Ruling a country was not a task for the faint of heart. Then again, neither was raising eleven children.

There were days when His Majesty King Mohammed al-Haydar wondered how he’d managed to get himself into such a position. With his youngest daughter turning seven in a week, a slew of international affairs to attend to, and his country’s independence celebration in just a few hours, today was one of those days.

He had been raised knowing he would one day rule Malikbahr, a tiny island country in the Persian Gulf that his family had governed for nearly a hundred years. He had not, however, considered the possibility of having so many children he could start his own football team. Overseeing a country was simple in comparison to being a father, but when combined, he wouldn’t have wished his duties on even his bitterest enemies.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t love his children or his country—he loved both so much it physically hurt. Still, it never stopped him from wondering what life would have been like had he not become king or sired eleven souls.

The former was easy to imagine. There was no escaping the fact he was of royal blood but remaining a mere prince would have meant a chance to lead a much simpler existence. While he would have had a handful of responsibilities regarding the wellbeing of Malikbahr, it certainly wouldn’t have been as many required of a king. Someone else would have been the public face of the country—the one its people turned to in times of crisis and joy; the one who shouldered the blame when things went wrong or took all the credit when the nation flourished; the one who made all the difficult decisions when it came to war, law, and the economy.

It was a beautiful dream, but it would remain just that. A weak, distant desire that would never come to fruition. He would never let it.

His children followed the same example.

Although he loved each of them dearly, Mohammed wondered what it would have been like if he’d only had one or two. It would have been much quieter, no doubt, but it was hard to envision his life without the drama they brought to it. It hadn’t been his or his wife’s original plan to have so many, but by the grace of Allah, they had brought eleven lives into the world, and each one had the ability to drive him mad.

One of his main responsibilities as king was to provide an heir to the throne, and as the proud father of five sons and six daughters, he had fulfilled that duty several times over. Unfortunately, it also presented a problem.

It was a dilemma Mohammed had been carefully considering since the birth of his second son, but it hadn’t gotten any easier by the time the third, fourth, and final fifth arrived. He had been foolish to think that just because his firstborn had been a boy that the child would end up being crown prince one day. It may have sounded perfect on paper, but in reality, it was nothing short of a disaster.

Majid had been a happy baby and a sweet little boy, but his teenage years had been unpleasant. The chubby cheeked child had morphed into a playboy who hated rules, especially those of the Western nations he frequented. Had he not been the son of a noted foreign dignitary with the ability to rescue him from most situations, the boy probably would have been sitting in a jail cell halfway across the globe. Mohammed once thought it was just a phase, that his firstborn would grow out of it once he hit his late twenties, but Majid was thirty-one now, and it didn’t look like he would be settling down anytime soon.

Fortunately, the order of succession in Malikbahr was not based on primogeniture, so the king was—thankfully—free to choose whomever he wanted as heir presumptive. Had that not been the case, Mohammed was sure the country he loved with all his heart would have become the laughingstock of the world. Majid would run the kingdom into the ground.

That was the problem Mohammed faced. With his eldest son unworthy of the throne, he had to choose who he wanted to succeed him, which meant once again going through his lengthy list of children to find a replacement.

After Majid came his beautiful twin girls, two of the six jewels that ruled his heart. However, this was not a woman’s world, and the idea of a queen regnant still wasn’t acceptable. Besides, both were already married and had started families of their own. Who was he to demand they take on a responsibility that would keep the mothers away from their children? Even if they understood the inner workings of the monarchy far better than Majid ever could, there was no way he could ask such a thing.

His next son, Rashid, would have been an excellent candidate had he not already been a professional tennis player. Mohammed didn’t particularly understand his son’s passion for the sport but supported him nonetheless. The same went for Fatima, just two years younger than her tennis champion brother. She was an athlete in her own right, a world ranked equestrian who had represented Malikbahr on numerous occasions. It was a shame neither had shown any interest in politics since their bold personalities were so well suited for it.

That was usually the point when Mohammed began to truly worry about who was going to take his place on the throne one day. At sixty-two with rather poor health, he didn’t have many years left. In all honesty, he was giving himself no more than a decade, though there were days when half of that seemed more accurate. He had gone this long without naming a successor, much to the dismay of his advisors, but there had been no one suitable for the job. This wasn’t a decision he could put off for much longer, and after a visit to his physician two days ago, he knew the time had come to finally choose.

It was plain as day that none of his older children could handle the title. Ya Allah, he was having chest pains just thinking about it. It was absurd that he couldn’t rely on any of his first five to take the crown, but the idea of granting it to one of his younger children seemed even worse. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he died tomorrow and his almost-seven-year-old daughter somehow became queen.

