intimidate me.”

Samir was speechless. For the first time in months, something almost like a smile—small, irritated, but real—threatened the corner of his mouth.

Almost.

Emily lasted exactly seventeen hours before Samir decided to really test her.

At six in the morning, he rang the silver bell beside his bed three times, loud enough to summon a royal assembly.

Emily appeared in the doorway with her hair in a messy bun, uniform wrinkled, and a cup of coffee in her hand.

“Good morning, Your Highness. Did you sleep well, or did you stay up all night planning how to torture me?”

Samir, sitting on the bed with pillows stacked behind his back and the expression of someone about to enjoy a show, ignored the question.

“I want tea,” he said.

Emily blinked. “Please?”

“Tea. Now.”

“Got it. Forgot the magic word at home, huh? Happens.” She turned to leave.

“Wait.”

She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“Not just any tea. Traditional mint tea, served according to royal protocol. Fresh leaves. Silver teapot. Three minutes of infusion. Exact temperature: 185 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“You have a tea thermometer?”

“I do.”

“Of course you do,” Emily sighed. “Anything else? Want me to sing while I make it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Just checking.”

Twenty minutes later, Emily returned with a silver tray, a steaming teapot, and the look of someone clearly improvising.

Samir watched every move as she placed the tray on the table beside his bed.

“Is that the correct teapot?” he asked.

“It’s a teapot,” she replied.

“I didn’t ask if it’s a teapot. I asked if it’s the correct one.”

Emily picked up the teapot, turned it around, and pretended to inspect it like a museum piece.

“Looks pretty correct to me. Shiny, silver, holds hot liquids. FDA approved.”

“The what?”

“Food and Drug Administration. American agency. We approve everything.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Me? Never.”

She poured the tea with the careful concentration of someone trying to diffuse a bomb.

“Here you go, Your Highness. Hot, traditional mint tea, prepared with all the respect my lack of royal ceremony training allows.”

He took the cup, smelled it, and sipped.

Pause.

“It’s cold,” he said.

“Impossible. I just—”

“It is cold.”

Emily crossed her arms. “Okay. I’ll redo it and use the correct teapot this time.”

“There’s an incorrect one,” he said sharply. “Three.”

“Oh dear Lord.”

On the second try, Emily came back with another teapot, this one with gold details and a slightly less patient expression.

Samir took a sip, made a dramatic pause, and set the cup back on the saucer.

“Sugar.”

She took a deep breath. “You didn’t ask for sugar.”

“I’m asking now.”

“Amazing.”

She grabbed the sugar bowl from the tray—conveniently already there—and placed it in front of him with a forced smile.

“Anything else? Want me to taste it first to make sure it’s not poisoned?”

Samir almost smiled.

Almost.

“No,” he said. “But I want you to organize my medication schedule.”

“It’s already organized.”

“Reorganize it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want it.”

Emily picked up the clipboard from the bedside table, scanned the list of medications, then looked back at him.

“Your schedule is perfect,” she said. “Correct intervals, balanced doses, optimized timing. If I change anything, it’ll make it worse.”

“I don’t care. Reorganize.”

“Your Highness, with all due respect… no.”

The silence that followed was so heavy Emily could hear her own heartbeat.

“You just told me no,” Samir said.

“Technically, I said no with an ‘all due respect’ in front of it, so it was polite.”

“No one tells me no.”

“Welcome to the American experience, Your Highness. We’re annoying like that.”

At the other end of the room, two maids changing the sheets froze. One whispered something in Arabic that probably meant, She’s getting fired in three, two…

But Samir didn’t fire Emily.

He just kept staring at her as if trying to decode an impossible puzzle.

“You’re the most irritating nurse I’ve ever met,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know. But I’ll pretend it was.”

He leaned back against the pillows, clearly exhausted but too stubborn to admit it.

“Leave,” he muttered.

“Gladly.” Emily picked up the tray and turned toward the door.

“Wait.”

She stopped again. “What now? Want me to rearrange the pillows too?”

“The pain’s worse today,” he said, almost grudgingly.

He looked away immediately, as if he regretted saying anything.

“None of your business,” he added.

“Actually, it literally is my business,” she replied. “It’s in the contract. Page three, paragraph two.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.”

Emily set the tray back on the table, grabbed the stethoscope hanging around her neck, and stepped closer.

“Take a deep breath,” she said.

“I don’t need—”

“Breathe.”

He glared at her, clearly annoyed. After a tense moment, he obeyed.

Emily placed the stethoscope against his chest, listened carefully, and frowned.

“Your heart is beating fast,” she said. “Is that because you’re irritating, or because you’re in pain and trying to hide it like a stubborn teenager?”

“I’m not a teenager.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

She took a digital thermometer from her pocket.

“Open your mouth.”

“I won’t.”

She slipped the thermometer in before he could finish.

Beep.

“Mild fever,” she said. “Nothing serious, but you need rest.”

She wrote on the clipboard. “And before you ask: no, you can’t get out of bed today. No, you can’t have meetings. Yes, you’re going to take your medicine on schedule because I’m good at my job, and you’re too stubborn to admit you’re suffering.”

Samir stayed silent for a long moment.

“You’re unbearable,” he said finally.

“I know. It’s part of my charm.”

For the first time since Emily arrived at the palace, Sheikh Samir Al-Hadi actually smiled. It was small, quick, almost invisible.

But it was there.

And as Emily left the room carrying the tray of lukewarm tea and her wounded pride, she thought, Okay, maybe I can last more than a week.

She didn’t know that Samir, alone in his suite, was still smiling.

And she definitely didn’t know that Fatima, standing on the other side of the door holding a stack of resignation papers, was, for the first time in months, thinking about tearing them up.

The scream came at three in the morning.

Emily woke from a deep sleep, jumped out of the guest-room bed adjoining the sheikh’s suite, and ran barefoot across the cold marble floor, heart pounding.

When she burst into Samir’s room, she found him bent over at the edge of the bed, one hand clutching his chest, the other gripping the sheet so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Your Highness?”

He tried to speak, but only a choked sound came out.

Emily switched on the lamp, rushed to his side, and knelt on the floor.

“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me, Samir.”

He raised his eyes, and she saw something she didn’t expect.

Fear.

Pure, raw, real fear.

“I can’t breathe,” he rasped.

“Yes, you can. Look at me.” She took his hand and pressed it flat against her own chest. “Feel this. Breathe with me. Slowly.”

He shook his head, desperate. “It’s not working.”

“It’s not working because you’re breathing like a vacuum cleaner,” she said. “Stop. Breathe slowly.”

He tried.

Failed.

Tried again.

Emily cupped his face in her hands, forcing eye contact.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You’re Sheikh Samir Al-Hadi. You rule an entire kingdom. You are not going to be defeated by a panic attack. Now breathe like a normal person, please.”

He blinked. “Did you just tell me to breathe like a normal person?”

“It worked, didn’t it? You stopped gasping.”

Samir realized she was right. His breathing had slowed. Still uneven, but better.

Emily picked up her stethoscope.

“I’m going to listen to your heart. Don’t move.”

She placed the instrument against his chest and listened closely. His heartbeat was still fast, but not dangerous.

“It’s a panic attack,” she said gently. “Not cardiac. You’ll be fine.”

Samir closed his eyes, exhausted. “I thought I was dying.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But you’re not.”

Emily grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand and handed it to him.

“Drink. Slowly.”

He obeyed, taking three small sips. His hands still trembled.

“Does this happen often?” she asked, sitting beside him on the bed.

He didn’t answer.

“Your Highness, I need to know. If it happens often, we need to adjust your treatment.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “When I wake up from nightmares.”

“About what?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, looked away.

Emily didn’t push. She just sat there in silence, letting him choose.

After a long pause, Samir whispered, “About her.”

Emily frowned. “Her who?”

“My fiancée.” He swallowed hard. “She passed away three years ago.”

The weight of those words settled in the room like smoke.

Emily’s chest tightened. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Everyone says that,” Samir replied, eyes fixed on the window where the moon lit up the sleeping city. “But no one understands. No one asks how it happened. No one wants to know what I feel. They just want me to get over it. To move on. To get married again.”

“And you don’t want to?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said, rubbing his face with both hands. “It’s that I can’t. Every time I think about moving on, it feels like I’m betraying her memory.”

Emily took a deep breath.

“Can I say something without getting fired?”

He made a vague gesture. “Go ahead.”

“I think you’re confusing loyalty with prison,” she said quietly. “Remembering her, honoring her—that’s beautiful. But staying trapped in the pain? That’s not love, Your Highness. That’s punishment.” She hesitated. “And I’m sure she wouldn’t want that for you.”

Samir turned his head to look at her. His eyes were red but dry.

“You didn’t know her,” he said.

“No,” Emily answered. “But I know you. And it’s obvious you’re the kind of man who loves with everything he has. So she was probably the kind of woman who loved that way too. And someone who truly loves doesn’t want to see the other person suffer forever.”

He stayed silent.

Emily stood, picked up a blanket from the armchair, and draped it over his shoulders.

“Lie down,” she said. “Rest. I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.”

“You don’t have to,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said. “But I’m staying anyway.”

She settled into the armchair next to the bed, pulled her feet up, and got as comfortable as possible.

“By the way,” she added, trying to lighten the mood, “do you snore?”

Samir blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“Snore. Make noise while you sleep. Like a bear or a truck engine.”

“I… don’t know.”

“Great. I’ll find out. If you do, I’m throwing a pillow.”

For the first time that terrible night, Samir smiled. A real smile, small and tired, but genuine.

“You’re strange,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ll add it to my résumé next to ‘annoying.’”

He lay down, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and closed his eyes.

Emily watched his breathing slowly even out, the tension in his face loosening, the weight of the past lifting—just a little.

When she was sure he was asleep, she whispered, “You’ll be okay, Samir. I promise.”

She didn’t know he heard her.

When Emily woke, sunlight was spilling through the silk curtains. Her neck ached from the armchair, and her hair looked like it had been attacked by a ceiling fan.

Samir sat on the bed, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said, almost amused.

