A Sheikh to Marry

CHAPTER 1

(POINT OF VIEW : CARLA WILLAR)

-Finally, Franck, are you crazy for hurting your daughters ?

_Kids I never wanted, never loved, and never will, he says, his eyes full of hatred.

At only twenty-seven, Carla Willar feels like life has beaten her down. She's exhausted-mentally, physically, emotionally. Since she was a little girl, she has only known pain. First came the abandonment-her mother walked away the day she was born. Then came the neglect-her father, an alcoholic, never gave her a second of love or care. And as if fate wasn't done playing cruel games, she ended up married to a man who turned out to be the most disgusting human being she has ever encountered : Franck.

Now she stands in front of him, the man who once vowed to protect her, watching him tear her world apart again.

Carla is a cleaning lady. A beautiful one-with long, dark hair, deep brown eyes, and a natural elegance that not even her simple clothes or long hours of labor can hide. She works endlessly, scrubbing floors, washing linens, and taking on any job she can, all to provide for her twin girls. She refuses-absolutely refuses-to let them have the same traumatic childhood she did.

Her biggest regret ? Marrying Franck. Without hesitation.

She isn't formally educated, but she's sharp-smarter than most people give her credit for. Since the age of ten, she's been working non-stop. She's washed laundry, cleaned houses, and worked as a waitress in restaurants, just to survive.

She meets Franck when she's twenty, serving tables in a small restaurant. She's innocent then-clueless about love. Growing up without a mother's advice or a father's protection, she doesn't recognize the red flags. Franck appears so responsible, so serious, so charming. And when he shows interest in her, she doesn't hesitate to fall for him-hard.

Two years later, they're married. They move in together, and for a short while, things seem okay. But that illusion shatters quickly. Franck starts staying out late, drinking, and eventually... he turns violent.

At first, she lies to herself. She believes he's just stressed. That he'll change. But he never does.

She uses her own savings to pay the rent, to buy food, to cover all the household expenses. Franck does nothing-he contributes nothing. He simply drinks, disappears for days, and returns only to curse her or hit her.

The day she tells him she's pregnant is the day he throws her out into the street. Spits on her. Tells her he never loved her-all because she refused to abort their babies.

She spends five years raising her girls alone. No help. No support. Just her and her daughters against the world. And somehow, despite the odds, they find joy. They smile. They laugh. Carla works, they go to school, they dance in the kitchen, they fall asleep in each other's arms. Life is hard-but it's peaceful.

Until today.

Now Franck is back. And he's taken her daughters from her.

If you never loved them, give them back to me, please. They're all I have, she begs, her voice cracking with desperation.

Then you'll have to do what I tell you first, he replies coldly.

She shakes her head, unable to process how she ever shared a bed with someone like him.

How could I have been so blind ?

Only after he kicked her out did she learn the truth. Franck is a thug. He doesn't have a real job-he never has. He steals. He attacks people. He spends his nights gambling and getting into fights. He lives off chaos.

They're your daughters, for God's sake ! Don't you have a heart ?! she cries, the pain in her chest unbearable.

If only she had known how vile men could be, she would've never opened her heart. That's why she's avoided love ever since. For five years, not a single man has touched her. Not because she doesn't crave affection-but because she no longer trusts anyone.

Mom, please help us ! her daughters scream, their tiny voices piercing the air.

Tears blur her vision. She tries to run to them, but two of Franck's men hold her back. Rough hands grip her arms. She fights, kicks, struggles-she doesn't care if she gets hurt. She just wants to hold her babies.

My babies, I'm going to get you out of there ! Don't worry, Mommy loves you so, so much !

Take those little pests to the room, Franck barks.

Carla watches in horror as her daughters are dragged away, sobbing. She collapses to the floor, her knees giving out, her hands trembling as she cries uncontrollably.

Oh, Carla, stop crying already. You're getting on my nerves.

She looks up at him with pure hatred.

You're nothing but a drunk ! A disgusting, broken man ! You'll pay for this. One day, God will make sure you pay.

He laughs, a twisted grin spreading across his face.

I've got a mission for you, sweetheart.

