Chapter 32 · Chapter 32

Turki did not reach out to guide my elbow, nor did he press ahead to test the quiet of the corridor first. He simply drew back his arm, letting his white thobe brush against the heavy doorframe, and gave me the full breadth of the entrance. It was the deliberate deference of a man who had already yielded the center of the house to the woman whose name was etched onto the parchment in his safe.

I stepped past him, my black abaya whispering against the cool limestone tiles of the corridor. The morning air carried the thin chill of Riyadh before the sun rose above the high courtyard walls, tempered only by the rising coil of smoke from a mabkhara left on the low console near the archway. The bitter, fragrant bite of cardamom gahwa hung dense and steady, drifting from the reception hall beyond.

Behind me, his footsteps followed at an even, measured pace—