It wasn’t often that Zayn al-Haydar wished he wasn’t royalty, but as of late, his last name felt more like a burden than a blessing.

Although he was from one of the lesser-known royal families in the world, his title still loomed over his head. True, he didn’t have it nearly as bad as William or Harry, but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to lead a normal, non-royal existence for a day.

“Holy fuck,” Zayn’s companion, Khalid Bakhtiar, breathed out in awe as they began their trek through Abu Dhabi International Airport. “I feel like I’m escorting a celebrity or something. There are so many people looking at you.”

Well, that was one way to put it. Zayn had never considered himself any kind of celebrity, but with the way people were snapping pictures and calling his name, it may have been easy for a Westerner to mistake him for one.

“Wait until we get to my country.” He chuckled, raising a hand to greet the people. “It’ll be even crazier, believe me.”

Zayn found himself graciously thanking Allah that his security team was there. Without the four men that made up his entourage, there was no way he and Khalid would have been able to fight off the masses and make it to the car waiting for them. Dealing with so many people wasn’t new, but it never seemed to get any easier.

“How much crazier?” Khalid’s wide, seafoam green eyes darted from person to person in the crowd. “Are you expecting a mob scene or something?”

“No, but I am expecting a parade.”

“A…parade?”

Zayn nodded, trying hard not to laugh. “It’s in celebration of our National Day, which is sort of like your Independence Day, I suppose. Fourth of July, right?”

“I can’t believe you actually remembered,” Khalid joked, adjusting the strap of the messenger bag on his shoulder. “You should become an honorary American citizen for that—if our people will have you.”

Zayn knew damn well they wouldn’t.

It was no secret the majority of America wasn’t fond of Middle Eastern royalty. With the way the media distorted the images of countless kings, sheikhs, and emirs, it was obvious why they believed every royal house had a hand in terrorism. It was sickening that there were so many who believed every person of Arab heritage was some radical fundamentalist who wished death to all Westerners.

“I don’t have much interest in becoming an American,” he said. “I’m Malikbahri by blood and birth, and I have no intention of ever renouncing my citizenship for a country like yours.”

His cheeks warmed when he realized how his words sounded and hoped no one but his friend had heard. Such speech could be easily misinterpreted, and that was the last thing he—and his country—needed.

“Okay, Mr. High and Mighty. You can get down from your horse now.”

Zayn scowled just as a flashbulb went off in the crowd. “But it’s true. I remember when my father visited your president back in two-thousand-two. All your media could talk about was how he had appointed a cabinet member with ties to al-Qaeda. It was an unfounded rumor!”

“We were still sore about 9/11,” Khalid reasoned, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced by it. “We were looking for anything we could in those days.”

“Yes, well, if anyone ever suggests such a thing again, we’re cutting off your oil supply,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood that had quickly soured. “How does thirty dollars a gallon sound to you?”

“Sounds a hell of a lot cheaper than if Saudi Arabia cut us off.” Khalid shot him a grin as they stepped out of the airport and into the desert heat, but the smile was quick to wilt. “Fucking hell, it’s a million degrees out here. How do you stand it?”

Zayn shrugged as they approached the waiting limo, secretly savoring the high temperatures and cloudless sky. “Just used to it, I suppose.”

If it wasn’t expected of him to go back for his third year at Oxford come the end of the summer, Zayn would have never left the Gulf. Although he wasn’t officially home yet, Abu Dhabi was a step in the right direction. The towering skyscrapers, the bustling downtown setting, and the men in white thobes were just a few common similarities, but if he had to choose between the UAE and Malikbahr, his country would have won hands down.

Then again, he was a little biased.

“And here I was thinking summers in DC were bad,” Khalid grumbled. “This is a thousand times worse.”

Zayn laughed and climbed into the limo, sliding across the leather seat until Khalid had enough room to join him.

“Go back to America then,” he teased, pushing back the stubborn black curls that had fallen into his eyes. “And don’t ask me to come with you.”

Khalid rolled his eyes as the car door slammed shut, shielding them from the ruckus outside. “One day, I’ll get you to my hometown. Mark my words.”

Never going to happen, he wanted to say but held his tongue.

The boys fell into an amicable silence as the limo pulled away from the curb, each occupied with their own thoughts and the sights outside. Fifteen minutes passed before the Zayed-Fakhir Bridge came into view, an eight-lane steel monstrosity that seemed to be suspended in midair over the azure waters of the Gulf. Traffic whizzed by in both directions, transporting goods and people into and out of both cities. Border checkpoints marked each end of the bridge, but the limo bearing the flag of Malikbahr was able to pass through the first with ease. While he disliked being a prince the majority of the time, Zayn knew his title certainly had its perks. This was one of them.

