Chapter 32 · Chapter 32

The heavy oak door of the private wing swung shut behind us with a muffled thud, sealing away the last murmurs of the outer majlis and the lingering trace of cardamom gahwa. In here, the silence was total, cooled by the thick stone walls that kept the desert heat of northern Riyadh at bay. The scent of aged Dehn Al Oud hung quiet in the corridor, private and heavy.

I did not let go of my leather bag. My knuckles remained firm around the handle, holding the leather close to my abaya. I had stood before the family and declared the number his; I had refused the escape of silence and made my claim. Now, within the sealed corridor where no uncle or cousin could cross, the air thickened with something far colder and sharper than public shame.

Marzouq did not move to touch me. He stood tall in his crisp white thobe, the stiff collar buttoned high, his silhouette framed against the warm amber lamp of the antechamber. There was no hurried breath, no triumph in his posture. His presence carried that unyielding heba—