Chapter 20 · Chapter 20

The silence of the private wing settled around us, heavy and impenetrable, broken only by the distant hum of the cooling vents that kept the Riyadh heat stranded beyond double-paned glass. The heavy carved mahogany doors remained firmly bolted against the corridor, against the whispers of the majlis, against my uncle’s cold calculation.

I stared at the leather-bound ledger resting between us on the low console. For five years, while I stayed away by my own choice trying to forget the dust of this house, Nawaf had signed every reconciliation in his own name. He had stood before the elder arbitrations alone, enduring the thinly veiled insolence of those who believed he had seized my father’s commercial shares out of crude opportunism.

"An ahd," I echoed, my throat dry. The dark silk of my abaya felt stifling suddenly, yet I did not reach for the lapels. We stood within the locked sanctuary of the private wing, far from the eyes of the family, but the weight of his confession demanded a stillness that felt like armor. "You let Ammi Tariq call you an usurper.