Chapter 15 · Chapter 15

Dawn came to northern Riyadh with a pale, cold gleam that cut across the high sill of the private wing. The scent of aged Dehn Al Oud hung quiet in the stillness, mixed with the cool drift of central air and the faint, bitter reminder of roasted cardamom.

I had adjusted my black abaya hours ago, pulling the dark fabric close around my shoulders, while the tarha remained neatly draped over my hair. I did not sit as an exile; my posture remained upright on the long divan, waiting for the house to stir.

Marzouq stood by the heavy carved door of the suite, his white thobe crisp, his collar buttoned high. He did not look at me with pity or triumph. His presence was merely a shield of solid stone, unyielding and deliberate. When the soft tap sounded against the outer panel, he turned the brass handle just enough to receive the steward’s muted voice.

"The morning majlis has convened, Ya ustadh," the steward murmured from the corridor, his eyes strictly lowered. "Her uncle and her eldest cousin, Saud Al-Sulaim, sit upon the carpets. They have brought papers."

Marzouq did not hesitate. "Bring the gahwa. We are coming out."