I won't do anything for you. Do you hear me ?

He stands, calm, amused, like he's enjoying the pain he's causing. He walks toward her slowly, sliding his hand into his pocket.

Then you'll have their deaths on your conscience, he says without the slightest hint of emotion.

Carla freezes.

Her breath catches. Her heart slams against her chest. He wouldn't-would he ?

No. He would. She sees it in his eyes. He's capable of anything.

What do you want me to do ?

His lips curl into a wicked smile.

There's an inauguration party tomorrow. A powerful sheikh will be attending. It's taking place at his estate. Your mission is to sneak into his office and bring me some jewels. Expensive ones. The kind that can change a man's life.

Carla stares at him, numb. She feels like she's sinking into darkness. Her daughters' lives depend on her. But this... this is stealing from a powerful man. One wrong move, and she could end up dead-or worse.

She wants to scream. She wants to run. But she can't. Because she's a mother. And nothing matters more than saving her children.

Even if it means walking straight into hell.

CHAPTER 2

(POINT OF VIEW : Mohammed Al Daharza)

In the unforgiving desert of Khazban stands a bloodthirsty sheikh with a face scarred by flames. He is not just feared-he is legendary. Mohammed Al Daharza, the most formidable warrior the Khazban people have ever known, commands both awe and dread.

Every morning, like a ritual etched into his soul, Mohammed sits before his tall mirror, carved from dark cedar and polished obsidian. He stares at his reflection-not with vanity, but with the silent fury of a man who has survived betrayal. The right side of his face, burned and uneven, carries the memory of that fateful day. The pain is long gone, but the image remains-a constant reminder of what he lost to save his people from suffering.

At thirty-five, Mohammed is a ruler with no wife, no children, and a heart that bleeds in silence. The absence of a family is not by choice. His face, marred by acid, repulses the women of Khazban. To them, he is monstrous-a living nightmare of scorched skin and jagged scars. But to him, every mark on his body tells a story, speaks of strength, of sacrifice. The world sees ugliness. He sees survival.

His body is tall, powerful-an imposing silhouette cloaked in long black robes lined with steel-threaded armor. His skin is traced with scars from years of battle. Each one earned through blood and war. While women look away in horror, Mohammed gazes at himself with a strange peace. He has accepted these marks, even grown to love them. Except for the one on his face-because that one wasn't earned in combat. That one was a betrayal. A coward's strike.

His older brother, Akim Al Daharza, once poured acid on his face mid-battle. Mohammed remembers it vividly-the sizzling pain, the smell of burning flesh, the scream that tore from his throat before everything went black.

He had been twenty when their parents died, and despite being the true heir, he let Akim take the throne. Mohammed wasn't the eldest, and he believed age and wisdom belonged together. At first, he stayed in the shadows, honoring tradition and blood. But Akim proved unworthy. The man was weak, selfish, and cunning. He manipulated the council, silenced opposition, and ruled Khazban like a butcher, not a leader.

In the third year of Akim's reign, Mohammed saw the collapse-families starving, villages burning, the cries of children echoing through broken streets. His people were dying, and Akim was selling their resources to foreign powers, pocketing gold while the kingdom rotted.

Mohammed could not stand by any longer. The throne was his by right-and now by necessity. He marched to the palace, heart heavy but mind clear. He offered no ultimatum. He demanded what was his.

Akim's eyes burned with hatred. That day, something changed in him-a twisted fury fueled by jealousy. Mohammed never understood why his brother envied him so deeply. He had shown only respect, never challenging his authority until it became necessary.

Their battle was brutal-two trained warriors, once brothers, now enemies. Mohammed had the upper hand. He remembers it clearly : the way Akim's blade trembled, the way his steps faltered. Victory was seconds away-until Akim reached into his robes and hurled a flask of acid into his face.

Blinding pain. Screams. Darkness.

He would have died if not for the council elders who dragged him from the floor and brought healers. Days passed before he woke, his face bandaged, the pain pulsing with every breath. The healers did their best, but the acid had seared deep. His face would never be whole again.

But his spirit ? That survived.

