On first glance, Zayn was convinced they had landed somewhere in Europe. However, upon closer inspection, he realized they were nowhere close.

“If I hadn’t just seen a woman in an American flag t-shirt and matching spandex shorts, I would have assumed we were in London,” Zayn said, having to step quickly out of the way when a man dragging two small children behind him threatened to knock him down. “And speaking of London, I’d much rather go back there.”

Two weeks had passed since his father had named him crown prince, and he’d spent every day of it dreading this trip. Thankfully, the king had been kind enough to let Zayn remain in Malikbahr for a while and had even insisted Khalid stay as their guest. Khalid, of course, had loved every minute of it and spent the days enjoying Malikbahr’s booming social scene while teasing Zayn about all the touristy places in DC they were going to go.

Apparently, something called the “Exorcist Steps” was first on the list of places Khalid wanted to take him. After hearing that, Zayn had threatened to chain himself to the palace gates, but somehow Khalid had managed to talk him down.

“Stop whining,” Khalid jokingly scolded as he grabbed Zayn by the sleeve of his button-down shirt, attempting to guide them both through the mess that was Dulles International Airport. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“I guess my life is in your hands now,” Zayn grumbled, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his security team was still around.

So far, no one had recognized him here, but he wasn’t about to take any chances of being ambushed either by the media or fans of the kingdom. While Zayn had wanted this trip to be treated as a full diplomatic mission—which would have meant having two sets of security, one from the US and one from Malikbahr—his father had insisted it be lowkey, for him to stay under the radar as well as he could manage.

“Be a normal twenty-year-old for a while,” his father had urged. “Enjoy your free time. You’ll be sad when it’s gone.”

Well, right then he was just sad he wasn’t flanked by the Secret Service, because if he had to dodge another snotty-nosed, red-cheeked child, he was going to scream.

Khalid rolled his eyes and kept walking. “Come on, drama queen. We’ve got places to be.”

That certainly wasn’t what Zayn wanted to hear, especially after a fifteen-hour flight, but he kept his protests to himself. After all, he was Khalid’s guest.

At least, that was the case until his own apartment in the city was finished being renovated. Apparently two weeks’ notice wasn’t enough for the Malikbahri embassy to find living arrangements suitable for the future king. So until then he would be staying at the Bakhtiar Manor, a place Khalid had assured him was more secure than the White House.

And knowing Amir Bakhtiar—and especially knowing all the enemies he had made over the years—Zayn didn’t doubt that.

“Where are we going?” he asked, only somewhat worried.

“Straight to dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

Zayn was relieved to hear that. “Not at all. I’m starving anyway.”

“Good,” Khalid said, scanning the crowd in front of them until he spotted a man holding a sign that had his last name scrawled on it. “We can eat and you can meet my family in one fell swoop.”

Zayn found himself nodding, too distracted by his growling stomach to pay much attention to Khalid’s words, but he stopped short when they finally registered, almost causing one of his bodyguards to run straight into him.

“I’m sorry, what?” he spluttered. “Meet your family? Now?”

But Khalid was having none of his hesitation. “Yes, your royal highness. I met yours, and now you get to meet mine. Now come on.”

Heaving a sigh, Zayn trudged along behind Khalid, watching as Khalid motioned for the awaiting man to lead the way. Upon stepping outside, the first thing that hit Zayn wasn’t the heat, but the sheer breath-stealing humidity. For someone who was used to desert heat, this felt like trying to breathe swamp water. And if the rest of the summer was going to be like this… Well, maybe he could convince his father to cut this trip short.

Idling at the curb was a white BMW with tags that read “BKHTR23” making it obvious who the car belonged to. Parked behind it was a massive black Suburban, which was clearly meant for Zayn’s security team. If there was one thing Zayn couldn’t fault, it was the organization that the Malikbahri government and the Bakhtiars had managed to collaborate on in order to make this trip successful. To be honest, he felt a little guilty about how much of a brat he’d been about it all. From that point on, he was determined to make being more gracious a priority.

