The Sheikh's Fake Engagement

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The dress didn’t look right on her. It didn’t matter how long Hazel stared at herself in the mirror, it just looked wrong. It was too indulgent, too bold, and too new. Most of her clothes, even the fancy ones, came from the local thrift store. This dress had to be worth at least two months rent.

She ran her dark hands over the luxurious fabric. It was deep blue with golden designs all over. Could she really do this?

Yes. She needed the money. There was no backing out now.

Elite Diamond Holdings only catered to the richest clientele. Kings. Billionaires. Sheikhs. Discretion was necessary. Excellence was expected. Once her application was accepted and she was matched, Elite Diamond Holdings sent a team of tailors to get her exact measurements and make sure she looked as glamorous as possible.

She was told she could even keep this when it was all done to remember her fairy tale evening. All that romantic nonsense didn’t appeal to her, though. She just needed the money.

The doorbell rang. He was here.

Hazel took a deep breath. It didn’t matter if it didn’t feel right. How she felt didn’t matter, what mattered was pleasing the client.

Whomever that was.

No name. No picture. No hint of who this person was supposed to be. This was supposed to be her fiancee of all things, if only temporarily.

She headed for the door, and opened it, ready to face her supposed husband to be.

It was a guy in white gloves and a jaunty cap.

A chauffeur.

Of course it was. Someone who had this sort of money wasn’t the type to be ringing the bells of doors in an impoverished neighborhood that she expected any rich guy to avoid like the plague, or at least not venture into without a full security detail.

“Miss Andrews,” he said with a tone of absolute professionalism. “The sheikh is ready for you.”

Wait, what? The sheikh?

“Come. He does not like to be kept waiting.”

“Alright. I’m ready,” she said. It was a lie. There was no way in hell that she could ever really be ready for something like this.

Being sure to lock her door behind her as she always did, she followed the driver down to the parking lot, where a long stretch limousine awaited them.

Inside? Apparently a sheikh.

When she heard that, her mind combined the idea with the type of person who would have to resort to buying a fake fiancee for whatever reason.

The image in her head was not pretty.

Luckily, the man was nothing like the image.

He rose out of the limo in a suit as well tailored as the dress she was wearing. He was a man well over six feet tall and very well built.

He had a beard on the most handsome of faces, connecting to a beautiful black hair. Piercing blue eyes were staring her down. “Ah, you must be Hazel,” he said, his accent noticeable but hardly what she would call thick.

“Um, uh, yes,” she said, about as confident as a melted bowl of goo.

“I am Zahir Kirimi, sheikh of Al’Nahoz.”

To say she was intimidated would be an understatement. She was just a girl who grew up in the rough parts of the city. She was the furthest thing imaginable from royalty.

Yet here she was. About to agree to become a royal fiancee.

Even if it wasn’t a real engagement.

He took her hand. “You must be Hazel. I’ve seen much of you in pictures, but they do not do you justice.”

“You don’t screw around laying on the charm, do you?”

“What can I say? When I see something I like, I do not mess about in trying to get it.”

To her, this was the most mixed signal ever. He was flirting. That much was clear, but this wasn’t supposed to be a flirting situation. This was supposed to be a business situation.

What threw her off even more was how much of a flirting situation he was making it.

He pulled her close in an embrace suddenly, and she was just starstruck about what was happening.

The sheikh’s beard was tickling her face, and she realized he wanted to go a whole lot further.

“Is something bothering you, my dear?”

“Uh... I’m just not used to a guy being so direct.”

He chuckled softly, and that sound was oddly soothing to her ears. “Such greetings are common in my country for close friends and loved ones.”

“You just met me.”

“And yet you’re already a loved one.” He broke away from her, still holding her hand. “My parents await me, along with my bride to be.”

Chaotic thoughts overwhelmed her. This wasn’t supposed to be real. The agency wasn’t about matching her with a husband. They didn’t do that anymore.

This guy? This sheikh? This hot, handsome olive-skinned man who just appeared out of nowhere in her life?

Yeah, he was talking like this was real.

Was it a miscommunication?

The two of them climbed into the back of the car, and soon the limo was moving along.