“What time is it?” she groaned.

“Eight. You slept five hours in an armchair. Impressive.”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” Emily said, stretching with a wince. “Once I dozed off standing up during a twelve-hour shift.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Better,” he said. He paused. “Thank you for last night.”

Emily smiled. “You’re welcome. Comes with the package. Annoying but efficient nurse.”

He almost laughed.

“Would you like breakfast?” he asked.

Emily blinked. “Are you inviting me to breakfast?”

“No,” he said. “I’m ordering you to eat breakfast with me. Because…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Because you’ll faint if you don’t.”

“How thoughtful.” Emily stood. “But only if there are pancakes.”

“There are pancakes,” he said.

“Then I accept your order, Your Highness.”

When she left to get ready, Samir stayed on the bed with a strange feeling in his chest. It wasn’t pain.

It wasn’t fear.

It was something else, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And for the first time in three years, Sheikh Samir Al-Hadi allowed himself to consider that maybe—just maybe—he could live again.

Breakfast with Samir turned out to be surprisingly normal. They drank coffee—strong Arabic for him, too-sweet for her—and argued about whether New York or Los Angeles had better burgers. He teased her about the way she drowned her pancakes in maple syrup.

But Emily had learned in New York that normal never lasted long, especially around patients who scared everyone else away.

Later that week, she was putting medical files away on the suite’s bookshelf when a book slipped from her hand. Old yellowed pages scattered across the marble floor, and something small rolled under the bed.

She knelt, reached under, and pulled out a bottle.

A pill bottle.

The label was faded. The expiration date had passed two years before.

Emily frowned. She looked at the shelf again, pulled out another book.

Another bottle.

And another.

By the time she was done, she had seven small bottles lined up on the floor, all of them expired, all of them hidden between the pages of Arabic poetry.

“What are you doing?”

Emily spun around.

Samir stood at the doorway in his robe, his expression caught between surprise and panic.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replied, holding up the bottles. “What is this?”

“Give them back,” he snapped.

“Answer first.”

Samir crossed the suite in three long strides and tried to snatch the bottles from her hand. Emily stepped back.

“Oh, no. Now I definitely need to know. What are you hiding?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I’m your nurse,” she said. “Literally everything about your health is my business.”

She turned one of the bottles, squinting to read the faded label.

“This is an anti-anxiety medication,” she said. “High dose. Prescribed three years ago. Why are you keeping this?”

Samir clenched his fists.

“Because I need it,” he said.

“Need it, or can’t throw it away?”

Silence.

Emily lowered her voice but didn’t let go of the bottles.

“Samir,” she said. “Tell me. Please.”

“They were prescribed after she died,” he said finally. “I took them to sleep. To stop thinking. To function.”

“And you still take them?”

“No.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I stopped months ago. But I can’t throw them away. I know it’s ridiculous. I know I sound like some… secret patient.”

Emily let out a short laugh.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just—you literally used the exact words I was about to say.”

“Secret patient?” he asked.

“I was about to call you that.”

She set the bottles on the table.

“Look,” she said. “I get it. Throwing them away feels final. Like closing a door you’re not ready to close.”

“It’s more than that,” he said.

Samir sat on the edge of the bed, looking defeated.

“Those pills were the only thing that worked when I couldn’t breathe,” he said. “When I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I’d lose my mind. And now, I still wake up like that. But I don’t take anything anymore.”

“Because you’re afraid of getting dependent,” Emily said.

“Because I’m afraid that if I take them again, I’ll never stop,” he answered.

The weight of his words pressed down on both of them.

Emily sat beside him—not too close, but close enough.

“You know emotional trauma is real, right?” she said. “It’s not weakness. It’s not nonsense. It’s a wound, just like any other. And wounds need to be treated.”

“I’m the sheikh of an entire kingdom,” Samir replied. “I can’t have emotional wounds. I need to be strong. I need to lead.”

“You need to be human,” she interrupted. “Because surprise—you are. And humans feel pain. Humans suffer. Humans keep expired pills because they don’t know how to let go of the past yet.”

He stayed silent.

Emily picked up the bottles one by one and placed them in his hand.

“Here’s my proposal,” she said. “We’ll throw these away together. Now. If you panic, I’ll hold your hand and we’ll breathe like normal people. Deal?”

Samir looked at the bottles, then at Emily, then back at the bottles.

“What if I can’t?” he asked.

“Then we’ll try again tomorrow,” she said. “And the next day. And the next. Until you can.”

He took a deep breath, then slowly stood and walked to the bathroom.

Emily followed.

Samir stood in front of the trash can for a long moment, the bottles clutched in his hand.

“I hate this,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate feeling weak.”

“You’re not weak,” she said. “You’re just tired of carrying the weight alone.”

Samir closed his eyes.

Then, with a quick motion—like ripping off a bandage—he tossed the bottles into the trash. The sharp rattle of plastic on metal echoed in the tiled room.

Emily took his hand.

“Breathe,” she said.

He did.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“I did it,” Samir said, almost in disbelief.

“You did,” Emily replied. “You actually did.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” she added lightly. “And the world didn’t end. You didn’t fall apart. You just let go.”

Samir looked at her. For the first time, she saw something new in his dark eyes.

Hope.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough.

“You’re welcome.” She released his hand. “Now come on. Let’s eat something. Emotional drama makes you hungry.”

Samir laughed. A low, real sound.

“You’re impossible,” he said.

“I know. It’s part of the package.”

They returned to the suite. When Emily turned to grab her clipboard, she realized Samir was still watching her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just…” He hesitated. “Why do you care so much?”

Emily paused.

“Because someone has to,” she said quietly. “And apparently, no one else is doing the job right.”

“But you barely know me,” he said.

“True,” she replied. “But I know pain. And I know what it’s like to be alone in it.” She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “No one should have to go through that alone, Samir. Not even a sheikh.”

Something shifted in the air between them. It wasn’t just professional respect anymore. It wasn’t just friendship.

It was something deeper.

More dangerous.

They both felt it.

Samir stepped back, as if he’d touched something hot.

“I need to rest,” he said.

“Of course,” Emily replied, nodding a little too fast. “I’ll… organize the files.”

She left the suite quickly, her heart racing.

On the other side of the door, Samir leaned against the wall, ran a hand over his face, and whispered, “What’s happening to me?”

But he already knew.

It scared him more than any panic attack ever had.

Emily couldn’t sleep that night.

She tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling, thinking about warm hands and glances that lingered a second longer than they should have.

At two in the morning, she gave up.

She grabbed a book, slipped out onto the small balcony adjoining her guest room, and let the warm Riyadh night air wrap around her. In the distance she could just make out the faint glow of an American hotel chain’s sign, a weird comfort that reminded her of road trips with her dad through the Midwest.

That’s when she heard it.

Not a scream this time.

Worse.

Someone was crying.

Low, muffled, desperate.

Emily dropped the book, crossed the hallway, and stopped in front of Samir’s door.

She knocked softly.

“Samir?”

Silence.

She knocked again. “Samir, it’s me. Emily. Can I come in?”

“Go away,” came his voice—weak, broken—from the other side.

Emily opened the door anyway.

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed, his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.

She had never seen anyone so powerful look so shattered.

“Hey,” she whispered, kneeling beside him. “What happened?”

“I told you to leave,” he said hoarsely.

“And I pretended not to hear,” she replied gently. “It’s part of my annoying charm.”

She touched his shoulder lightly.

“Talk to me, Samir.”

He lifted his face.

His eyes were red and swollen.

“I dreamed about her,” he said.

Emily didn’t need to ask who “her” was.

“Tell me,” she said.

He hesitated. Then, as if a dam broke, he began to speak.

“It was an accident. A stupid, preventable accident. We were coming back from a trip. I was driving. It was raining hard.” His voice cracked. “Then a car ran the light. I swerved. We hit the barrier. She was in the passenger seat.”

Emily closed her eyes for a moment.

“Samir…”

“She was in a coma for three days,” he continued. “I held her hand. I said I was sorry. I begged. I promised I’d fix everything. But she never woke up.”

He ran both hands over his face, trying to hold back the sobs.

“And the last thing I said to her before the crash,” he whispered, “was, ‘We’ll talk later.’ Because I was angry. She wanted to postpone the wedding. I didn’t agree. And now… now later will never come.”

The tears came freely.

Emily sat down beside him on the cold marble floor, her shoulder pressed against his.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

“Yes, it was,” he said. “I was driving. I swerved. I—”

“You did what anyone would have done,” she interrupted. “You tried to avoid the crash. You tried to protect her.” She turned toward him. “Do you think she would blame you?”

He was silent.

“Answer me,” Emily insisted softly. “Do you think she would blame you?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“I think I do,” she said.

He looked at her, confused.

“I think she loved you too much to want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for something you couldn’t control,” Emily said.

“But I deserve to be punished,” Samir said. “I deserve to carry this.”

“Why?”

“Because I survived,” he said.

Emily shook her head.

“Samir,” she said quietly. “Surviving isn’t a crime. Pain isn’t punishment. And living isn’t betrayal.”

He turned to her, his gaze so intense it made her heart skip.

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

Emily gave a sad smile.

“Because I once carried guilt that wasn’t mine either,” she said. “My dad had a heart attack when I was twenty-two. I was in college in New York. He called and said he didn’t feel well. I said, ‘Go to the hospital, Dad. I’ll call you later.’” She swallowed. “He went alone. He died alone. And I never forgave myself for not dropping everything and going with him.”

Samir reached out and touched her hand slowly, hesitantly.

“You couldn’t have known,” he said.

“Exactly,” Emily said softly. She intertwined her fingers with his. “And neither could you. We’re not fortune tellers. We’re just human.”

They sat there on the cold floor, holding each other’s hands as if it were the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.

After a long moment, Samir spoke again.

“You know what’s worse?” he said. “The royal council wants me to marry again. They say it’s my duty. The kingdom needs heirs. I need to move on.”

“As if love were something you can replace like clothes,” Emily muttered.

“And you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

Samir looked at their intertwined hands.