“I apologize for the gaudy tags,” Khalid said, sounding embarrassed as he stepped off the curb and headed toward the driver’s side of the BMW. “Amir insists on having our last name on all of our cars, as if we’d lose track of them or something.”

Zayn chuckled and opened the passenger side door for himself. “Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”

In fact, the tags on Majid’s favorite Bugatti read “SHEIKH-M” which Zayn found to be wildly mortifying for a variety of reasons, and the vanity of it wasn’t even the worst part. Needless to say, he tried to avoid riding with Majid at all costs.

They fell into an amicable silence as Khalid navigated the car away from the curb a few moments later, handling the dense airport traffic with ease. Zayn did his best to keep his eyes open to take in the sights of this new country, but at the moment, there wasn’t much to look at. Dulles Airport seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees, office buildings, and the occasional low-slung strip mall. If most of America was like this, it didn’t seem like he was missing out on much.

Luckily, signs of civilization began to improve as they merged onto one of the major highways. Still, it wasn’t until a long twenty minutes later that Washington, DC proper came into view.

From that point on, Zayn stayed glued to the window. The place was beautiful no doubt—at least, this part of it was—and even reminded him a bit of Paris. Maybe it was the neoclassical architecture or the low skyline, but the place certainly felt more European than he had expected. Even as they wound their way through several different neighborhoods, the buildings changing slightly with each one, Zayn had to admit he could see himself enjoying what the city had to offer.

“We’re in the Georgetown neighborhood right now,” Khalid informed him, slowing the car as the traffic began to file down to two narrow lanes on either side of the road. “If you look up on that hill there, you’ll see Georgetown University.”

Zayn could see the neo-medieval building high above them, the clocktower aglow at the very top. It was beautiful in the dusk light, and he was almost sorry to see it disappear as they turned onto a side street, coming to a stop in front of what looked to be a nondescript row of attached houses. If it hadn’t been for the velvet rope outside the wide front doors, two burly men guarding it, and the valet stand just a few feet away, Zayn would have never guessed they’d arrived at someplace important.

“Is this the restaurant?” he asked, following Khalid’s lead and taking off his seatbelt.

Khalid nodded and pushed open his door. “This is the Sultan’s Palace—easily the best restaurant in DC. My family’s already there, so if we don’t hurry there will be no lamb or tahdig left for us.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Zayn wrenched himself out of the car and joined Khalid on the sidewalk before following him through the front doors of the restaurant. He was immediately taken aback by the sheer volume of the place, which was practically on par with a nightclub. The first floor was dedicated to a bar and lounge area, but Khalid was quick to navigate them up a curved staircase and toward yet another set of intricately carved double doors.

But before he opened them, Khalid turned back to shoot a bright smile at Zayn. “Ready to meet my family?”

“Uh…”

“Great!”

The doors were thrown open a moment later, and Zayn was ushered into the vast private dining room. The music in there was just as loud as it had been downstairs, but instead generic EDM, what was blasting from these speakers was distinctly Iranian. And so was everyone in the room.

There had to be at least a hundred people seated around the numerous tables, all laughing, eating, drinking, and watching the belly dancer at the center of the room. Zayn glanced at the dancer, trying not to linger on her, and was about to look away when another woman slid into his line of sight.

And then, suddenly, Zayn couldn’t breathe.

Though he had long since taught himself to lower his gaze whenever a non-mahram woman was near, he already couldn’t bear the thought of looking away from her. He was almost afraid that if he did, this vision would disappear, like an oasis mirage in the middle of the desert.

But when he blinked and she was still there, Zayn realized she was no illusion. No, she was far too real.

He swallowed hard when someone in the crowd called out to her, prompting her to throw her head back and laugh. A dark curtain of hair fell over her shoulders, swirling down past her waist. As he watched her hips sway, Zayn could already feel his morals begin to slip through his fingers.

His father had once called him a hopeless romantic, and while he had vehemently denied it at the time, Zayn had come to realize it was at least semi-true. He fell quickly and easily, be it for women or for romantic gestures, but always tended to come to his senses in a short amount of time. Besides, the concept of love at first sight was practically blasphemy, but as he looked at her, a seed of doubt that wondered if it existed began to take root.

