Chapter 30 · Untitled Chapter

The silence Abu Tariq left behind was short-lived. Before the scent of the burning oud could settle back into the wool of the carpets, the console set into the low walnut table between our seats began to hum with the muted chime of a secure family line.

Saud did not reach for it. He remained seated in the deep leather armchair, his white thobe crisp against the dark wood, fingers resting lightly beside his half-emptied finjan. His gaze shifted from the polished floor to me, unhurried and calm, giving me the space that no man of my own blood had ever permitted.

I pressed the connection. The amber indicator flared, and the acoustics of the majlis caught the sound of a labored breath from the other end. It was not a clerk or an emissary this time. It was my uncle, Ammi Salman, speaking directly from the central hall of the Al-Otaibi estate across the city.

"Maha," his voice came through the speaker, devoid of the sharp commercial edge Abu Tariq had carried. It was heavy, worn thin by hours of council debate and the weight of tradition. "Listen to me before the day slips entirely.