The Sky
The plane engines hummed steady as a heartbeat. Sheryl leaned against the window, half-asleep, her cheek pressed to the seat, her hand unconsciously brushing his on the armrest.
Rafi stared ahead, the horizon fading into memory. She deserved to know him — not just the man on a scooter with roses, but the boy born into a crown he never asked for.
The Prince Who Wasn't Supposed to Rule
Rafiq ibn Salman Al-Malik was born a prince, but never meant to be king.
The eldest, Samir, was the crown prince: disciplined, brilliant, groomed from birth. He bore the weight of councils and tradition.
Rafi was the second son — freer, lighter, allowed to laugh too loud, sneak into markets, dream beyond palace walls. He was never told "This will be yours one day." That was Samir's burden.
Then came Hanif, the third son — younger than Rafi but stricter, always his shadow and scold. "Samir can't do everything," Hanif would bark. "One day, you'll have to stand too."
After them came three younger sisters — Amina, Leila, and Soraya — raised in privilege but kept from succession, their sharp eyes spared from duty.
But the family carried a shadow: weak hearts. The Sultan bore it. Samir inherited it.
And one spring evening, Samir collapsed during a council session, gone before the doctors could arrive.
The palace mourned. Ministers whispered. The Sultan's health worsened. And Rafi — the carefree second son — became heir.
Hanif's Rebuke
From that day, Hanif hounded him.
"You can't run anymore, Rafi," Hanif snapped after finding him slip away from a meeting. "You're not a boy. You are the heir now. Act like it."
"I was never meant to be the heir!" Rafi shouted.
"But you are," Hanif's voice cracked with both anger and grief. "Samir is gone. Baba is failing. If you don't stand up, this family will crumble."
The words cut, because they were true.
The Flight from Duty
So he fled. Not forever — never forever — but long enough to breathe.
Manila became his refuge: a modest condo in Sucat, a battered scooter, a mosque where he was simply Brother Rafi. For the first time, no one bowed. No one whispered "Your Highness."
And then, against reason, came Sheryl.
She was nothing like the women of the palace. She scolded, teased, carried grief and poverty without complaint, lived for her students. She didn't see a crown — she saw a man.
And in her laughter, he found his missing piece.
The Descent
The plane tilted downward, breaking Rafi's thoughts. Sheryl stirred, rubbing her eyes as Jakarta unfolded below in a sprawl of lights and towers.
"So many cars… so many buildings," she whispered, pressing her face to the glass.
Rafi smiled faintly. "Welcome to Jakarta."
Immigration was effortless — just as he'd promised. No visa, no questions, just a stamp. Still, Sheryl clutched her backpack. "That's it? No interrogation?"
"Visa-free," Rafi said with quiet amusement. "I told you. You're welcome here."
She barely had time to exhale before her breath caught again.
At the arrivals hall, a row of men in crisp uniforms stood waiting beside black cars. One stepped forward, bowing.
"Your Highness."
Sheryl froze. She turned to Rafi, but he only squeezed her hand. "Later," he murmured. "Just stay with me."
The Palace Gates
The motorcade cut through Jakarta's chaos into tree-lined boulevards. At last, gates rose before them, lanterns glowing, teakwood carved with crescents. Fountains sparkled under torchlight as attendants hurried forward.
Sheryl hugged her bag tighter, suddenly too aware of her shorts, sneakers, and blouse. Clothes for Davao, not this.
A woman in a headscarf approached with a polite bow. "Miss, please come with us. You must change before entering the main hall."
"Change? Why?" Sheryl asked, bewildered.
"Protocol," the woman said gently. "Appropriate attire has been prepared."
Before she could protest, her bag was lifted and she was guided away. She looked back once — Rafi's face steady, though his chest ached — before disappearing into a side chamber.
The Side Chamber
The air smelled of jasmine. Silks and long dresses shimmered on racks. Sheryl stood frozen until a younger girl slipped in, her headscarf neat, her eyes bright with unhidden curiosity.
"I'm Soraya," she said softly. "You must be… her."
"Her?" Sheryl echoed.
"The one my brother brought home." Soraya smiled, half shy, half delighted. She lifted a green dress, embroidered at the cuffs. "This will look beautiful on you."
Sheryl touched the fabric, her throat tight. It all made sense now — the bowing officer, the motorcade, the whispers of Your Highness.
She remembered those weeks ago, when Rafi had flown to "Davao" after his father's heart scare. To keep from missing him, she volunteered for an action research project. While gathering references on community outreach, she stumbled on a YouTube video: a prince in Jakarta, tall and striking, cutting a ribbon at a hospital. She had laughed at herself then — he looks like Rafi.
Now, silk pressed into her arms, the truth was undeniable.
Why cry? she scolded herself. Isn't this the best and worst thing that could happen to a girl like me?
Soraya tilted her head. "Do you love him?"
The bluntness jolted her. "W-what?"
"My brother. Rafiq." Soraya's smile tugged wider. "Do you love him?"
Sheryl swallowed, then gave a helpless laugh. "Of course I do. That's why I'm here."
Soraya leaned closer, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Then you know, don't you? If you love him… you will have to become like us."
The words struck deep.
"I don't…" Sheryl faltered, her pulse racing. "I don't know about that. I only know I want to be with him."
Soraya studied her, then shrugged with the certainty of youth. "Love is not enough here. But maybe… maybe for you, it will be."
She set the dress gently into Sheryl's hands, then fussed with a silk scarf, giggling as she tried to pin it in place. "There. Now you look like one of us."
Sheryl stared at her reflection — unfamiliar, veiled, caught between two worlds. She didn't look like them. Not yet.
And outside, the palace doors waited.