Chapter 21 · Chapter 21

The solid cedar of the double doors muffled the voices beyond, but the resonance of an authoritative rap struck the panels with measured arrogance. Three deliberate strikes—the cadence of an elder’s envoy who believed any corridor in Riyadh could be breached by family prerogative.

Majed did not move from where he stood against the carved relief of the safe. His white thobe was immaculate, the stiff collar fastened with obsidian studs, his eyes hooded with an icy calm that regarded the door as nothing more than painted timber. He did not ask if I was prepared. He simply extended his hand toward the side table where my black abaya lay folded over the velvet bench.

I stepped into the silk without hesitation, drawing the dark folds around my shoulders and draping the black tarha over my hair, securing the pin beneath my chin with fingers that remained entirely steady. In this house, behind this locked threshold, the terms of my life had already shifted beyond the reach of the council.