Chapter 12 · Chapter 12

The snap of the heavy bolt settled into the silence of the suite like an iron seal. Beyond that thick cedar barrier, the long corridor leading toward the public majlis remained quiet, but I could picture the men waiting below, calculating how long a daughter of Al-Anazi would remain behind a locked door before shame or doubt drove her out into the light.

I did not move toward the door, nor did I look toward the tall windows where the gray morning haze of Riyadh was slowly turning to pale gold over the perimeter walls. Instead, I walked back to the low divan upholstered in deep slate wool, smoothing the dark folds of my Abaya beneath me as I took my seat.

My hands did not tremble. I lifted my fingers to my temples, settling the sheer drape of the Shaila so that it framed my face in neat, deliberate lines, pinning it firmly at my throat.

Majed did not offer false comfort, nor did he ask if the weight of the house felt too heavy. He walked to the wide desk of dark oak anchored near the inner archway.