The House Bag

When Lulwa's bag is emptied across the low mahogany table of the Riyadh majlis, the scent of burning oud cannot soften the cold silence that follows. At the bottom lies a folded slip of paper bearing ten digits and no name. Before the elders can demand an accounting or cast a stain across the Al-Sulaim name, Marzouq Al-Falih sets down his finjan of gahwa and speaks without looking up. The number is his. In the public hall, his claim is absolute, shielding her reputation with a single deliberate sentence. But once the heavy door of his private wing bolts shut from the outside, the terms of that protection change. Alone in the secluded quarter where her uncle cannot step, Lulwa must answer to the man who bought her standing before the room—and discover the price of remaining behind his lock until dawn.