Chapter 22 · Chapter 22

A sharp rap at the carved perimeter door cut through the stillness of the corridor, signaling that the house had already moved ahead of us. The steward did not step past the threshold; he remained at the frame, his gaze lowered respectfully toward the carpet. "Sayyidati. Abu Fahad requests your presence in the great majlis. The Al-Harthy elders have arrived."

Ammi had not waited for nightfall. He had summoned Nawaf’s kin beneath our roof hours before the evening call, an exact maneuver to corner us both while the daylight still cast long, unsparing shadows across the courtyard.

I gathered the folds of my dark Abaya, drawing the silk Shaila securely across my hair until not a strand showed. Beside me, Nawaf’s expression hardened into polished stone. His crisp white Thobe fell without a crease, his bearing marked by that silent, immovable weight—the Heba that five years of silence and whispers had failed to erode. He did not ask what I intended to say.