The palace garden was in bloom—vivid marigolds, night jasmine, and scarlet hibiscus under the moonlight. Maya had agreed to host a small cultural evening for foreign delegates. It was her first official appearance without Zayed by her side.

She wore a cream saree laced with gold. The drape hugged her frame perfectly, the blouse baring her back in a way that made the other royal women raise their eyebrows. But Maya no longer dressed to blend in.

She was the queen.

Music played softly from live instruments. Diplomats mingled with nobles. Maya moved through the crowd with practiced poise. She smiled, offered remarks in perfect Arabic and English, and listened attentively.

Until—

“Your Highness.”

The voice was smooth. Masculine. Confident.

Maya turned.

A foreign diplomat, tall and handsome, extended his hand with a smirk that lingered too long. “You’re even more beautiful in person. Sheikh Zayed is a fortunate man.”

Maya smiled politely, declining the hand. “And I am a fortunate woman.”

He didn’t take the hint. His eyes flickered over her form—lingered—before he leaned in, lowering his voice.

“If I were him, I’d never let you out of my sight.”

Her smile faded.

But it was too late.

He had already spoken the wrong words to the wrong woman.

And Zayed had arrived.

No announcement. No warning. Just… silence breaking like glass as the Sheikh stepped into view, his eyes locked on the man still standing too close to Maya.

Everything else faded.

Zayed didn’t say a word.

He simply grabbed the diplomat by the collar, ripped him back with brutal force, and slammed him against the stone pillar behind the trellis wall. Gasps shot through the garden.

“Do you want to die on foreign soil?” Zayed’s voice was calm, but it echoed like death itself.

The man choked. “I didn’t mean—Sheikh—I was just—”

Zayed’s grip didn’t loosen. His knuckles whitened, his jaw clenched.

“You dared speak to my wife like she’s yours to look at. You dared lean toward what is mine.”

Maya moved forward, her voice low but sharp. “Zayed, there are delegates watching.”

Zayed didn’t flinch.

“She is not to be looked at. Not spoken to. Not touched. Not even imagined by creatures like you.”

He threw the man down. Not a shove—a dismissal.

“Guards.”

Two men appeared instantly. The diplomat scrambled to his feet, face pale.

“Escort him to the border. Strip his credentials. He is banished from this land.”

The garden was silent. No one dared move.

Zayed turned to Maya. His expression unreadable. But his eyes burned with something dangerous.

He didn’t ask if she was alright.

He didn’t need to.

Later that night, Maya sat in their private quarters, the saree discarded, her hair loose around her shoulders. Zayed entered, shutting the door behind him with deliberate quiet.

“Was I wrong?” he asked softly.

Maya didn’t answer right away. Then—

“No.”

He crossed the room, stopped in front of her, and touched her face with the back of his hand.

“I can kill for you. Do you understand that, Maya?”

She met his gaze. “You already have.”

His eyes searched hers, and what she saw wasn’t just obsession.

It was a madness wrapped in love.

He would burn kingdoms for her.

She was no longer just a bride.

She was his religion.