CELINE:The Sheikh Dessert Bride
PrologueUnder the bruised purple sky of a city that never slept, Celine stood frozen in the doorway of her modest apartment, the betrayal unfolding before her like a slow-motion car crash she couldn't look away from. There, sprawled across her bed—rumpled sheets tangled around their naked limbs—was her boyfriend of two years, Jamal, thrusting desperately into the lithe body of her identical twin sister, Celeste, who moaned theatricall y with the kind of fake ecstasy reserved for gold-digging performances. Celeste's designer heels kicked lazily against the headboard Celine had paid for herself, while Jamal grunted like a man compensating for something tragically inadequate.The air thickened with the stench of cheap perfume and sweat, Celeste's manicured nails raking down Jamal's back as she locked eyes with her twin—not with shame, but with smug triumph. "Oops," Celeste purred, not even bothering to cover her perfect, surgically enhanced breasts. "Didn't expect you home early, sis. Guess the pencil dick couldn't wait."Celine's heart didn't shatter; it ignited. Five years of playing second fiddle to her family's golden child—the one with the "marriageable" beauty, the one who landed modeling gigs while Celine scrubbed toilets at Al-Miraj Grand Palace—had forged her into something unbreakable. She dropped her work bag with deliberate calm, the metallic clatter echoing like a guillotine. "Get out," she said, voice steady as desert stone. Jamal scrambled up, his pathetic erection wilting under her dissecting gaze. "Both of you. Now."Jamal stammered excuses, yanking on boxers that did nothing to hide his inadequacy. "Babe, it just happened—""Pencil dick," Celine interrupted, the words landing like lashes. "That's all you've ever been. Celeste can have your three minutes of disappointment." Celeste laughed, slipping into a silk robe, but Celine saw the flicker—envy for her twin's unscarred confidence, untouched by the scalpels that kept Celeste's face "marketable."By midnight, they were gone, leaving behind crumpled lingerie and a eviction notice Celine had printed from her phone. She didn't cry. She showered off their filth, dressed in her tightest black dress—the one Jamal always ogled but never appreciated—and stormed into O'Malley's Bar, the city's underbelly dive where forgotten women drowned ambitions in five-dollar shots.Three tequilas in, celebrating her "five-month anniversary" of fooling herself with Jamal, Celine felt the haze descend. That's when he appeared—a towering shadow in tailored black, hazel eyes burning through the smoke like predator's gold. Idris Al-Miraj, though she would never know his name that night, slid onto the stool beside her, his sandalwood cologne cutting through the stale beer stink."You're celebrating alone?" His voice was velvet over steel, accented with desert winds."Freedom," she slurred, clinking her glass against his scotch.
Valerie_Ray · Urban
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