“I don’t know anymore,” he said. “Before, I just wanted everyone to leave me alone. To stop pressuring me. To stop trying to fix my life. But now…”

He lifted his eyes and met hers.

“Now I’m not sure I want to be alone,” he said.

The air between them grew heavy.

Emily let go of his hand too quickly.

“I… I think you need some rest,” she said.

She stood and offered him her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you to bed before you catch pneumonia sitting on this cold floor.”

Samir took her hand and let her pull him up.

He was tall. Very tall.

Suddenly Emily realized how close they were.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For… everything.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied. She tried to sound professional and failed miserably. “It’s my job.”

“No, it’s not,” he said.

He took a step back, as if forcing distance.

“No other nurse ever did what you do,” he added.

“Maybe because no other nurse was stubborn enough to handle you,” she said.

He almost smiled. “Maybe.”

Emily turned to leave. Before she reached the door, she heard him say, “Emily.”

She stopped.

“Stay,” he said. “Just until I fall asleep. Please.”

She should say no.

She should keep it professional.

She should go back to her room and pretend this night never happened.

But when she turned and saw him standing there—vulnerable, human, real—she couldn’t.

“All right,” she said softly. “But only until you fall asleep.”

She sat back down in the armchair.

Samir lay on the bed and pulled the blanket up.

“Do you really snore?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Haven’t you found out yet?”

“No. You sleep like a normal person. Honestly? Kind of disappointing.”

Samir laughed softly, tired.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said.

“That’s all right,” she replied. “I forgive you.”

A few minutes later, his breathing slowed.

Emily watched him sleep.

And she realized with a tightness in her chest that she was starting to feel something she shouldn’t.

Something dangerous.

Something that could ruin everything.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Outside the door, Fatima pressed her ear against the wood, heard only silence, and then quietly stepped away. Her duty was to the palace.

And sometimes, duty meant making calls other people wouldn’t dare to make.

The next morning began with Emily dragging Samir out of bed at six o’clock.

Literally.

“Get up,” she said, yanking the blanket away. “Come on. Move.”

Samir opened one eye and stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“Are you insane?” he demanded.

“No,” she said. “But you will be if you keep lying in this bed twenty-three hours a day.”

She threw his slippers toward him.

“We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk?” He sat up, offended. “You want me to walk?”

“Yes,” she replied. “With your legs. One foot in front of the other. Familiar with the concept?”

“Of course I’m familiar with it,” he snapped. “But I’m sick.”

“You’re better,” she countered. “Much better. Now you need to rebuild your strength.”

She crossed her arms. “So get up. Put on something comfortable. We’re taking a stroll in the garden.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

“And if I refuse?” he asked.

“Then I’ll tell Fatima you keep chocolate under your pillow,” Emily said.

He froze. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a nurse,” she said smugly. “I know everything.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the palace’s inner garden: marble fountain in the center, fragrant flowers, a path of white stones shaded by palm trees. The air smelled like orange blossoms and distant city smog.

Samir, wearing a simple tunic and running shoes, looked like a prisoner being led to his execution.

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbled.

“Keep walking,” Emily said.

“My dignity is being destroyed.”

“Your dignity will survive. Now move those legs.”

They started walking slowly.

Samir limped a little, still using his cane, but he was moving.

After two minutes, he stopped.

“There,” he said. “I walked.”

Emily turned, hands on her hips.

“You walked ten yards,” she said. “Try again.”

“Emily—”

“Samir,” she said in the same tone.

He huffed, but kept going.

When they finished a full circle around the garden—about five minutes—Samir practically collapsed onto the stone bench by the fountain.

“I need to rest,” he muttered. “Immediately.”

“You’re fine,” Emily said. “Take a deep breath.”

“I can’t. I’m exhausted.”

“You’re not exhausted. You’re out of shape.”

“That is technically the same thing,” he argued.

Emily laughed.

“You’re dramatic,” she said.

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re spoiled.”

He opened his mouth to argue but stopped when he noticed she was truly laughing.

The sound did something to him.

So, he decided not to complain.

Too much.

“Tomorrow we’ll do it again,” Emily said, sitting beside him on the bench.

“You’re relentless,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ll add it to my résumé.”

In the following days, the routine became a ritual: morning walks, breathing exercises in the afternoon, stretching at night.

And Samir complained.

A lot.

“This isn’t stretching,” he groaned one evening. “It’s torture.”

“Breathe and reach,” Emily said.

“I am reaching.”

“You’re pretending. I can tell.”

“How can you tell? You don’t have X-ray vision.”

“Yes, I do. Comes with the annoying nurse package.”

From the second-floor window, Fatima watched with a cup of tea in her hands.

For the first time in three years, the sheikh looked alive.

And that American nurse—with her clumsy, no-filter ways—was doing what fifteen professionals hadn’t managed: making Samir want to get better.

Fatima took a sip of her tea and thought, Maybe that girl is the best thing that ever happened to him.

But not everyone agreed.

In the palace medical wing, Dr. Kamal, the chief physician and trusted man of the royal council, flipped through Samir’s latest reports with a dark expression.

“He’s improving,” his assistant said cheerfully.

“I know,” Dr. Kamal replied, closing the folder. “And that’s the problem.”

“The problem?” the assistant asked, baffled. “Isn’t that exactly what we want?”

“Not when the improvement comes from unauthorized methods,” Dr. Kamal said. “Breathing. Meditation. Walks in the garden. Improvisation has no place in royal treatment.”

“But it’s working,” the assistant insisted.

“That doesn’t matter.”

Dr. Kamal picked up the phone.

“The council needs to know,” he said.

Meanwhile, in the garden, Emily was trying to teach Samir how to meditate.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it works.”

“And what if I don’t want to close my eyes?”

“Then you’ll just sit there like a stubborn statue,” she replied.

She sat cross-legged on the grass.

“Come on. Sit here.”

Samir eyed the ground as if it were lava.

“On the ground?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Highness. On the ground. Like regular people.”

“I’m not regular people,” he muttered.

“Today you are,” she said. “Sit.”

He sighed, but sat awkwardly beside her.

“This is uncomfortable,” he complained.

“You’ll get used to it. Now close your eyes and breathe.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Breathe slowly.”

“I’m breathing slowly.”

“No, you’re breathing like an irritated person.”

“Because I am irritated,” he shot back.

Emily opened her eyes and looked at him.

Samir sat cross-legged, eyes closed, brow furrowed, breathing with the determination of a man about to explode.

She couldn’t help it.

She started laughing.

“What?” he demanded, opening his eyes.

“You look like you’re trying to solve an impossible math problem,” she said.

“I am trying,” he said. “It’s called meditation.”

“No,” she replied. “It’s called tension pretending to be peace.”

Samir stared at her.

Then, to her surprise, he laughed too.

A short, low, genuine laugh.

“Do you really think I’m the worst patient you’ve ever had?” he asked.

“Without a doubt,” she replied. “But also the funniest.”

They stayed there on the garden floor, laughing like two ordinary people who—just for a moment—forgot about titles, expectations, and invisible walls.

It was one of the best moments Emily had had in weeks.

Until Dr. Kamal’s voice echoed from across the garden.

“Miss Carter,” he called. “I need to speak with you. Now.”

The laughter died instantly.

Emily stood, brushing grass from her pants.

Samir stood too, tension snapping back into his shoulders.

“What does he want?” Samir asked.

“I don’t know,” Emily said. “But it can’t be good.”

She was right.

Dr. Kamal crossed the garden with a folder under his arm and an expression that clearly said: You are in trouble.

“Miss Carter,” he said. “Come with me. There are concerns about your treatment methods.”

Emily folded her arms. “What concerns?”

“We’ll discuss it in private,” he replied.

“No,” Samir said, stepping forward. “We’ll discuss it here. Now.”

Dr. Kamal looked from the sheikh to Emily and smiled a thin, cold smile.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he said. “The medical board is questioning the legitimacy of Miss Carter’s methods. And frankly, so am I.”

Emily’s stomach dropped.

Before she could answer, the sharp sound of high heels echoed through the garden.

Everyone turned.

A stunning woman walked along the path as if it were her personal runway—a turquoise silk dress that hugged every curve, dark hair perfectly curled, makeup flawless. Behind her, Rasheed Al-Hadi, Samir’s brother, approached with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Samir,” the woman exclaimed, opening her arms. “My dear cousin.”

Samir froze.

Emily noticed immediately.

He wasn’t happy.

“Lila,” Samir said, forcing a smile. “What a surprise.”

“A wonderful surprise, I hope,” she said.

She came closer and kissed both his cheeks.

“Rasheed told me you were getting better,” she purred. “I had to see it for myself.”

Rasheed joined the group, greeting Dr. Kamal with a nod before turning his gaze on Emily.

“And you must be the famous American nurse,” he said.

Emily extended her hand.

“Emily Carter,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

Rasheed shook her hand with unnecessary firmness.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “Apparently, you’ve caused some interesting changes around here.”

The word interesting didn’t sound like a compliment.

“Positive changes,” Samir cut in, tense. “Emily has been extremely competent.”

“I’m sure she has,” Rasheed replied smoothly. “But I think we all agree the sheikh needs something more traditional. Something aligned with our customs.”

“With all due respect,” Emily said, crossing her arms, “what the sheikh needs is effective medical treatment. And the results speak for themselves.”

“Unauthorized results,” Dr. Kamal added quickly. “Unauthorized methods.”

“Authorized or not, he’s better,” Emily shot back.

Lila, who had been quietly watching, let out a soft laugh.

“My, what a dedicated nurse,” she said. “You’re lucky, cousin. It’s rare to find someone so… involved in their work.”

Emily’s stomach twisted. There was something in Lila’s tone—sweet as melted sugar, but far from sincere.

“Lila, what brings you here, really?” Samir asked.

“You say that as if I needed a reason to visit my favorite cousin,” Lila replied with a pout. “But since you asked…” She glanced at Rasheed, who nodded. “I came to talk about the future.”

“What future?” Samir asked.

“Our future,” Lila said.

She stepped closer and touched his arm.

