A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Twenty-Three: LEILA

I have thought long and hard about the situation before me, and have ended up with two possible scenarios. Neither of them result in the favored outcome I seek. I can tell Ariah, or I can't–it feels like playing a game of he loves me, he loves me not.

If I tell Ariah, I risk Hooyo and Hareem's life. If I don't tell Ariah, what if she or her family is hurt?

I want to slam my head against the steering wheel over and over again, until a new solution comes to mind, or better yet, I want to yell so badly at all the drivers on the road, because other than me, it seems everyone is a horrible driver. If I was the only one on the road, I'd reach my destination way faster.

But I cannot kill every driver on the road, otherwise I'd be imprisoned for longer than I'll live. Instead, I shout as loudly as I can, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I shouldn't be doing this while driving, but I don't know where else I can have the privacy to let out my frustration.

What should I do?

What. Should. I. do?

When I roll to a stop at a red light, the driver next to me assesses me, frowning. I duck my head. I don't need someone thinking I've lost my mind.

I continue driving, praying to Allah as I do, and asking him for a solution. And somehow, on my journey to waste fuel, because here I am pretending I'm rich enough to keep filling up gas every week–no, I'll just guilt trip my brother and my coworkers into paying–I end up in Ariah's neighborhood.

I slow down in front of her driveway, where a Honda Civic is parked. Is she back already? At this point, I have nothing to say about the money she must be spending to travel back and forth like this.

No wonder, random people are pulling up with vendettas against her family. Stop, Leila, you're acting like every day you meet a new person who seeks revenge from the royal family.

I shake my head, attempting to rid myself of the thoughts that stick close regardless. With a peek at Ariah's house, which appears like the other suburban houses on the street, I wonder what it looks like from the inside. I've never been inside, though she's invited me plenty of times. There's something intimate about entering someone's house, peeking into their lives, at the place they eat, and sleep and cry and smile. It's too personal for my taste.

And yet, I slip out of my car, smacking the door shut behind me. I gently push the black fence open, which holds the wide building in its embrace. She has a nice house, with a stone bed on both sides of the concrete pathway, and a blue door that contrasts nicely with the white and gray exterior colors. Withering flowers and roses covered in melting snow line either side of the porch steps.

Once I am up the steps, I search for my phone, wanting to text her first. But I can't find it. Shoot, I must have left it in the car. Going back will be too much of a walk, so I ring the doorbell and hope that she answers.

Footsteps instantly urge closer, and I am so glad she's–

I step back, placing a hand to my chest as the door opens. I don't know why his face scares me, but it just does. His brows furrow, and he glances behind me, as if waiting for someone to appear. Probably Ariah. At last, his gaze turns back to me.

"Hello?" he says, stretching out the syllables.

"Hi, Deen, how are you?"

"I'm well, and you?"

I force a smile. "Really well. I was just here to meet Ariah. Is she here?"

"She didn't tell you she returned to Medina yesterday morning?"