Chapter 21 · Chapter 21

The lock turned from the outside with a heavy, unmistakable clatter of brass. Morning had broken clean across Riyadh, cutting pale gray shafts through the high clerestory windows of the gallery, but within the corridor, the air retained the chill of cold stone and unspent malice.

I stood straight, my black Abaya fastened securely to the throat, the dark Shaila pinned over my hair with absolute precision. My chin remained level, my hands resting still against the drape of my sleeves. The cedar door behind me had closed, but the gallery did not empty.

Faisal had not retreated with his father. He lingered by the carved limestone pillar, his stiff white collar sharp against his jaw, his eyes dark with the restless venom of a man whose grievance had failed to dismantle a household. Two steps away, an attendant stood rigid with a silver tray bearing a cold Dallah and untouched finjans, caught between deference and stillness.

"You carry yourself as if the night washed away the streets," Faisal said, his tone low, pitched for the gallery yet deliberately edged with cold insolence.