Chapter 19 · Chapter 19

The heavy cedar doors of the private wing unbolted with a single, resonant latch. Beyond the threshold, the silence of the morning corridor was absolute, cool marble stretching beneath the low arches of the estate toward the northern majlis. I drew the black silk of my tarha forward, adjusting the folds of my abaya until not a single seam was out of place. My pulse was measured. There was no tremor in my hands.

Beside me, Nayef did not reach out to guide me. He did not touch my elbow or offer a shielding arm. In Riyadh, in the presence of witnesses, protection was not shown through physical proximity; it was carried in the space a man held around you, in the silence he commanded before a word was spoken.

His thobe was immaculate, the stiff collar sharp against the line of his throat, the black wool bisht falling in unyielding lines from his broad shoulders.