Chapter 19 · Chapter 19

The silence between us stretched, thick and measured as the scent of aged Oud caught in the heavy folds of the curtains. The metal of the signet pressed into the meat of my palm, cold and unforgiving, carrying the carved weight of my family's mark.

For three years, I had draped other names over my shoulders like protective cloaks. In the majlis, I had spoken of an unnamed cousin who drafted the deeds; before the auditors, I had claimed to be a mere scribe carrying instructions from abroad. It was safer to remain a phantom, an assemblage of fragments dispersed across ledgers and rumor, untouchable because I did not legally exist within the line of fire.

Turki did not release my hand. His thumb rested along the ridge of my wrist, steady against the rapid flutter of my pulse. He wore no bisht here in the seclusion of the wing, only the crisp white thobe that carried the faint, dry warmth of Taif rose and desert air, his stature bearing the quiet, unyielding authority of a man who had never once yielded an inch of ground he meant to hold.

"The ink has dried on my name," he murmured, his