Chapter 19 · Untitled Chapter

By mid-morning, the retaliation did not arrive on horseback or through forced doors; it came, as all cowardly maneuvers in Riyadh did, through the household ledger.

A light tap sounded against the outer heavy oak of the private wing—two deliberate raps, delivered with the hesitation of a servant caught between two unyielding masters. When the door was opened, the estate’s head steward did not cross the threshold. He kept his eyes lowered to the runner, holding a small silver tray upon which rested a formal slip of gray cardstock stamped with the Al-Otaibi crest.

"Sayyidati," the steward murmured, his voice strained with genuine discomfort. "Your uncle requested this be delivered directly to your hand before the midday heat."

I took the slip without stepping past the jamb. "Ya'teek al-afiyah, Mansur."

He bowed slightly and retreated down the long stone corridor with hushed, hurried steps, leaving only the faint drift of cardamom in his wake.

I unfolded the card. My uncle had not even deigned to write a letter of grievance. It was a formal directive addressed to the household comptroller, signed in his sharp, slanted hand: all domestic stipends issued under my name were frozen effective immediately.