The palace was buzzing.

Preparations for a state visit from a foreign delegation had thrown the staff into a frenzy. Every corridor shimmered, every scent was curated, every gesture rehearsed. And Maya, though still adjusting to the role thrust upon her, had been asked—no, expected—to attend a public reception by Zayed’s side.

She hadn’t seen him since the dinner. His words still rang in her mind:

“I want your mind. Your fear. Your devotion. And in time, I will have it all.”

She dressed cautiously. A deep navy anarkali with subtle gold embroidery, her hair left flowing but half-pinned with an emerald clip—again, Zayed’s choice. She was starting to see a pattern. Nothing she wore was ever hers.

Maya entered the reception hall with her head held high. Servants bowed, ministers nodded. And then—there it was.

The slip.

A young steward, no older than twenty, rushed toward her from the side with a tray of drinks. Flustered, distracted, and clearly overwhelmed by the occasion, he spoke directly to her—not with the lowered gaze and formality that her position now demanded, but with casual urgency.

“Ma’am, I need you to stand here so we can set—”

The words were harmless. But the tone wasn’t.

Maya, startled, blinked.

Before she could respond, a voice—deep, lethal—cut across the room like thunder cracking a still sky.

“Stop.”

Every head turned.

Zayed was there. No one had seen him enter, but the moment he spoke, everything halted.

He strode forward, his expression unreadable—but his eyes? They were fury incarnate.

The steward froze in place.

Zayed didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

He stopped inches from the boy, towering over him, his voice low and tight.

“You spoke to my wife without protocol. You addressed her as if she were a servant. You ordered her.”

The boy shook. “I—I didn’t mean—Your Highness, I only—”

Zayed raised a hand—not to strike, but the gesture alone was enough to silence the entire room.

“Leave. Now. Strip your badge. You will not serve in this palace again.”

The steward’s face went white. He stammered a bow and scrambled out.

Maya stood frozen.

Zayed turned to her, the fury still burning behind his eyes. But it wasn’t directed at her—it was for her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice laced with restraint.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. It wasn’t anything—”

“He spoke to you,” Zayed interrupted. “In front of my court. Like you were not mine. That is everything.”

Maya’s throat tightened. “You didn’t have to destroy him for a mistake.”

“I didn’t destroy him,” Zayed replied coldly. “I reminded him who you are.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was filled with something new. Not fear.

Respect.

Every eye in the room now looked at her differently. Not just as the outsider bride, not just the quiet beauty beside the Sheikh. But as someone untouchable. Someone owned by power itself.

Later that evening, back in her private quarters, Maya stood at the balcony, the desert wind brushing her cheeks. The door opened without a knock. She didn’t need to look.

Zayed.

“You humiliated him,” she said quietly.

“I protected what is mine,” he replied, walking slowly toward her. “That is the burden of my love, Maya. It does not whisper. It declares war.”

“You didn’t love me when we married.”

“I didn’t need to. You were chosen. That was enough. But now…”
He stopped behind her, so close she could feel the heat of him.
“…you are not just a wife. You are my queen. And I will not allow the world to breathe on you without permission.”

Maya turned to face him.

“And if I told you that scares me?”

Zayed brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers barely touching her skin.

“Then I would tell you… that you are beginning to understand.”

Their eyes locked.

Something shifted.

Not passion, not lust—claiming.

Zayed didn’t kiss her. He didn’t touch her further. He only looked, as if memorizing her in this moment—his queen, his prize, his war.

And Maya? She no longer flinched from the fire.

She stood in it.