Arranged Marriage: The Prince and I

"Sahib, we'll be landing soon, please fasten your seatbelt."

Rafiq looked up from the screen of his laptop at the sound of the flight attendant's voice. He dismissed her with the simple wave of his hand before doing as he was told. A click-click-clack of the keys on his laptop filled his cabin before putting his laptop to sleep. The thirty-two-year-old crown Prince sat back in his plush seat and looked out the window of the royal private jet at the waves upon waves of the magnificent golden desert sands. Finally, after two-and-a-half years of working overseas, Rafiq was returning home. The jewel desert country known as Dhakhar. Though coming back home and seeing his country filled him with a sense of homesickness he hadn't felt before, he still couldn't shake the gnawing tension of what awaited him once he stepped off the plane. Overseeing of the expansion of Shahaad Oils to scattered parts of the world beyond his country’s borders had kept him away for so long, but he'd never stayed much even before then.

At eighteen, straight after high school, he joined the army. A mandatory task for every male in the royal family to serve the nation a minimum of three years. Unlike what most of his counterparts chose, he'd attended university while on active duty. After which he promptly established an oil company at the tender age of twenty-two, headquartered in Dhakhar's capital, Tamar. Though he'd had the upper hand in starting his company, it'd hadn't made him soft with his work. Rafiq's industry was what he ate, breathed and dreamt, making him one the most successful businessmen in the world.

It wasn't long before the plane was taxing to the end of the runway. His entourage, comprising a convoy of at least a dozen palace guards and his younger brother, Prince Hassan. There were no crowds or paparazzi. Just the way he'd wanted it. However, that fact was that, that section of the airport being private, reserved for the royal family and other highly respected dignitaries not wanting to deal with the commotion of camera flashes and the noise. Which reminded him of why he was here. Yes, he was back to stay in Dhakhar because of the change of work, but it had scheduled him to arrive almost two weeks later. At his father's urging, if he could call it that, persuaded him to leave the minute details of the rest of the work in the capable hands of his subordinates. His more recent "extracurricular activities" had set the locals' tongues wagging even more than usual and his father blowing a gasket, as the Americans say. With a sigh, he marched down the stairs, head above the rest while the guards saluted.

"Brother, welcome back home." Hassan drew his brother into a long, warm embrace.

"It is good to see you after this long Hassan. It is also good to be back home," Rafiq said after they separated.

Hassan was, in fact, his half-brother. They were born from different mothers. Rafiq's mother, the first wife to the king, died shortly after childbirth, resulting in his father marrying again and Hassan being born from that second marriage. Many, especially, foreigners assumed they shared the same parents because of the striking similarity in their features, though where Hassan’s physique was like a rugby player, Rafiq was taller with an athletic form. Nevertheless, even with those facts known by the public, Rafiq never saw it like that. Hassan was his kid brother. Period. He saw him as just his little brother, the one who he looked out for when they were younger. But, at twenty-six, Hassan ceased needing Rafiq's big brotherly protectiveness, seeing as the once small boy had grown into a fine young man.

"I see life in the military is working for you very well. Maybe too well—First Sergeant Al Shahaad." Rafiq chuckled, skimming down his brother's tall figure. Unlike the guards dressed in the royal guard uniform, Hassan wore his full camouflage uniform and combat boots.

"It is isn't it? You should re-consider fully joining." Hassan joined him in laughter.

"Trust me, brother, I already have a lot on my plate."

"Ah well, you know where to find me." he paused, "Father misses you." He turned, and they began walking towards the convoy of large, black SUVs bearing both their family crest and national flag.

"Well—didn't sound like it when I spoke with him on the phone recently," Rafiq grumbled.

"I don't know about that, but we should head home. He told me you two have a great deal to discuss, and then the festival is also up for discussion when you are done, you know how our mother is like." He laughed, sliding into the vehicle where another saluting guard held the door readily opened for them.

"I thought I was specific about not having a meaningless party just for my arrival." Rafiq bit out, gritting his teeth.

"Oh cheer up brother, we both knew mother would get her way, as she always does. Frankly, I'm surprised that you're surprised." Hassan laughed, clapping Rafiq’s back.

"Right." Rafiq sighed with a shake of his head. The motorcade started its journey the heart of the vibrant city Tamar’s. It had the most spectacular architecture, and the same went for its residents. It never ceased to amaze him. For a moment he lost himself in his thoughts as he looked out his window, looking at the people that filled the sidewalks cheering their crown prince back home. One day, it would pass down to him, so he could rule and allow his people and his country flourish more and more. There were days he absorbed himself in the awareness of such responsibilities, of one day becoming a ruler everyone will look up to. Then there were some, like recently, where he didn't want to care about anything but his own freedom and self-indulgence. To feel what it was to be truly from any responsibilities or the hidden burdens that shackle him to the duty grounds of the desert. He didn't bother trying to speak with his brother since the younger man was already on the phone with no doubt it was an important call. Soon enough their cars were navigating through the large iron gates of the palace, past more saluting soldiers and cheering locals.

"Well, I suppose it's time to meet with the King," He mused.

"Ziza wake up." Ferran shook his friend's shoulder.

"Five more minutes." She mumbled in her sleep.

"Come, you've got class in an hour then work later," Ferran replied as he attempted to pull at the blankets that wrapped around her like a burrito.

"Fine, I'm up, I'm up." Ziza sat up.

