Chapter 22 · Chapter 22

The silence that settled over the grand majlis in the wake of Abu Badr’s departure was thick with the bitter tang of burned agarwood and fresh embarrassment. None of the men seated along the low, velvet-covered perimeter dared raise their finjans.

They watched the carpets, their fingers resting taut against the pleats of their crisp white thobes, acutely aware that Nayef had just dismantled a decade-old commercial alliance without shifting an inch in the sadr.

Before the tension could dissipate into polite murmurs, the carved double doors at the far end of the hall swung inward again.

I stepped over the threshold into the room.

My black abaya fell straight and heavy to the marble, sweeping the floor with a disciplined, quiet rustle. My tarha was pinned securely across my hair and drawn across the lower half of my face, leaving only my eyes exposed to the room. I walked with steady, unhurried steps, keeping my chin level and my hands clasped loosely before me beneath the dark crepe folds. I did not avert my gaze from the assembly.

At the middle of the hall, my uncle, Ammi Saud, stiffened where he sat near the center cushion.