“Rasheed told me the council has been pressuring you to move on,” she continued. “And I thought—why not consider someone who already knows you? Someone who understands your position?”

Emily felt something awful tighten inside her.

Samir looked at Lila, then at Rasheed, then briefly at Emily.

“Lila, I appreciate your concern,” he began, “but—”

“You don’t need to answer now,” she interrupted with a bright smile.”I just want you to know the option exists. And that I would be honored.”

Rasheed placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“It’s an excellent proposal,” he said. “Lila is royalty. She knows the protocols. It would be perfect.”

“Perfect,” Dr. Kamal echoed, uninvited.

Emily looked at Samir, waiting for him to say something—anything.

He said nothing.

“Well,” Emily said, forcing a neutral, professional tone, “I’ll let you have your family discussion. I have medical reports to organize.”

She turned toward the palace.

“Miss Carter,” Rasheed called.

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for your services so far,” he said. “But I think it’s time we consider other care options.”

Emily felt her blood boil.

“Other options?” she repeated. “The sheikh is healthier than he’s been in the past three years. The numbers don’t lie.”

“Numbers aren’t everything,” Dr. Kamal said.

“Of course they are,” Emily replied. “He’s walking. Sleeping better. Having fewer episodes. That’s not ‘questionable methods.’ That’s progress.”

“Emily,” Samir said quietly, a warning in his voice.

She looked at him—and what she saw broke her.

Fear.

Not physical fear.

Fear of displeasing. Of disappointing. Of failing to be what everyone expected.

Emily swallowed.

“Excuse me,” she said.

She walked away.

Inside the suite later, she threw her clipboard onto the desk harder than she meant to.

“Idiot,” she muttered to herself. “You’re an idiot, Emily Carter.”

“Idiot for what?”

Emily spun around.

Samir stood in the doorway, looking like a man who had just survived an ambush.

“Shouldn’t you be outside with your future fiancée?” she asked.

“She’s not my future fiancée,” he said.

“Oh, no?” Emily replied. “Because it sounded pretty official. Rasheed was practically planning the wedding.”

“Rasheed plans many things without asking me,” Samir said.

“And you let him,” Emily shot back.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“It means you let him,” she said. “You stand there while they decide your life, while they parade women in front of you like you’re a chess piece.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“Of course it is,” she replied. “You’re the sheikh. You’re in charge. But you act like you don’t have a voice.”

“Because I don’t,” he snapped. “Do you think it’s easy? Do you think I can just do whatever I want? I have responsibilities. Expectations. An entire family, an entire kingdom waiting for me to—”

“To what?” Emily cut in. “To marry someone you don’t love? To live unhappy just to please the council?”

“And what do you suggest?” he demanded. “That I send everyone away and do whatever I please?”

“Yes,” she said recklessly. “Exactly that.”

They stood there in the middle of the suite, breathing hard, staring at each other with dangerous intensity.

“What if what I want is impossible?” Samir said quietly.

Emily swallowed.

“Nothing is impossible,” she whispered.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “There are things that can’t happen. Because of protocol. Rules. Because of everything.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Emily wanted to tell him that rules were meant to be broken. That love mattered more than expectations.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because she knew he was right.

He was royalty.

She was a nurse from Kansas drowning in debt.

Fairy tales didn’t happen in real life.

“I’ll prepare your medication,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must be tired.”

Samir didn’t answer.

She left the suite without looking back.

For the first time since arriving at the palace, Emily wondered if accepting this job had been a mistake.

On the other side of the door, Samir leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Emily didn’t hear it.

That night, Emily tossed and turned until midnight.

“Since I’m awake anyway, I might as well check his vitals,” she muttered. “Just professionalism. Nothing else.”

She walked down the hallway and knocked softly on his door.

No answer.

She opened it slowly.

Samir sat on the balcony, looking out at Riyadh lit up at night, still fully dressed, as sleepless as she was.

“Can’t sleep?” Emily asked, leaning against the doorway.

He turned, surprised.

“Apparently, neither can you,” he said.

“Touche,” she replied.

She stepped in and closed the door.

“Want me to make some tea, or should I pretend I’m here strictly for medical reasons?”

“You’re here for strictly medical reasons,” he said.

“Of course,” she said. “Totally. One hundred percent.”

She crossed her arms.

“Sit,” she ordered. “I’m checking your blood pressure.”

He obeyed, sitting in the chair near the balcony door.

Emily grabbed the blood pressure monitor, wrapped the cuff around his arm—and realized her hands were shaking.

“Nervous?” Samir asked.

“No. Just tired,” she said.

“Liar,” he murmured.

She looked up and met his eyes.

Too close.

Dangerously close.

“Your blood pressure’s normal,” she said, removing the cuff a little too quickly. “Heart rate’s fine. Everything looks good.”

“Emily,” he said.

“I should go,” she said. “You need—”

“Emily, stop,” he said.

She stopped.

Took a breath.

Looked at him.

“What do you want me to do, Samir?” she asked quietly. “Really. Because I’m trying to keep things professional, but you keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like… that,” she said helplessly. “Like I matter.”

Samir stood slowly, still holding her gaze.

“You do matter,” he said.

Her heart raced.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because it makes everything harder,” she said. “It’s already hard.”

He took a step closer.

“Since the day you came here and told me you wouldn’t leave just because I ordered you to,” he said.

Emily stepped back—and bumped into the side table.

Trapped.

“We can’t do this,” she said. “I know we can’t.”

“You’re the sheikh. I’m your nurse. There are rules. Protocols. Expectations,” she went on. “I care about those. Because when this goes wrong—and it will—I’ll be fired. Deported. And you’ll still be here being pressured to marry Lila or whatever princess Rasheed throws in front of you.”

Samir gently took her wrists.

“What if I don’t want to marry Lila?” he asked.

“Then you’ll marry someone else,” she said. “Someone suitable. Someone who isn’t me.”

“What if I want you?” he asked.

The words hung in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Tears stung her eyes.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t make me believe in something that can’t happen.”

“Who says it can’t?” he asked.

“The whole world,” she said. “Your family. The council.”

She tried to pull her wrists free, but he held on.

“Samir, I’m an American nurse drowning in debt who can barely pay rent,” she said. “You’re royalty. We live on different planets.”

“Then maybe it’s time I change planets,” he said.

Emily blinked.

“What?”

He released her wrists but didn’t step back.

He raised a hand slowly and brushed her cheek with his thumb.

“You reminded me what it’s like to be alive again,” he said. “To want to wake up in the morning. To feel.”

His voice was rough, vulnerable.

“And I don’t want to go back to living in the dark,” he said.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered, a tear slipping down.

“I know,” he said. “You’re making me want impossible things,” she said.

“Good,” he replied. “Because I want them too.”

She opened her eyes.

He was right there.

So close she could feel his warmth, smell a mix of clean soap, desert air, and something that was simply him.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said.

Neither moved.

Samir leaned in.

Emily held her breath.

His lips were inches from hers when the door burst open.

“Samir, we need to talk about—” Rasheed stopped mid-sentence.

Behind him, Fatima froze, eyes wide.

Emily jumped back so fast she slammed into the table, knocking the blood pressure monitor to the floor.

Samir grabbed her arm to keep her from falling, which only made things worse.

Rasheed looked at them. At Samir’s hand on Emily’s arm. Back at Samir’s face.

“What exactly is going on here?” he asked.

“It’s not what you think,” Emily blurted.

“Oh, really?” Rasheed crossed his arms. “Because it looks exactly like what I think.”

Fatima stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her, looking at Emily with a mix of panic and disappointment.

“Miss Carter,” she said softly. “What’s happening here?”

“I was checking his vital signs,” Emily said, grabbing the monitor from the floor like evidence. “Routine nightly protocol.”

“At midnight,” Rasheed said. “Alone. With the door closed.”

“I always close the door,” Emily replied. “Patient privacy is important. Ever heard of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act?”

The council heir and the palace staff stared blankly.

“HIPAA,” Emily added. “American medical privacy regulation. Learned it in college. First week.”

“We don’t follow American regulations here,” Rasheed said flatly.

“Clearly,” Emily muttered. “Because if you did, you’d know firing a nurse for doing her job is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Rasheed repeated, his voice icy. “We’ll see tomorrow morning.”

He turned to Samir.

“We’ll talk later,” he said. “About everything.”

He left, slamming the door.

Fatima looked at Emily sadly.

“You should be more careful, dear,” she said quietly.

Then she left too.

Emily stood frozen in the middle of the suite, hands shaking, heart breaking.

Samir took a step toward her.

“Emily—”

“No,” she said, raising a hand to stop him. “Don’t say anything. Just… don’t.”

She walked out, leaving him alone in the dark.

At six in the morning, there was a knock on Emily’s guest-room door.

Two palace guards stood outside.

“Miss Carter,” one said. “The royal council requests your presence. Now.”

She knew it was coming.

Knowing didn’t make it less terrifying.

She dressed in her uniform with trembling hands, tied her hair back, and followed the guards through the maze of hallways to a room she had never seen before.

The council chamber.

Dark wooden walls. A huge U-shaped table. Seven men seated like judges, all with stern expressions.

And in the center seat: Rasheed.

“Miss Carter,” he said, gesturing to the single chair placed in the middle of the room. “Sit.”

Emily sat. She folded her hands in her lap to hide their shaking.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” Rasheed began, flipping through a folder. “We’ve been informed of multiple violations of professional protocol during your time here.”

“Violations?” Emily repeated. “What violations?”

One of the older councilmen cleared his throat.

“Inappropriate intimacy with the patient,” he said. “Unauthorized treatment methods. And last night, behavior that clearly crossed the limits of a professional relationship.”

Emily felt heat rise in her face.

“Behavior?” she repeated. “I was checking his vital signs.”

“At midnight,” Rasheed said. “Alone. With the door closed.”

“I always close the door,” she replied. “It’s called patient privacy. HIPAA. Ever heard of—never mind.”

“We do not follow American regulations here,” another councilman said. “And we do not accept foreign staff who cannot respect ours.”