When he returned, Mohammed reclaimed the throne. He restructured Khazban piece by piece, leading with strength and fire. He bled in battle alongside his soldiers, fought off invaders, and rebuilt the economy brick by brick. No foreign hand touched Khazban's riches again. The people saw this and rallied behind him, willing to die for him. Their loyalty made him stronger than ever before.

Yet, even surrounded by adoration, he remains emotionally distant. His gaze, hard as stone, rarely softens. He trusts few. He cannot afford weakness.

And deep in his soul, he knows Akim still breathes.

He has not seen his brother in over a decade, but Mohammed knows his cunning, his thirst for revenge. He prepares every day for the moment Akim returns. When that day comes, there will be no mercy. Mohammed will end it.

-Your Highness, regarding your marital status-nothing has changed. We haven't been able to find a woman for you.

Mohammed's lips twist into a faint, bitter smile. He shifts his gaze toward Hassan, his closest advisor and adoptive father. The man has stood beside him since childhood, offering wisdom when emotions cloud Mohammed's judgment. Hassan's words always hold weight.

-Hassan, I'm expected in America for business. We'll decide when we return.

Hassan nods with silent understanding. There's no pity in his eyes-only respect. He knows better than anyone what Mohammed has endured.

Thousands of miles away, in the heart of America, a woman named Carla adjusts her fake server uniform. Her hands tremble slightly as she checks her reflection in the staff restroom mirror. She's made it inside the mansion. Getting this close to the Cheikh wasn't easy-but desperation has driven her far.

She read everything she could about Mohammed Al Daharza. The stories, the rumors-they chilled her. But none of it matters now. All she wants is to get those cursed jewels, take her children, and disappear.

It's inauguration day. The mansion is bustling with foreign diplomats, investors, and military leaders. But Carla has eyes only for one goal.

She spots him from afar-tall, imposing, surrounded by his advisors. Even from the back, Mohammed radiates danger. Carla swallows hard.

Now is the time.

She slips away from the crowd, shoes silent on the marble stairs. Her heart beats like a war drum. When she reaches the private floor, she spots the large black door with golden carvings.

The office.

To her disbelief, it's unlocked.

Carla slips inside, hands sweating. The room is vast, dark, filled with the scent of leather and sandalwood. She knows she shouldn't be here-but desperation drowns fear.

She searches drawer after drawer, nearly crying in relief when she finds the small velvet pouch. Inside are the jewels-gleaming red and emerald stones, rare enough to buy her a new life.

Her fingers close around the pouch.

-Can you tell me what you're doing in my office ?...

The voice slices through the silence like a blade-deep, sharp, and calm in the most terrifying way.

She freezes. Slowly, her gaze lifts. Mohammed Al Daharza stands in the doorway, shadows crawling around him like loyal guards. His burned face is half-hidden in the low light, but his eyes... they burn with something ancient and unreadable.

Carla's heart stops.

Everything is about to change.

CHAPTER 3

(POINT OF VIEW : MOHAMMED AL DAHARZA)

Mohammed seethes with rage. Betrayal and theft-two things he despises more than anything. His eyes burn with fury as he stares at the young woman standing in his office like she belongs there. Who does she think she is ? How dare she sneak into his private space ? Does he even know her ? No. And even if her beauty is undeniable, she doesn't look anything like an angel. Just another deceiver in a world filled with liars and pretenders.

-How dare you walk into my office ? What gives you the right, you filthy thief ? - he growls, his voice monstrous and commanding.

She glances at him, her eyes wide with fear. Tears begin to stream down her face, but it does nothing to soften him.

-Please, sir... I swear I'm not a thief. I did it because I had no choice... to save my children - she says in a trembling voice.

Lies. Nonsense. Every word she utters reeks of manipulation. How the hell does she even know about the existence of those jewels ?

-Guards !

Immediately, several of the Sheikh's guards burst in, surrounding the woman who is now sobbing uncontrollably.

-What's going on here, Your Highness ?

Mohammed keeps his eyes locked on the woman, his expression icy, before answering his advisor.

-Hassan, I caught this woman red-handed. She was trying to steal my most precious jewels.

Hassan turns his gaze to the woman, examining her as though he's trying to pierce through her soul.