The twenty-minute drive across the bridge went by in a blur, and before he knew it, they had rolled onto Malikbahri soil.

Not that it was hard to tell.

Khalid, who had been staring off into space just moments ago, snapped to attention as he stared out at the city in front of them. Except, his gaze wasn’t trained on any of the impressive buildings, but on a rather expensive car that had just pulled up beside them.

“Your face is on a car,” he breathed out in awe, glancing back and forth between the decal on the Ferrari and Zayn himself. “Holy shit, man.”

The prince glanced at his friend. “What, you don’t put pictures of your president and his family on cars for your Independence Day?”

Khalid shook his head, gaze still trained on the Ferrari. “Hell no. T-shirts and hats, maybe, but not cars. And definitely not cars that expensive.” He paused momentarily when the Ferrari sped away, only to be replaced by a limited release Lamborghini. “I am officially in love with your country. Think your dad will adopt me?”

“Sorry,” Zayn laughed. “He already has eleven children. I don’t think he could handle a twelfth.”

“Shame. I wouldn’t have minded being a prince.”

“Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” His eyes drifted toward the window, where the outline of one of the world’s most famous hotels loomed in the distance. “You can’t go anywhere or do anything without someone tracking your every move. Sometimes I wish I knew what it was like to be…normal.”

“It’s boring, trust me,” Khalid attempted to reassure him. “Then again, I guess I’m not exactly normal either. I mean, you know who my adoptive father is.”

Zayn nodded. Amir Bakhtiar was well known in this part of the world, mostly due to his dealings in crude oil, natural gas, and other forms of energy. Seeing as Malikbahr was one of the top ten oil producing countries in the world, Amir was often there on behalf of PersOil, the company his family had run for decades. Zayn had met the elder Bakhtiar on a few occasions but had never known Amir had a son—albeit adopted—until he and Khalid ended up as roommates at Oxford.

“Well, my family may not be famous,” Khalid continued, “but when you have as much money as Amir, you’re bound to be well-known around the world.”

“I know how that is.” Zayn sighed as the limo made a sharp turn and began to slow. A quick glance out the window revealed an all too familiar set of gates swinging open. “We’re here.”

Khalid glanced up and looked out at the spectacular structure coming into view farther down the road. “Is that the palace?”

“One of them,” Zayn replied, already anxious to get out of the car. “This is where my mother and younger siblings live. My father divides his time between here and another palace closer to the beach.”

“This is amazing.” Khalid’s face was all but glued to the window. “It puts our fifteen-bedroom summer house in the Hamptons to shame. How many rooms does this place even have?”

“A lot. I used to get lost all the time when I was a child. I would be looking for my playroom and somehow end up in one of the three indoor pools.”

His roommate shot him a stunned look. “Three pools?”

“It gets hot during the summer,” Zayn answered simply, as if that were a sufficient reason for anyone to have that many swimming pools in one place. “You would do the same if you lived around here in the summer.”

“I suppose you’re right. Now are you going to show me those pools, or am I going to have to get lost and discover them all on my own?”

Zayn grinned as the car finally came to a halt in the circular drive. “Patience is a virtue,” he said, though he was just about ready to throw open the door and run inside. “Just wait.”

“Fuck patience. My ass is asleep, and I want to meet your family. Who all is at the palace today?”

“Everyone but my father,” he answered as the driver came around to open the door. “It’s honestly rare to have all eleven children in the same place at one time, though.”

“Why’s that?”

Zayn slid out of the car and waited for Khalid to join him outside the towering palace doors. “Our schedules are crazy. Majid is off jet setting, Jamilah and Kamilah are with their kids, Rashid and Fatima are usually at a tournament of some sort, Ahmed and Nasim go to boarding school in Switzerland, Alia’s in a ballet program, Hessa spends most of her time in the library, Haifa is always with Mother, and I’m off in the UK. It’s virtually unheard of to have us all together.”

Khalid looked rightfully lost. “You don’t expect me to remember all those names, do you?”

“I’ll quiz you on them later,” he chuckled, putting a hand to the heavy wood door.

“Oh, you’re cruel.” Khalid gave him a friendly shot to the shoulder. “Now let me into your not-so-humble abode. I want to see how the highest class lives.”

With a grin, Zayn allowed the doors to swing open, exposing his roommate to the splendor that was the al-Haydar palace.

But to him, it was just home.