“Your violations of protocol,” Rasheed said, “and your… relationship with the sheikh make your presence here unsustainable.”

“My relationship?” Emily snapped. “He was having panic attacks. I was doing my job.”

“Your job does not include spending nights in his suite,” Rasheed said. “Or sitting by his bed. Or holding his hand.”

“I spent one night,” Emily said, her voice shaking. “Because he asked me to. Because he was terrified. Because no one else cared enough to stay.”

Silence.

Rasheed closed the folder.

“Your termination is effective immediately,” he said. “You have two hours to pack. A flight back to the United States has been arranged for this afternoon.”

Emily stood.

“You can’t do this,” she said.

“We can,” Rasheed answered. “And we are.”

“He’s getting better,” Emily said. “The numbers prove it. He’s walking. Sleeping. Living again.”

“Thanks to methods that were not approved by the official medical team,” Dr. Kamal said, entering the room. “Dangerous, unscientific methods.”

“Unscientific?” Emily repeated. “Deep breathing, exercise, emotional support—those are in every modern medical manual.”

“Not in ours,” a councilman said.

Emily looked around at the closed faces.

“This isn’t about protocol,” she said quietly. “This is because he was starting to be happy. And you don’t want him happy. You want him obedient.”

“You are out of line,” Rasheed snapped.

“No,” Emily said. “I’m right. And you know it.”

The chamber doors burst open.

Samir walked in.

Barefoot.

In his pajamas.

Breathing heavily, as if he’d run the whole way.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“Your Highness,” Rasheed began, “this matter doesn’t concern—”

“Answer the question,” Samir said.

“We are handling a human resources matter,” Rasheed replied.

“You’re firing her,” Samir said.

“Yes,” Rasheed answered. “For violating protocol and showing inappropriate behavior.”

“Inappropriate behavior?” Samir repeated. “She saved my life. She’s done more for me in six weeks than all of you have in three years.”

“She crossed boundaries,” Dr. Kamal said. “That’s undeniable.”

“The only boundaries crossed here,” Samir said, “are those of basic decency. You’re firing the only person who actually cared about me because she… what? Treated me like a human being?”

“She’s emotionally involved,” Rasheed said firmly. “And so are you. And this cannot continue.”

“I don’t accept this dismissal,” Samir said.

“You don’t have a choice,” Rasheed replied. “The council voted four to three. She leaves today.”

“Then I’m firing the council,” Samir said.

The councilmen gasped.

“You can’t do that,” Rasheed said, pale.

“Yes, I can,” Samir replied coldly. “I’m the sheikh.”

“You’re a sheikh who can barely stand,” Rasheed exploded. “A sheikh being manipulated by a foreign woman who knows nothing about our culture, our traditions.”

“Enough,” Samir said, slamming his hand on the table.

The sound echoed through the chamber.

“Emily stays,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “And if anyone tries to remove her by force, they’ll answer directly to me. Understood?”

Rasheed stared at him.

“You’re choosing her over your own family,” he said quietly. “Over the kingdom.”

“I’m choosing someone who treats me like a person, not a chess piece,” Samir replied.

“Samir,” Emily said quietly. “Stop.”

He looked at her.

“I’m not letting them do this to you,” he said.

“You don’t have a choice,” she said.

She stood and forced a smile.

“They have power,” she said. “I don’t. And if you fight them because of me, you’ll lose everything.”

“I don’t care,” he said.

“But I do,” Emily replied.

She took his hand quickly, discreetly.

“Let me go, Samir,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “Please.”

The pain in his eyes was unbearable.

Two guards entered the room.

“Miss Carter,” one said. “We need to escort you to your quarters so you can collect your belongings.”

Emily let go of Samir’s hand.

“Goodbye, Your Highness,” she said. “It was an honor taking care of you.”

She walked out before the tears could fall.

Samir tried to follow, but Rasheed grabbed his arm.

“Let her go,” Rasheed said.

“Let me go,” Samir snapped.

Two councilmen stepped in front of the door.

“Your Highness, please,” one said. “This is for your own good.”

“For my own good?” Samir repeated. “You know nothing about my good.”

He turned and stormed out through a side door, slamming it so hard the echo thundered through the hall.

In the corridor, Emily leaned against the wall, took a deep breath, and finally let the tears fall.

Her suitcase weighed only thirty pounds.

It felt like a ton.

She dragged it down the palace corridor, flanked by two guards who looked like they were escorting a criminal.

Fatima appeared at the corner.

She stopped, watching Emily with an expression of guilt and duty.

“I came to say goodbye,” Fatima said softly.

“You don’t have to,” Emily replied, forcing a smile. “I understand. You were just doing your job.”

“It’s not just that,” Fatima said.

She took a step closer.

“I was harsh with you last night,” she said. “Maybe too harsh. I saw what you did for him. I saw how he changed. And part of me… part of me hopes you find a way to come back.”

Emily’s eyes stung.

“Fatima,” she said.

“He needs you,” Fatima said.

She placed something in Emily’s hand—a folded piece of paper.

“Don’t open it now,” Fatima said. “Open it on the plane.”

“What is it?” Emily asked.

Fatima only smiled sadly and walked away.

Emily slipped the paper into her pocket and kept walking.

Riyadh International Airport was packed.

Families saying goodbye. Businessmen rushing. Tourists taking photos. Somewhere over the loudspeakers, an American pop song played, and for a second Emily was back in a Target in Kansas, pushing a cart with her dad.

She sat at the boarding gate with her suitcase beside her, passport in hand, hollow and numb.

“Flight 847 to New York, now boarding at Gate 12,” the announcement blared.

She stood, grabbed her suitcase, and took three steps toward the line.

Then she heard it.

Shouting.

Noise.

People running.

Emily turned.

Across the terminal, the crowd was parting like the Red Sea.

In the center, walking with difficulty, leaning on a cane—and barefoot—was Samir.

Barefoot.

Behind him, six security guards tried to clear the way. Passengers pulled out their phones, filming.

“It’s the sheikh,” someone gasped. “What’s he doing here?”

Emily’s suitcase slipped from her hand.

“He can’t be here,” she whispered. “He can’t.”

But he was.

And he was walking straight toward her.

Their eyes met across the crowded terminal, and Samir didn’t look away. Not for a second.

Emily began to walk.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

Then she was running.

They met in the middle of the terminal, surrounded by dozens of phones filming, dozens of people staring as if watching a movie.

“Are you out of your mind?” Emily gasped. “What are you doing here?”

Samir was breathing hard, clearly exhausted, but smiling.

“Stopping you from making the biggest mistake of your life,” he said.

“My mistake?” she demanded. “You shouldn’t be here. You can barely walk.”

“Then hold me,” he said.

He dropped the cane.

Emily grabbed his arm, panicking.

“You’re going to fall,” she said.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “Because you’re here.”

“This is insane,” she muttered. “You know that, right?”

“I do,” he said. “And I don’t care.”

He took her face in his hands.

“Emily Carter,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you’re not getting on that plane.”

“I have to,” she said. “I was fired. Deported.”

“Then I’ll reverse it,” he said.

“You can’t reverse the council’s decision,” she replied.

“Yes, I can,” he said. “Because I’m the sheikh. And more importantly…” He paused, his eyes shining. “Because I love you.”

The entire terminal seemed to freeze.

Emily’s knees went weak.

“What?” she whispered.

“I love you,” he repeated, louder this time, so everyone could hear. “I’ve loved you since the first day you walked into my suite and refused to leave. I love you because you’re annoying, stubborn, funny, and the only person who made me remember what it feels like to be alive. And I’m not letting you go.”

Emily was laughing and crying at the same time.

“You can’t do this,” she said. “Your family, the council—they’ll destroy you.”

“Let them,” he said.

He pulled her closer.

“I spent three years letting other people decide my life,” he said. “Letting fear and guilt control me. But you taught me that living isn’t betrayal. And I choose to live—with you.”

“Samir,” she whispered.

“Stay,” he said. “Please stay with me.”

Emily looked around.

At the cameras.

The guards.

The stunned crowd.

Then she looked back at Samir—the man who had once been impossible, intolerable, lost, and now stood barefoot in a crowded airport, asking her to stay.

“Are you sure?” she whispered. “Because if I stay, there’s no going back. It’ll be you and me against everyone.”

“Good,” he said, smiling through his exhaustion. “I like those odds.”

“You’re impossible,” she said, laughing through her tears.

“I know,” he replied. “It’s part of my charm.”

And then, without warning, he knelt.

Right there.

In the middle of Riyadh International Airport, with hundreds of people watching.

The crowd gasped.

Emily covered her mouth with her hands.

“Samir, get up,” she whispered.

“No,” he said.

He took her hand.

“Emily Carter,” he said, his voice shaking, “you healed me when I thought I couldn’t be healed. You made me laugh when I’d forgotten how. You gave me hope when I had none. Marry me.”

The terminal exploded in cheers and applause.

Emily dropped to her knees in front of him and cupped his face in her hands.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Absolutely sure? Because I’m just an American nurse with no money, no title, nothing to offer except love and sarcasm.”

Samir smiled through his tears.

“That’s all I ever wanted,” he said.

“Then yes,” she whispered.

She kissed his forehead.

“Yes. I’ll marry you, you impossible, crazy sheikh.”

The crowd roared.

Security tried to control the scene, but it was too late.

Dozens of videos were already being posted and shared.

The Sheikh of Riyadh had just proposed to an American nurse in the middle of an airport, on his knees.

And she had said yes.

Samir stood—with Emily’s help—and pulled her into a tight embrace.

“You won’t regret this,” he whispered in her ear.

“I know,” she laughed. “But you probably will.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said.

They held onto each other in the middle of the chaos while the world watched.

And somewhere in Al-Hadi Palace, Rasheed watched the viral videos with an expression of pure horror.

His brother had just done the unthinkable.

And there was no turning back.

The video reached two million views in four hours.

Emily watched the numbers climb on her phone as the official car rolled back through the palace gates.

Beside her, Samir held her hand tightly, as if afraid she might vanish.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked for the tenth time.

“Completely,” he answered for the tenth time.