-Sir, this isn't true. Please listen to me. My ex-husband forced me to do this. He has my twin daughters. I swear, I only did it because I'm a mother. Please... believe me.

Mohammed's jaw clenches as his anger grows. She's trying to appeal to Hassan now ? And worse, the fool actually seems to be softening.

-Your Highness, maybe we should-

Mohammed raises his hand sharply, cutting him off.

-Absolutely not, Hassan. I know exactly what you're going to say. She will pay for what she's done. You know how I deal with thieves and traitors.

His words are like ice, and the woman's eyes widen in horror. Yes, she's finally beginning to understand. She's going to suffer.

-Handcuff her. I'll throw her in prison. In my country.

Carla almost collapses to the ground. She's trembling, unable to think clearly. The Sheikh is merciless. When she first laid eyes on him, it was his scarred face that frightened her-but that fear faded quickly. To her, physical flaws meant nothing ; every person deserved respect and dignity. But now ? Now she sees that this man has no heart.

So this is it. She's going to be taken to prison. In another country. That means her children are in even more danger.

-For God's sake... I'll go to prison, I'll do anything... but please, my children... - she cries, her knees hitting the cold marble floor.

She searches his eyes for any trace of empathy, but there's none. His gaze remains filled with disdain and cold hatred. She has never seen such rage in anyone before-not even Franc.

-Lies. Just more lies. Believe me, you won't get out of this so easily.

In less than a minute, she's handcuffed. Despite everything she's said, the Sheikh refuses to listen. He acts like her voice doesn't even exist.

They drag her like an object-like merchandise-onto his private jet. Carla sits, exhausted and broken, her mind tormented by thoughts of her little girls who had done nothing to deserve this.

-Scene shift : The flight is over -

The private jet lands in a country she's never heard of before. Her stomach twists in knots, her fear growing more intense by the second.

When she steps outside, she finds herself face-to-face with the same Sheikh. He hasn't changed at all-still cold, still terrifying. She remembers people warning her about his cruelty, but she hadn't believed them. Now, standing before him, she knows they were right.

-You are now in Khazban. My country. Here, I make the law, because I am the ruler - he says with an implacable tone.

His voice is full of authority, deep and chilling. It sends a shiver down her spine. As if his enormous size wasn't intimidating enough, his voice adds a weight that makes her knees want to buckle.

-I... I...

-I didn't ask you anything. You'll stay in prison until I decide what happens to you - he cuts her off, his tone absolute.

She gets shoved into a car. Guards sit on either side of her, their eyes never leaving her. The Sheikh's vehicle leads the convoy.

She can't stop thinking about Franc. What is he doing with the children ? Her worst nightmare has already begun-being separated from them. They were her strength, her reason to live. And now that she may never see them again, death almost seems preferable.

A few minutes later, the car pulls into the courtyard of a massive palace. She barely glances at it. There's no use admiring luxury when her heart is shattered.

They take her inside, down what feels like an endless series of stairs, each step echoing in her soul. The place is a maze-a cold, golden prison disguised as royalty.

Eventually, they shove her into a heavily secured cell. Carla collapses to the floor, her legs giving out beneath her like she's just given up on life. There's nothing left. No hope. No strength. Just the echo of silence and the weight of her heartbreak.

-Scene shift : Back in America -

Franc throws the newspaper across the room, his face red with fury.

So, she really got arrested by the sovereign Mohammed Al Daharza. That pathetic woman was completely useless. And her children ? Even more worthless. All they do is cry and beg. The more he looks at them, the more he wants to kill them.

He's never had a paternal instinct. He doesn't even like kids. Especially not those twins-they're the spitting image of their mother. A mother he never loved.

At 30, Franc Johnson is a man thriving in illegal business, known for his unmatched cruelty. He only got with Carla back then because she was hardworking and persistent. He used her, exploited her innocence, and lived off her dedication.

If she hadn't made the mistake of getting pregnant, she'd still be useful to him. But no-now she's crazy and useless. Dumb, too.

And now that she's no longer in America ? No way is he keeping the kids. He's going to get rid of them. One way or another.