Still, he did his best to shake the thought and forced himself to look away.

“Oh my god,” Khalid groaned beside him, giving Zayn something else to focus on. “This happens every time.”

“What happens?” he asked, shifting his full attention to his friend.

But Zayn didn’t keep it there for long since Khalid was forcefully motioning toward something out in the sea of people. “I’m talking about that.”

Unfortunately, “that” just happened to be the same girl Zayn had been unabashedly staring at mere moments ago, but after a single acknowledging glance this time, he was careful to keep his eyes trained on the ground.

“Each time we come here, my sister always insists on upstaging the actual belly dancer,” Khalid continued. “It’s embarrassing.”

Ya Allah, that was his sister? Sure, they looked enough alike that he should have been able to guess their relation, but then again, he hadn’t been able to focus on much more than the fact that she made him feel lightheaded.

Against his better judgement, Zayn spared the girl and the belly dancer one last look, trying his best to seem nonchalant even though his heart was about to beat out of his chest. “I guess I didn’t notice.”

Khalid snorted. “You’d have to be blind not to notice.”

Zayn shrugged, turning so his back was to the women, away from the temptation. “Just didn’t pique my interest, I guess.”

“You’re the first of all of my friends to not ogle my sister.” His frown was vaguely suspicious, yet simultaneously impressed. “It’s like you didn’t even realize she was there.”

“No, I definitely realized it,” he confessed, smiling at the thought of anyone not noticing her. “It’s kind of hard not to. I just try to have a little decency, that’s all.”

Khalid grinned and clapped Zayn on the shoulder. “Well, that’s new. Come on, let me introduce you to some of my other friends.”

Zayn followed him, glad the introductions were starting off easy. Soon they were standing next to a table filled with people around their age and a little younger, fielding shouted greetings. However, it was the token non-Persian at the table who stood first to say hello.

“Khalid!” the boy exclaimed, grinning as he reached out to slap hands with his friend. “Blair told me you were going to be here, but I almost didn’t believe her.”

“Most of the time you shouldn’t believe her.” Khalid laughed, motioning for Zayn to step closer. “Sebastian, this is my friend from Oxford, Zayn al-Haydar. Zayn, this is Sebastian Phillips.”

Zayn immediately recognized the name and was thankful for the new distraction as he shook the younger boy’s hand. “Of JP Energy?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Or am I thinking of your father?”

“My father.” Sebastian chuckled, as if he got that question a lot. “Although I suppose it’ll be me in a few years. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Zayn.”

“Likewise.”

After the two dropped hands, Sebastian’s attention seemed to shift to something over Zayn’s shoulder.

“I would introduce you to my girlfriend, but Khalid’s sister kidnapped her.” A grin blossomed on his face, dark blue eyes sparkling. “Oh god, Khalid, look.”

Zayn once again made the mistake of following their gazes and found Khalid’s sister tugging on the hands of a very tall, gazelle-like girl, attempting to get her to dance. The taller girl laughed and shimmied a bit, but her moves were horrifically stiff, something she—and everyone else in the room—seemed to be very aware of.

“The awkward one is my girlfriend,” Sebastian announced, clearly proud despite it all. “If it wasn’t obvious, she’s not a dancer.”

“We can’t all be talented in that department,” Khalid teased, giving Sebastian a friendly slap on the back. “But you’d have to be stupid to let her go.”

“Trust me, man,” Sebastian promised, “I’ll never let that happen.”

As their conversation with the heir of the JP Energy oil fortune wrapped up, Khalid continued introducing Zayn to the rest of the people at the table, many of them younger cousins and childhood friends. And while he couldn’t deny he was having a great time, and that he certainly felt right at home with these people, he couldn’t help but continue to sneak glances at Khalid’s sister.

Sebastian had referred to her as Blair, but Khalid had always called his sister by her Persian name—Laleh. The former was a nickname obviously, but from what he could tell, it didn’t seem to suit her. This woman was a beautiful flower, just like her true name implied.

And Zayn loved flowers.