Sadiya |REWRITING

Chapter Six

***

YEMEN.

Shades of black, zooming past the gates, the deep red in the middle, cars after cars. The soft rumbles of the engines earned peeks from the passing staff. The prince was back. It was obvious. Uniformly parking in the lot by the far end of the palace, a guard, stepping stoically with impassiveness, moved forward to pull the car door open.

Shiny Tom Fords, dark, straightened, smoked pants, grabbed the attention of the busy onlookers. Taut muscles of the brachia, tightened in the sleeves of the coat, broad shoulders, scruffy sharp jawline, creating a seeming five o' clock shadow, torso taunted with muscles - hard muscles, was Amir Zayan ibn Ahmer. Son of Malik Ahmer ibn Ayyub al-Qadim III and Malika Saamiya bint Maahir.

Steps saturated in grace, authority, aristocracy, elegance and whatnot. If royalty was in form of human, the six foot three prince was royalty itself. The lasses around halted their movements, eyes sparkling with longing. All wanting a taste of the masterpiece not looking their side as they ogled him. Some having known him ever since a year back before he had to leave for work-related issues in Egypt.

With the Chopard bifocals off, his catchy light-brown orbs remained emotionless, having used to eyes on him. Not to brag, but it could get annoying sometimes. It was.

Amir Zayan was led to the throne room his father, the King, was in.

Passing by the local, yet, modernized Art Deco of the giant palace walls. Not much had changed, but some things did. Raging from the sparkly decorative soufflés, tchotchkes which were courtesy of his mother. New items were included to her weird wide collection. Wherefore, to her, love, warmth, care, bakhoor, souvenirs, made a home. And with how deep the Malik felt for her, "no" wasn't a word in his vocabulary.

The tall, bold doors opened on their accord, sensing a presence before them. "Ah," Malik Ahmer ibn Ayyub al-Qadim's voice greeted his hearing as he entered, leaving behind his bodyguards, stiff by each side of the doors.

Amir Zayan stepped closer. "Father," he acknowledged with a stiff nod.

Luckily for him, the large room contained just his father - the council was absent.

On the gold and deep blue velvet cushioned throne was a sixty-something year-old six foot man. His broad shoulders squared up as his bulky arms flexed on the armrest. A man whom Zayan mirrored the facial features of. A man whose face was grim, educing zero emotions as he stared down at his son. A man people knew as Malik Ahmer ibn Ayyub al-Qadim, the Third.

The King instantly melted away all impassive evidence in his body language. Save that for later when they weren't the only ones in.

"Salam alaikum, Father." The thirty-four year-old Amir, greeted with a tight smile.

"Wa'alaikum assalam, Son," he answered. "Back already? Or just miss your Amma?" He cracked.

Amir Zayan let out a breathy laugh, his father's following right after. "That too," his smirk was concealing. "I had the factory in Egypt monitored, well, I did personally. Turns out we had a mole amongst the workers there, he had--"

"Yeah yeah, you told me all that over our video chat." Malik Ahmer delivered the prince a bored look. "No talking business till dinner. It's hard enough I have to seat here all day, hearing a problem after the other as if I had the solution to every one of them."