“There’s still time for me to go back to the airport,” she said. “Catch the next flight. Pretend none of this happened.”

Samir turned to her.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked.

Emily looked into his eyes.

“No,” she said. “But I don’t want you to lose everything because of me.”

“Then let’s make sure I don’t,” he said.

The car stopped at the main entrance.

Rasheed was waiting.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked terrified.

The council chamber was even tenser than the last time Emily had been there.

The seven council members sat in their places.

Rasheed sat in the center, but without his usual arrogance. Something in his posture looked… broken.

Dr. Kamal sat beside him, clutching a thick folder. Fatima hovered in the corner, watching everything.

Emily and Samir entered hand in hand.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done,” Rasheed said quietly as soon as they stepped inside. “You don’t understand the risk.”

“Risk?” Samir frowned. “I confessed my love to the woman I love. What’s the risk in that?”

“The risk of losing you again,” Rasheed said, suddenly standing. “The risk of watching you give yourself completely to someone and then…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

Silence fell.

Emily understood before Samir did.

“You’re afraid I’ll hurt him,” she said softly. “The same way Amamira’s death hurt him.”

“You don’t understand,” Rasheed said, turning to her. His eyes shone. “No one does.”

He pointed at Samir.

“When Amamira died, I watched my brother fall apart,” he said. “He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t talk. He disappeared. I held him while he cried. I carried him when he couldn’t walk. I fed him when he refused to eat. I watched him want to give up on life.”

He wiped his eyes angrily.

“I almost lost him,” he said. “And that destroyed me too. I swore I’d never let that happen again.”

“So you kept me trapped,” Samir said quietly. “You kept me sick.”

“I kept you safe,” Rasheed insisted, pressing his hand to his chest. “If you don’t love, you can’t lose. If you don’t give yourself, you can’t break. I did what I had to do to protect you.”

“By isolating me,” Samir said. “By controlling me. By keeping me from living.”

“By keeping you from suffering,” Rasheed shot back.

“But I was suffering,” Samir said, raising his voice for the first time. “Every single day. In silence. Alone. Because you decided I was too fragile to make my own choices.”

“Your Highness,” Dr. Kamal began, “perhaps it’s time to—”

“Quiet, Kamal,” Rasheed said.

Without anger.

Just exhaustion.

Emily looked at Dr. Kamal and suddenly realized he wasn’t a villain.

He was a man who had followed orders from someone he respected.

“Dr. Kamal,” she said gently. “Do you really believe that keeping Samir sick was helping him?”

Dr. Kamal looked away.

“I… I followed the protocol established by His Highness Rasheed,” he said. “He knows the sheikh better than anyone. I simply did my duty.”

“No,” Samir said firmly. “He doesn’t know me. He knows the broken version of me that he helped create.”

Rasheed flinched.

“I protected you,” Rasheed whispered.

“You smothered me,” Samir replied.

“Because I love you,” Rasheed said.

The last word broke his voice.

For the first time since Emily had met him, she saw tears in Rasheed’s eyes.

“When Amamira died, I lost her too,” he said. “And I almost lost you. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing you again.”

Samir stared at his brother.

Then he stepped closer and placed a hand on Rasheed’s shoulder.

“Look at me,” he said.

Rasheed lifted his eyes.

“I know you were trying to protect me,” Samir said. “I know you acted out of love. But you can’t keep me in a cage for the rest of my life just because you’re afraid I’ll fly and get hurt.”

He took a slow breath.

“Living means taking risks,” he said. “Loving means taking risks. And yes, maybe I’ll get hurt again. But I’d rather live one full day than survive a thousand half-lived ones.”

“What if you don’t survive?” Rasheed whispered. “What if it destroys you?”

“Then Emily will help me rebuild,” Samir said.

He looked at her and smiled.

“Just like she already has,” he added.

Emily felt tears spill down her cheeks.

Rasheed turned to her.

“How do I know you won’t abandon him?” he asked. “How do I know you’ll stay when things get hard?”

“You don’t,” Emily said honestly. “You’ll have to trust.”

She took a step forward.

“But I can tell you this,” she continued. “I’ve seen Samir at his worst. I’ve seen him have panic attacks at three in the morning. I’ve seen him cry. I’ve seen him broken. And I didn’t walk away. I held his hand and breathed with him until it passed.”

Her voice grew stronger.

“I won’t walk away now,” she said. “I won’t ever walk away. Because I love him. Not the title. Not the palace. Him.”

Rasheed struggled with emotions he clearly didn’t know how to handle.

One of the older councilmen cleared his throat.

“Perhaps,” he said cautiously, “we can find some middle ground.”

“Middle ground?” Rasheed repeated.

“Yes,” the adviser said. “Conditions.”

He looked at Emily.

“Miss Carter must learn our customs,” he said. “Study our culture. Respect our traditions. The wedding must follow full royal protocol.”

He paused.

“And there will be a three-month adjustment period,” he continued, “to ensure Miss Carter is prepared for life in the royal family.”

Emily swallowed.

“Three months?” she asked.

“Not a test,” the adviser corrected gently. “A period of learning. You will live in the palace. You’ll learn what it means to be part of this family. And at the end, we will officially vote on approving the marriage.”

Samir opened his mouth to protest, but Emily squeezed his hand.

“I accept,” she said.

“Emily—”

“I accept,” she repeated, looking at Rasheed. “Because I understand. I understand that you’re scared. That you love your brother and want to protect him. And I want to prove to you that I won’t hurt him. That I’ll take care of him. That I’ll stay.”

Rasheed stared at her for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

Once.

Small.

But it was there.

The senior adviser struck the gavel.

“Then it’s decided,” he said. “We proceed to the vote. Who approves the three-month period before the official wedding?”

Five hands went up immediately.

Rasheed hesitated.

He looked at Samir.

Then at Emily.

Slowly, he raised his hand.

Dr. Kamal followed.

“Seven to zero,” the adviser announced. “Unanimous. The proposal is approved.”

Emily let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Samir pulled her into a hug.

“You won’t regret this,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said.

The adviser stood, bowed to Samir, and left. One by one, the councilmen followed.

Dr. Kamal paused in front of Emily.

“Miss Carter,” he said. “I’d like to apologize. I was following orders. That doesn’t excuse it. You’ve done for him what I couldn’t do in three years.”

He extended his hand.

“I hope we can work together from now on,” he said.

Emily shook his hand and smiled.

“I’d love that, Dr. Kamal,” she said.

He left looking relieved.

Rasheed was the last to go.

He stopped at the door and looked at his brother.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For everything.”

“I know,” Samir replied. “We’ll talk. Really talk. But for now… thank you for voting yes.”

Rasheed looked at Emily.

“Take care of him,” he said. “Always.”

“I will,” she promised.

He smiled—a sad, genuine smile—and left.

Fatima stepped forward, taking Emily’s hands.

“Welcome to the family, dear,” she said. “Officially. Or almost.”

She smiled.

“And just so you know,” she added, “the wedding protocols are absurd. You’ll have to approve forty-seven kinds of flowers.”

“Forty-seven?” Emily repeated.

“Yes,” Fatima said. “There’s a spreadsheet. Three meetings just for table decorations. And an entire committee dedicated to the menu.”

Emily’s eyes widened.

“I’ll help you,” Fatima added. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Emily said. “For everything.”

Fatima hugged them both and left, closing the door.

Emily rested her head on Samir’s chest.

“Three months,” she said. “We can do this.”

He lifted her chin.

“Together,” he said.

“Together,” she replied.

Suddenly she remembered.

“Oh,” she said. “Fatima gave me a letter in the hallway before I left the palace the first time.”

She pulled the folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket, wrinkled but intact.

Samir watched as she opened it and read.

Tears sprang to her eyes almost instantly.

“What does it say?” he asked, worried.

Emily laughed through her tears and handed him the paper.

Samir read aloud.

“Dear Emily,

I’ve worked in this palace for twenty years. I’ve seen many things. But I’ve never seen anyone do for Sheikh Samir what you’ve done.

You need to know the truth. Rasheed isn’t a villain. He’s a terrified brother. When Amamira passed away, Samir almost went with her. And Rasheed nearly lost himself watching his brother suffer. Since then, he decided that protecting meant controlling—that if Samir didn’t love, he couldn’t be hurt.

But you proved him wrong. Love doesn’t destroy. Love heals.

Show him that. Show him you won’t hurt Samir. That you’ll stay. That you’re strong enough for this life.

And remember: forty-seven kinds of flowers. No joke.

With love,

Fatima.

P.S. I always knew you were special. Ever since the first day you told the sheikh to ‘breathe like a normal person.’”

Samir finished and smiled, his eyes shining.

“She was trying to help you from the start,” he said.

“They all were,” Emily said softly. “In their own way.”

“Even Rasheed,” Samir said.

“Especially Rasheed,” she replied.

They stood there, holding each other, the letter pressed between them.

More than just paper, it was proof that even in the most unlikely places, love finds allies—and that sometimes the hardest battles are fought by those who love too much, not too little.

Day One of Three Months.

Emily woke at five in the morning to someone knocking on her door.

Fatima walked in carrying a pile of books that looked heavier than Emily herself.

“Good morning,” Fatima sang. “Time to learn royal etiquette.”

Emily stared at the stack.

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“Protocol is no joke, dear,” Fatima replied, dropping the books onto the table with a heavy thud. “We’ve got hierarchy and royal titles, formal greetings for forty-seven different situations, history of the Al-Hadi family, royal dining etiquette… oh, and this one’s my favorite: How to Walk in a Long Dress Without Tripping.”

Emily picked up the last book.

“That’s a real thing?” she asked.

“Unfortunately,” Fatima said.

Week Two.

Emily sat in a room surrounded by five elderly ladies of the court, all watching her like hawks.

“Now, dear,” one of them said, adjusting her glasses, “show us the formal greeting for a level-two foreign ambassador.”

Emily stood, made a graceful curtsy, kept her gaze lowered for exactly three seconds, and returned to standing.

The ladies exchanged impressed glances.

“Perfect,” one admitted.

