Chapter 37 · Chapter 37

The silence that settled over the majlis was not mere quiet; it was the suffocating weight of an assembly realizing the ground had shifted beneath their feet. My uncle’s mouth remained parted, the protest dying in his throat beneath Majed’s unblinking stare. Along the perimeter of the hall, the men of the family sat frozen, their fingers stilled over amber worry beads, not a single finjan raised to break the stillness.

I did not look at my uncle. I did not need to witness the color draining from his face or the futile calculation flickering in his eyes. My gaze remained level, fixed upon the polished mahogany and brass of the low central table that separated the family’s claims from our reality.

From beneath the dark fold of my abaya, I drew the heavy leather folio. It did not tremble in my hand. Through all their whispered doubts, they had built their authority on the premise of an absence—