HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

Chapter One

"You're a workaholic, Sufyan!"

Sitting alone at his favourite table of the cozy little restaurant he loved, Sufyan Muhammad Al-Amin frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he so often did whenever he was frustrated. It wasn't the first time he was hearing that particular accusation from his mother. Coming from her, the words were usually mildly spoken, because she knew he could never change and had learnt to accept him that way. But tonight, those same words came out holding so much pain and disappointment, it was hard not to feel guilty.

He closed his eyes for a moment and spoke softly into his phone, as softly as he could manage given his present mood. "Umma, please. There's no need to be dramatic. I've only been gone for two days. Just two days. The business isn't going to run itself, you know."

"You arrived from Port Harcourt only four days ago!" Samira complained. "Before that it was Lagos! Now you're in Abuja again! Aren't you going to spend any time at home again? Haba, don Allah!"

"Mother, this is nothing new. You already know the nature of my work."

"For God's sake, you are not the only one in that company!" she cried. "As CEO you can afford to take some time off once in a while—especially now when your family needs you the most!"

Sufyan sighed. He would be lying if he said he didn't understand how his mother, a strong woman, the strongest he had ever known, had turned into one so needy and always demanding his presence. Mahmood's death had left a lot of unpleasantness in its wake, and one of those was a mother who didn't want him out of her sight. It was as though she feared she might lose him too the way she'd lost his elder brother.

"Your place right now is at home, Sufyan, with your family. Drop whatever it is you're doing and just come home. Please, Son." Samira sounded desperate, emotional. It tore at his heart sensing the tears that silently trickled down her face in her brief silence.

"Umma..." he began, not quite knowing what to say to comfort her.

"You can't continue to use work to hide your pain," she went on. "It's going to come out sooner or later, but better sooner—trust me. It's okay to mourn your brother like the rest of us, Sufyan. Come home so we can mourn him together."

Mourn. He hated that word. But she was right. The pain was the reason why he couldn't stand to stay in one place. It was the reason why he was here now in Abuja—not because he desperately needed to view the progress of the multi-storey hotel project his family's construction company had begun several months ago. Right now anywhere was better than home, where the atmosphere of grief hung like a thick cloud that refused to disappear.

He couldn't bear the intense sorrow, the tears of everyone around him, especially when he couldn't even shed any. Ever since the janaza two weeks ago he'd been like a statue, unable to cry. The news of Mahmood's death hadn't fully registered with him yet. It still felt like a dream. He wanted desperately to pour out the pain that was killing him inside, but somehow he just couldn't. He thought about what a mercy it would be to stop feeling so much pain—and betrayal.

Unbidden, bitter thoughts of Surrayya entered his mind. He instantly shook them away. He wasn't going to allow her further crush his spirit this evening, same way she had crushed his heart. He opened his mouth to provide his mother with an answer that would keep their conversation short, but Samira hurried on before the words could depart his mouth.

"Before you give me any more excuses, Surrayya came by the palace this afternoon and she was surprised to hear that you had travelled again."

He hissed, cursing under his breath. Surrayya! It was always the same thing with his mother. Why couldn't she just leave him alone?