Emily smiled. Small victory.

“And now,” another lady said, “show us the greeting for a prince of an allied kingdom during a summer evening ceremony.”

Emily blinked.

“That’s different from the daytime greeting?” she asked.

“Completely,” the lady said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Emily whispered.

Week Five.

The meeting about flowers was in its third hour.

“The white lily symbolizes purity,” the event coordinator explained, holding up a sample. “But the cream lily represents elegance. Which do you prefer for the main hall tables?”

Emily stared at the nearly identical flowers.

“The white one,” she said.

“Excellent choice,” the coordinator said, taking notes. “Now, for the secondary tables—desert rose or wild jasmine?”

“Jasmine,” Emily said.

“Wonderful. And for the decorative columns—imported orchids or local tulips?”

Emily took a deep breath.

“Fatima decides,” she said.

The coordinator blinked.

“But you need to—”

“I need to keep my sanity,” Emily interrupted. “Fatima has flawless taste. Whatever she chooses, I approve.”

Fatima, sitting in the corner, smiled proudly.

Week Eight.

Emily stood in the palace kitchen, determined to learn how to make traditional mint tea under the strict supervision of the head chef.

“No, no, no,” the chef cried, snatching the teapot from her hands. “Three minutes of steeping. Three. You left it for four. That is the difference between perfection and disaster.”

“It’s a one-minute difference,” Emily protested.

“It’s everything,” he said gravely.

Emily sighed and started over.

Samir appeared in the doorway, hiding a smile.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“I’m destroying mint leaves,” she replied. “How do you think it’s going?”

He laughed, stepped behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“You’re doing incredibly well,” he murmured.

“I’m losing my mind,” she said.

“But losing it gracefully,” he said.

She turned her head and gave him a quick kiss.

“Stop distracting me,” she said. “I have tea to not ruin.”

Week Eleven.

The final council meeting before the official approval.

Emily sat in the same chair where she’d been fired months earlier.

This time, she wasn’t afraid.

Tired, yes.

But not afraid.

The eldest councilman flipped through reports.

“Miss Carter has completed all etiquette courses with excellent marks,” he said. “She has shown consistent respect for our traditions. She has learned basic Arabic—with a delightful accent, I might add.”

Several councilmen smiled.

“And more importantly,” he continued, “during these three months, she has shown genuine dedication not only to Sheikh Samir, but to this kingdom and its people.”

Another councilman nodded.

“She visited hospitals,” he said. “Spoke with ordinary families. Learned about our culture for real, not just protocol.”

Dr. Kamal stood.

“I can confirm Sheikh Samir remains healthy, stable, and happy,” he said. “Happier than I’ve seen him in years.”

Rasheed, who had been silent, finally spoke.

“I voted in favor three months ago with reservations,” he said. He looked at Emily. “Today, I vote with certainty. You’ve proven yourself worthy. Not because of a title—but because of who you are.”

Emily’s eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said.

The eldest councilman struck the gavel.

“Then it’s settled,” he said. “Final vote. Who approves the marriage between Sheikh Samir Al-Hadi and Emily Carter?”

Seven hands rose.

“Unanimous,” he announced. “The marriage is officially approved. Let the preparations begin.”

Emily stood in the preparation room, staring at the mirror.

She didn’t recognize the woman looking back.

The dress was a masterpiece: white silk with gold embroidery, delicate long sleeves, a three-meter train. Henna covered her hands in intricate patterns. A lace veil draped over her hair, held by a pearl tiara.

She looked like a princess.

And she was terrified.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

Fatima, adjusting the veil, stopped.

“What?” she asked.

“There are cameras,” Emily said. “International press. Hundreds of people. I’m going to trip or say something wrong or—”

“Emily,” Fatima interrupted.

She placed her hands on Emily’s shoulders.

“Breathe,” she said.

“I can’t,” Emily said.

“Like a normal person,” Fatima said, smiling. “Your own words.”

Emily let out a shaky laugh.

“You remembered that?” she asked.

“Of course,” Fatima said. “It’s my favorite line.”

She hugged her.

“You’ve got this,” Fatima said. “You conquered an impossible sheikh, convinced a stubborn council, and approved forty-seven kinds of flowers. You can do anything.”

Emily took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

The ceremony took place in the palace’s main garden, transformed into a fairytale.

Flowers everywhere—yes, all forty-seven varieties—perfectly coordinated. Crystal chandeliers hung from the trees. A red carpet stretched across the grass. Hundreds of guests sat in mahogany chairs.

In the center, beneath an arch of white roses, Samir waited.

Wearing a traditional white tunic embroidered with gold, he looked like he’d stepped out of a dream.

The music began—an impossible blend of traditional Arabic instruments and a soft jazz saxophone that reminded Emily of small bars in Brooklyn.

She started walking.

One step.

Two.

Three.

She did not trip.

When she reached the altar, Samir held out his hand.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered.

“So do you,” she replied. “Try not to trip over your tunic.”

He chuckled softly.

The officiant began the ceremony in Arabic, then translated into English.

Then came the vows.

Samir went first.

“Emily Carter,” he said. “You came into my life like a storm. Stubborn. Irritating. Completely impossible to ignore.”

The guests laughed.

“I tried to push you away,” he continued. “Tried to scare you. Tried to pretend I didn’t need you. But you didn’t leave. You held my hand through the worst of it. You taught me how to breathe when I thought I was dying. You showed me that living isn’t betrayal. And you…” His voice faltered.

He looked up at the sky for a moment.

“Amamira,” he said softly, “wherever you are—thank you for showing me what true love is, and for giving me the strength to find it again.”

He turned back to Emily.

“She would have loved you,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

Emily was openly crying now.

Her turn.

“Samir Al-Hadi,” she said, voice shaking. “I came to Riyadh thinking I’d take care of an impossible patient for a few weeks. I didn’t expect to meet the most frustrating, stubborn, and beautiful person I’ve ever known.”

The guests laughed again.

“You tested me,” she said. “Challenged me. Made me want to quit. But you also made me laugh. Made me believe. Made me feel like I mattered. And when you asked me to stay, I realized I didn’t want to leave.”

She took a breath.

“My father passed away three years ago,” she said. “I know he’d be here today—probably telling terrible jokes and embarrassing everyone. I miss him. But I know he’d approve of you.”

She smiled through her tears.

“And I want you to know this,” she said. “You healed yourself, Samir. I just held your hand.”

Samir pulled her into a hug, completely forgetting about protocol.

The guests applauded.

The officiant, smiling, declared, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Samir kissed her before the sentence was even finished.

The garden erupted in applause, music, and joy.

The reception was unforgettable.

Samir tripped over his tunic walking into the ballroom, and Emily laughed so hard she had to lean on a chair.

During dinner, Emily tried eating rice with her hands—a local tradition—and spilled half of it into her lap. Samir tried to help and spilled the rest.

Fatima gave a hilarious speech about the three-month trial period.

“She burned incense during a ceremony,” Fatima said, “and smoked us all out. We had to open every window in the hall.”

Emily hid her face in her hands.

“She confused ‘good night’ with ‘enjoy your meal’ and left an ambassador very confused,” Fatima continued.

The guests laughed.

“She tried making mint tea,” Fatima said, “and nearly caused a diplomatic incident with the chef.”

The guests roared.

“But she never gave up,” Fatima said, her tone softening. “She learned. She grew. And she deserves to be here.”

She raised her glass.

“To the newlyweds,” she said.

Everyone raised theirs too.

Then Rasheed stood.

The room fell silent.

Emily squeezed Samir’s hand.

Rasheed walked to the center, took the microphone, and looked at them.

“I need to apologize,” he said. “Publicly.”

His voice trembled.

“I did terrible things,” he said. “Thinking I was protecting my brother. I kept him trapped out of fear. I almost destroyed his happiness.”

He looked at Emily.

“And I almost lost you,” he said, “before I even really met you.”

He walked toward their table.

“Emily,” he said, “thank you for not giving up. For proving me wrong. For loving my brother the way he deserves to be loved.”

Tears streamed down his face.

Samir stood, walked over, and hugged him.

The two brothers held each other and cried while years of pain finally began to dissolve.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

When they pulled apart, Rasheed sniffed and smiled.

“Now go dance with your wife,” he said, “before I cry more and ruin my reputation.”

The music started again.

Samir held out his hand to Emily.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

“You can have them all,” she replied.

They danced awkwardly, stepping on each other’s feet, laughing like children.

When the night ended, when the guests left and the lights went out, Emily and Samir stayed in the empty garden, still in their wedding clothes, sitting on the ground among the flowers.

“Honeymoon tomorrow,” Samir said. “The Caribbean. Two weeks. No protocol. No council. Nothing. Just me and you.”

“Just us,” Emily said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Perfect.”

The honeymoon in the Caribbean was… interesting.

Samir insisted he knew how to surf.

Emily tried to warn him that Atlantic waves weren’t the same as palace pools.

He didn’t listen.

The first wave knocked him down in three seconds.

He came up sputtering, hair plastered to his face, trying to hold onto his dignity.

“That was strategic,” he shouted.

Lying on the sand under a huge umbrella, sunglasses on and layered in sunscreen, Emily waved lazily.

“Of course it was, darling,” she called. “Very strategic.”

He tried again.

And fell.

Again.

And again.

On the fifth attempt, Emily took a picture she would treasure forever: Sheikh Samir Al-Hadi, surfboard on his head, total defeat on his face.

She laughed so hard she cried.

Seeing her laugh like that—free, happy, completely at ease—Samir decided it was worth getting knocked down by waves every day.

Of course, Emily didn’t fare much better.

On the second day, she forgot to reapply sunscreen and turned red as a shrimp.

Samir spent the entire night applying aloe vera gel while she complained that she was literally cooking.

“You’re a nurse,” he teased. “You should know about sun protection.”

“I do know,” she groaned. “I just forgot the Caribbean sun is basically an oven.”

“You look like a lobster,” he said.

“A very pretty lobster,” he added quickly.

“That doesn’t help,” she muttered.

He kept applying the gel.

Gentle.

