Chapter 18 · Chapter 18

The quiet between us was heavy with the drift of cooled Bakhoor, trapped within the insulated walls of the private wing. The brass lock remained turned on the heavy oak door; outside, in the corridors leading toward the formal majlis, the house had settled into late-night stillness.

Here, there were no relatives lingering in the foyer, no stewards balancing copper trays, no cousins debating deeds under the crystal chandeliers. Only the soft, amber glow of the desk lamp and the two of us across the walnut slab.

Turki straightened. His white thobe fell in crisp, unbroken lines to the floor, clean of any formal bisht or collar pin. His gaze remained locked on my face, patient and uncompromising, holding none of the theatrical deference that men of his station usually showed women across negotiating tables in Riyadh.

He reached into his pocket and brought forth a small, heavy object wrapped in dark velvet. He did not toss it, nor did he slide it across the timber like a merchant settling a wager.