Then again, the idea was far better than that of letting his brother ascend to the throne. But that was a thought for another day.

With a heavy sigh, the king lifted his gaze to one of the many pictures on his desk. It was a candid shot of himself and his now twenty-year-old son, Zayn, on the day of the boy’s birth. Mohammed could remember practically all thirty hours of his wife’s labor—the longest of all their children—most of them spent pacing the halls of the hospital. She had promised him the agony had been worth it once she was able to hold their beautiful baby boy, and Mohammed had been quick to see why.

Even though the child’s mother had wailed for hours upon hours, Zayn hadn’t immediately let out a cry upon entering the world. Instead of voicing his discontent over leaving the place that had housed him for nine long months, he had fixed his dark eyes on his father and glared as if the whole thing had been Mohammed’s fault. The look had been so jarring that he had to tell himself it was impossible for the tiny infant to actually see him. It had to have been a trick of the light; there was no other explanation for it. No newborn could look at someone in such a way.

However, knowing Zayn today made him reconsider. The boy was still able to pull off that dramatic glare he had given Mohammed all those years ago, a look he still loathed to be on the receiving end of. He could only imagine what it would be like if Zayn were to fix that stare upon a world leader who refused to do something his way. Surely, they would cave to whatever demands had been made. After all, it had worked on one king plenty of times.

Had it not been for his age, the choice for crown prince would have been incontestable, but as someone just out of his teenage years, Zayn was still a child in his father’s eyes. It didn’t help that the boy was off at Oxford University and hadn’t spent a day in Malikbahr’s government. For now, Zayn simply lacked the qualifications, something that was sure to change in the future, but Mohammed didn’t know if he’d be around to witness it.

Sadly, there was no time to wait for Zayn to grow up.

The shrill sound of a phone ringing drew the king out of his reverie. He frowned, confused as to why anyone would be calling him, having given strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed for the next however-many-hours it took to write the speech for Malikbahr’s independence celebration later in the day. He could have had one of his many speechwriters do it for him, but what Mohammed planned to discuss was too close to his heart to entrust to anyone else.

Even if the warning wasn’t enough, he would have thought the fact that it was currently six in the morning would have deterred any disruptions. Whoever was calling either had some urgent message to relay or was just an early riser.

So after a moment’s hesitation, Mohammed lifted the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”

Static washed over the line, but the king was able to make out the words the caller murmured.

“Assalamu alaikum, Father.”

A smile cracked Mohammed’s solemn face. “Wa alaikum salaam, Zayn. I certainly haven’t heard from you in some time.”

Another wave of static almost drowned out the boy’s chuckle. “I feel guilty for not calling sooner, but I’ve been busy with school. It’s been…intense, to say the least.”

“All is forgiven.” Mohammed laughed. “I understand how demanding your schedule is. You have some time off now, yes? Summer break?”

“Two glorious months. Just enough time to come home and savor the desert heat before I’m shipped back to the land of nonstop rain.”

“When do you plan on returning?” the king inquired, turning in his chair to glance out at the sprawling city forty stories below him. “Soon, I hope.”

“Actually, I’m about to land in Abu Dhabi,” Zayn revealed, referencing the emirate connected to one of Malikbahr’s port cities by bridge. “I had planned to leave yesterday, but my flight was canceled due to the weather. I almost couldn’t get out of London today since there were no flights home, but a friend of mine was kind enough to allow me to use his private plane. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get clearance to land anywhere in Malikbahr on such short notice, so I’ve arranged for a car to take us across the bridge.”

It was then Mohammed realized it wasn’t static he had been hearing, but the roar of a jet’s engine. “Traveling in style,” he mused. “Your friend is with you?

“He is. I invited him to the National Day celebrations as a thank-you for giving me a ride home. Thought I might as well expose him to some of our traditions.”

“He’s not Arab, I’m assuming.”

“Persian, actually, but he grew up in America.” Zayn paused as the engines reached a deafening level. “We’re about to touch down, so we should be home in an hour or two.” The excitement in his voice only made Mohammed’s smile grow. “I can’t wait to see you, Father. England may be the hub of the Western world, but Malikbahr will always have my heart. I’ll see you soon.”

A loud click signaled the end of the call, but it hardly registered to Mohammed.

To even think he had considered bestowing the title of crown prince upon any of his other children was enough to make the King of Malikbahr want to hit his head against the wall. There was only one person worthy of the title.

Besides, Crown Prince Zayn bin Mohammed al-Haydar had a nice ring to it.