Chapter 31 · Chapter 31

The pale sliver of dawn bled across the high sill, turning the northern Riyadh sky from ink to cold slate. Inside the private wing, the silence remained intact, measured and unyielding.

I turned toward the tall cedar mirror. Draped across the low bench lay my formal black abaya, cut from heavy crepe that fell in clean, severe lines. I lifted the fabric, its familiar weight settling over my shoulders, and drew my arms through the sleeves.

With steady fingers, I fastened the concealed snaps down the front, sealing away the quiet of the inner suite. There was no ornamentation, no sheer lace—only the immaculate drape of cloth that signaled complete possession of one’s own space.

Next came the tarha. I smoothed the black silk over my hair, folding the edges with deliberate care and pinning the fabric at the nape of my neck so that it framed my face in sharp, unbroken discipline. For months, the majlis had spoken of the stages as if they belonged to different women: the one who weathered the initial estrangement, the one who endured the family’s whispered audits, and the one who signed the deeds in silence.