"You, look awful." Ferran teased and moved to open her curtains, letting the sun flood into the room causing Aziza to complain.

"I slept late last night working on Afridi's assignment. I can't write the final for this semester without it." She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. With music school taking up most of her time, add waitressing and side gigs at almost any venue she gets asked to play at, Ferran wondered where she even got time to blink, "how did you get in?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"You forget I can pick almost anything that has a lock? Plus, you promised me a ride to work." That was true. She and Ferran went way back. Like living at same orphanage back. They met in their early teens and from the first moment they met, they hit it off. People at the children’s home, always thought they’d wind up together, because of the way they were almost always in sync, always together. They’d never tried to fool around and try to see could happen between them. That was because they were so close to each other, very much like siblings. It wouldn’t have been only awkward but also down right gross thinking of him in that light. He was her big brother, and besides, he had a family of his own. A fiancée and a sweet kid daughter. Without him in her life, she didn’t know who nor where she would be. But right now he had budged into her place because since his car had gone for routine service, Ziza offered to drive him to work till he got it back.

"You can take the boy out of the streets but you can't take the streets out of the boy. We are going to have a serious talk about that later. What time is it?" She yawned once more.

"10am" he shrugged

"Oh no, I'm going to be late! Couldn’t you have come earlier?" She scrambled from her bed and bolted to her bathroom.

"Uh huh, you better hurry now, you've got 45 minutes before your first class starts I’d rather not run into that viper you call a stepmother." He called out as he gathered the freshly brewed coffee and made himself comfortable in her small living room.

A living room meant to be for guests, since it was technically a guest house. But Ziza didn't mind one bit. At least she stopped minding when she'd grown tired and weary of the constant fights with her adopted family. Her father at first flat out refused her having to move her stuff out of the house. She remembered the hurt and frustrated look on his face he seemed to wear daily during those few years. He was always the peace keeper. His plan of them being a big, happy family would never work, and he'd resigned to the fact. Only then did he allow her to move. Personally, Ziza preferred it. She got to stay away from Faizah most of the time and have her own privacy without feeling like she was stepping on anyone's toes.

"Please make breakfast for me!" She shouted.

"Fifteen dollars in cash, nothing's for free!" He called back to his friend as he flipped through a magazine he found lying around in her living room.

"Fifteen dollars for breakfast? Who do you think I am? Mother Teresa?" Aziza huffed.

"You're the one who makes money on the side from your music gigs. So why don't you buy me breakfast for once you cheapskate?! Now hurry!" He checked his watch again.

"I know, I know I'm almost done." Aziza stumbled hurriedly out of the bathroom, threw on simple sneakers and a loose band shirt, twisted her curly hair into a loose plait down her back before grabbing her violin case and flying for her front door.

"Whoa slow down you still have like—30 minutes to spare," Ferran followed Aziza to her car. A Nissan Qashqai, gifted to her by her father for her sixteenth birthday he regretted he'd missed.

"I still have to grab breakfast because someone refused to make some for me." She replied with a start of the car's engine.

"I don't have pocket money, I'm the one with a family to feed here. Besides, I'm not the one who made you sleep in."

"Whatever Ferran, keep the excuses coming." She navigated the car out of the gate.

There were restless chefs and waiters all around her. Filling the enormous kitchen with their chatter and the occasional clang of plates and cooking utensils. Things always got so busy every night just before they were about to close. Evening was when they experienced their peak hours. Ziza thought it had something to do with the fact that most people were leaving work for home. She’d been working as a waitress at this popular French restaurant for almost three years now. Aziza considered herself lucky to have gotten the gig, since she’d had no prior experience of waitressing. Ferran’s help eventually helped her get hired. Without him, she’d have been worrying about university debts. It was a job she was immensely grateful, since it helped pay for her tuition while her partial scholarship did the rest.

She did a brief stretch to iron out the little kinks that were forming again in her neck. Her feet were killing her, and she took a little breather before a new customer needed to order.

"What are doing?" Ferran spoke into her ear out of the blue, and Aziza nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Ferran you imbecile! You scared me!" She slapped his arm.

"What are you reading about?” He peered at there in her hand, “Crown Prince Rafiq returns home after three years?“ He continued to wipe the plate in his hand as he peered over her to read the front-page headline out loud, as if Aziza had not read it to him already.

"Oh yeah, apparently he’s been out of the country for a while now. There's going to be some kind of ball they are going to throw at the palace.” Her brow crinkled, “I didn't know he’d been out of the country all along. Hell who am I kidding—I don't even know much about the guy.”

"Every normal person knows who Prince Rafiq is." Ferran rolled his eyes as he looked at pictures of the prince at the airport. It was a few years old. Probably the time he was leaving.

"I don't!" She argued, following him to his work station where he served food meant for another table.

"I said normal Habibi." He put emphasis on the last two words.

"You're a prick." She punched his arm.

“But I don’t blame you. You barely have time for anything as it is. It’s understandable if current affairs are way over your head."

Her eyebrows furrowed in wonder, “What does he look like? I’ve never really followed these royals. Kind of embarrassing if you ask me.” She said.

“Trust me, you'll end up drooling. They always do,” then he frowned. Ziza thought it had something to do with his fiancé.

“Here the story continues to page two maybe you'll find a picture of—bingo!" He snapped his fingers.

"Whoa." Aziza slightly gaped at the image that greeted her on page two of her newspaper.