Chapter 3 - THE WRONG HEIR
Naïma survived.
Barely.
The bullet entered below her shoulder and missed the major artery by less than an inch.
Leïla stood outside the palace medical unit while surgeons worked.
Karim paced.
Farid watched security footage on a tablet.
“How did somebody shoot through that window?” Karim demanded.
“Service roof across the courtyard,” Farid said.
“Inside palace grounds?”
“Yes.”
“So whoever did this is still inside.”
“Possibly.”
Karim laughed without humor.
“That’s comforting.”
Leïla unfolded Naïma’s note again.
SAMIRA KNOWS WHO INHERITS.
Their father’s succession plan had always been complicated.
Not because he was king.
He wasn’t.
The Rahmani family had once ruled a small region generations earlier, but today their influence came from land, ports, hotels, energy companies, and enormous inherited wealth.
The palace was a private family estate.
Their father, Hassan Rahmani, controlled nearly everything.
And whoever inherited his voting shares would effectively control the family empire.
Karim rubbed both hands across his face.
“Father told me he changed the will.”
Leïla looked at him.
“He told you?”
“Only that he had changed it.”
“He told me the same thing.”
Farid looked up.
“You both assumed one of you would receive control.”
Neither answered.
Because that was exactly what they had assumed.
Karim was the son.
Leïla was the oldest child.
Malik was their uncle’s son and owned minority shares.
There had been arguments for years.
But murder?
A doctor emerged.
“Naïma is stable.”
“Can she speak?” Leïla asked.
“Not yet.”
Leïla nodded.
Her phone rang.
Their father.
She answered.
“Where are you?”
“At the medical wing.”
“Come to my library.”
“Father—”
“Now.”
Twenty minutes later, Hassan Rahmani stood behind his desk.
He looked older than Leïla remembered from four days earlier.
Not weak.
But angry in the way men became when they realized control was slipping.
He threw the note onto his desk.
“Who else has seen this?”
“Karim. Farid.”
“Anyone outside security?”
“No.”
Hassan turned toward the fireplace.
“You should have called me last night.”
“You were asleep.”
“I am not a child.”
“No, but someone used my identity to enter your succession archives.”
That made him turn.
Leïla watched his face.
“You knew this was possible.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
Karim stepped in.
“Leïla.”
“No.”
She faced their father.
“Samira disappeared. Naïma was shot. Malik vanished. Someone stole my access credentials. Whatever is inside that succession file is causing this.”
Hassan lowered his eyes.
For the first time, Leïla saw fear.
Real fear.
“What did you change?” she asked.
Hassan walked to a locked cabinet.
He removed a thin folder.
Inside was a copy of his new will.
He placed it on the desk.
Leïla opened it.
She found Karim’s name first.
Then hers.
Properties.
Trusts.
Board seats.
Major assets.
But the controlling block of Rahmani Global was not assigned to either of them.
Leïla stared at the page.
“Who is S. Haddad?”
Karim moved beside her.
His face drained.
Hassan said nothing.
Leïla looked at him.
“Father.”
He slowly sat down.
“Twenty-eight years ago, before your mother and I repaired our marriage, I had another relationship.”
Karim stopped breathing.
Leïla understood before he finished.
“A daughter?”
Hassan nodded.
“I was told the baby died.”
Leïla looked back at the name.
S. Haddad.
Samira Haddad.
Her hands went cold.
“You think Samira is your daughter.”
“I don’t think.”
Hassan opened another envelope.
Inside was a DNA report.
Leïla scanned it.
Probability of biological paternity: 99.98%.
Karim staggered back.
Hassan whispered, “Samira is my daughter.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Farid rushed into the library without knocking.
“We found Malik.”
Leïla turned.
“Where?”
Farid’s face was grim.
“In the West Wing archive.”
Karim frowned.
“What was he doing?”
Farid shook his head.
“He wasn’t doing anything.”
He held up a photograph from security.
May you like
Malik lay unconscious beside an open archive cabinet.
And clutched in his hand was Samira’s blood-covered palace badge.