Patient.

And Emily realized: this was the man she had married. Someone who cared for her in ridiculous moments just as much as serious ones.

Back at the palace, adjusting to married life came with its own comedy.

Emily was determined to learn Arabic.

Samir was determined to learn how to make an American breakfast.

They both failed spectacularly.

One morning, Emily walked into the kitchen and greeted Fatima with what she thought was “Good morning.”

Fatima stared at her.

“You just said, ‘Nice shoe,’” Fatima informed her.

“What?”

“Literally,” Fatima said. “Nice shoe. As if you were greeting a piece of footwear.”

Samir, trying to make pancakes and already on his third burnt attempt, laughed so hard he nearly ruined the fourth.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Emily protested. “You can’t even make pancakes.”

“Pancakes are impossible,” Samir said. “How do you Americans make it look so easy?”

“By following the recipe,” Emily said.

“I am following it,” he argued.

“You put salt instead of sugar,” she said.

Samir looked at the bowl, tasted the batter, and made a horrific face.

“Oh,” he said.

Fatima took the bowl from his hands.

“You two are kitchen disasters,” she said. “But adorable ones.”

Emily and Samir looked at each other and smiled.

Adorable disasters.

She could live with that.

As the months passed, a new idea began to take shape.

A clinic.

Not just any clinic. An integrated healing center where physical and emotional health would be treated together. Where panic attacks weren’t shameful. Where grief wasn’t “weakness.”

Emily worked tirelessly with Dr. Kamal, designing programs, training staff, writing protocols based on the best of American and local practices.

Samir used his influence to secure funding and official approval.

Rasheed, surprisingly, became one of their strongest supporters.

“I spent years trying to hide weakness,” he said during a planning meeting. “Maybe it’s time to show that true strength is admitting when we need help.”

The clinic opened its doors six months after the wedding.

The first patient was Khaled, twenty-eight, severely traumatized after an accident that had taken his wife’s life.

Emily recognized the story immediately.

Too well.

Khaled resisted.

He yelled.

He refused treatment.

Just like Samir once had.

During one particularly difficult session, he burst out, “I don’t want to get better. I deserve to suffer.”

Emily had heard those words before.

She knew exactly what to say.

“You don’t deserve that,” she said, firm but gentle. “You deserve to live. You deserve to heal. You deserve to forgive yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” Khaled said.

“I understand more than you think,” Emily replied.

She sat beside him.

“And I’ll tell you something someone very stubborn once taught me,” she said. “Surviving isn’t a crime. And living isn’t betrayal.”

Khaled looked at her through red, swollen eyes.

“How do I do that?” he asked. “How do I live?”

“By breathing,” she said. “One day at a time.”

She smiled.

“Like regular people.”

He let out a wet, surprised laugh.

“You say that a lot,” he said.

“Because it works,” she replied.

Day by day, session by session, Khaled began to get better.

Sometimes, with Khaled’s permission, Samir watched the sessions.

In every word Emily spoke, in every technique she used, he saw reflections of his own journey.

“It’s strange,” he said one night as they lay in bed. “Seeing someone else go through what I went through.”

“But now you can help,” Emily said. “You’re living proof that healing is possible.”

“We’re proof,” he said.

She kissed him softly.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We are.”

The official opening ceremony for the clinic came one year after their wedding.

The hall was full.

Kingdom officials. International press. Representatives from mental health organizations around the world.

And Khaled, visibly healthier and at peace, sat in the front row as an honored guest.

Emily stood on stage beside Samir, Dr. Kamal, and Rasheed, wearing a formal dress that suddenly felt too tight.

She’d woken up nauseated that morning.

And the week before.

And the week before that.

She’d blamed stress.

Samir took the microphone.

“It is with great joy that we open the Al-Hadi Integrated Healing Clinic today,” he said. “A place where physical and emotional health go hand in hand. Where vulnerability isn’t weakness. Where healing isn’t shame.”

Applause echoed through the hall.

“This clinic exists because of one person,” Samir said.

He looked at Emily with so much love her heart skipped.

“My wife,” he said. “She taught me that medicine goes beyond prescriptions, that healing starts with empathy, and that sometimes the best remedy is someone holding your hand and saying, ‘Breathe.’”

Loud applause.

Emily stepped up to speak.

Suddenly, the room tilted.

The lights were too bright.

The floor seemed to move.

“Emily?” Samir said, grabbing her arm. “Are you okay?”

“I… I just need air,” she murmured.

She stumbled.

Samir caught her before she fell, panic written across his face.

“Someone call a doctor!” he shouted.

“I am a doctor,” Dr. Kamal said, already hurrying forward.

“Then call another one!” Samir cried.

Emily laughed, even while dizzy.

“Samir, relax,” she said.

“How can I relax? You’re fainting,” he said.

“I’m not fainting,” she replied. “I just need to sit.”

Samir carried her off the stage as if she were made of glass.

The audience watched, worried.

Backstage, Dr. Kamal checked her vitals.

“Blood pressure: normal,” he said. “Heart rate: normal. Breathing: steady.”

He paused and looked at Emily with curiosity.

“When was your last period?” he asked.

Emily froze.

Samir froze.

Fatima, who had run in from the back of the hall, gasped so loudly everyone heard.

“She’s pregnant,” Fatima blurted.

“Fatima,” Emily and Dr. Kamal said at the same time.

Too late.

The entire hall erupted in cheers and applause.

Samir looked at Emily.

Then at Dr. Kamal.

Then back at Emily.

“You’re… what?” he asked.

“I think so,” Emily said, laughing and crying at once.

The color drained from Samir’s face.

He sat down on the floor.

“I need… I need to process this,” he said.

“Breathe, honey,” Emily said, holding his hand. “Like regular people.”

“I am breathing,” he said. “Like regular people. I am.”

Rasheed appeared, smiling broadly.

“Congratulations, Samir,” he said. “You’re going to be a father.”

Samir looked up at him, eyes wide.

“I’m going to be a father,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Rasheed said. “A father.”

“I’m going to be a father,” Samir said again.

And then he fainted.

Completely.

Dr. Kamal sighed, shaking his head.

“Someone bring water and salts,” he said. “The sheikh is down.”

Emily laughed so hard she could barely breathe.

“I’m your nurse, you idiot,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You can’t faint on my shift.”

When Samir finally woke a few minutes later, the first thing he saw was Emily’s face hovering over his.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he answered, still lying on the floor. “I fainted.”

“Completely,” she said. “In front of everyone. At least fifty cameras caught it.”

“I’ll never live this down,” he groaned.

“Never,” she agreed. She helped him sit up. “But it was worth it. Because you’re going to be a father.”

Samir looked at her, and everything else disappeared.

The cameras.

The crowd.

The embarrassment.

“We’re going to be parents,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said. “We’ll be terrible at it at first.”

“Probably,” he replied. “I faint at news, and you call everyone an idiot.”

She laughed.

“We’ll learn,” she said.

He pulled her into a hug.

“It’s going to be perfect,” he whispered.

Later, after the opening ceremony ended successfully despite all the chaos, after the congratulations and hugs and photos, Khaled approached Samir.

“Your Highness,” he said. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” Samir asked.

“For showing me healing is possible,” Khaled said.

He wiped his eyes.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw how you were a year ago—in old videos, in the stories people tell. And I see you now. Healthy. Happy. In love. And I thought… if he did it, maybe I can too.”

Something broke open inside Samir.

He hugged Khaled.

The same way Rasheed had once held him.

The same way Emily had held him on his hardest nights.

“You can,” Samir whispered. “I promise. It’s hard. There will be bad days. But you can. And you’re not alone.”

Khaled cried on his shoulder.

In that embrace, the circle closed.

The patient who had been healed was now helping others heal.

Pain had become purpose.

Trauma had become wisdom.

The darkness had finally given way to light.

At sunset, Emily and Samir stood on the balcony of the royal suite—the same place they had stood so many times during that wild year.

Samir stood behind her, arms around her waist, their hands intertwined over the stomach that didn’t yet show but already carried their greatest gift.

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered against her hair.

“Me neither,” she said. “It feels surreal.”

“We’re going to be parents,” he said.

“And we’ll be terrible at it at first,” she repeated.

He laughed softly.

“Probably,” he agreed. “But we’ll learn. Together.”

Emily turned and kissed his chin.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” she asked.

“For teaching me how to love again,” he said. “For showing me it’s worth the risk. For… everything.”

“I should be thanking you,” she replied. “You taught me how to live. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself, Samir,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “You did the hard work. You faced your fears. You chose to heal. I just held your hand.”

“Then we taught each other,” he said.

He kissed her forehead.

They stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the sun sink behind the city.

Emily thought about everything that had happened.

The fifteen nurses who had run away before her.

The impossible sheikh no one could stand.

The folded letter Fatima had given her, full of wisdom and hope.

The three months of absurd protocols and forty-seven kinds of flowers.

The airport where everything changed.

The wedding that united two cultures and two souls.

The clinic, now full of people learning to breathe again.

A marriage full of love.

A life full of purpose.

And a baby on the way.

“You know what’s funny?” Emily said, resting her head on his chest. “I came here thinking I’d take care of an impossible patient for a few weeks and then go home.”

“And?” he asked.

“And I ended up finding my home,” she said. “My family. My future. I ended up finding… everything.”

Samir held her tighter, as if he could keep the moment forever.

“We both did,” he said.

On the balcony of Al-Hadi Palace, as Riyadh glowed beneath the starlit sky and the first evening star appeared on the horizon, two souls that had once been broken—one by trauma, the other by loneliness and loss—were finally whole.

The nurse no one could stand had healed the impossible sheikh.

Together, they were healing each other.

And together, they would spend the rest of their lives healing the world—one patient at a time, one breath at a time, one hand held at a time.

Like normal people.

Because in the end, that was what made all the difference.

Not the titles.

Not the palace.

Not the traditions or the protocols.

But the simple humanity of two people refusing to give up on each other.

It was love that healed when medicine couldn’t.

It was vulnerability that brought strength.

It was the courage to breathe together when everything seemed impossible.