Chapter 30 · Chapter 30

He reached out, his long fingers pressing flat against the margin of the heavy vellum to steady it, yet taking care not to smudge the dark, drying ink. He read slowly, not because the lines were obscure, but because every syllable carried legal consequence.

His gaze swept past the itemized accounts, past the old transfers that the outer majlis had tried to scatter among phantom names, and rested finally upon my signature at the bottom: *Nouf Al-Ghamdi*.

Outside the double doors of the private wing, the house remained hushed. The courtyard fountains were a distant murmur against the stone walls, and the uncle’s presence in the outer reception hall had ceased to dictate what occurred within these private rooms. The air smelled of cold Taif rose and the quiet smoke of lingering oud from the burner on the low console.

"They wanted three women," Turki said, his voice level and entirely without anger. In Riyadh, an elder’s fury was loud, but true authority that silenced lesser men before a word was spoken was quiet. "They wanted an heiress who signed without reading, a ward whose silence could be purchased, and an unmentioned widow of circumstance.