Nahia no longer dared to lift her head.
Assad's vest still covered her hair, her neck, her trembling shoulders.
She could feel the thick silk of his tunic brushing her burning cheeks.
Everything had happened so fast.
The music, now softly playing again after the commotion, filled the hall—but no one was truly listening.
The stares...
The stares burned her skin.
At her side, Yasmina hadn't left her for a second.
Proud and protective, Assad's younger sister placed a reassuring hand on Nahia's back, whispering words only Nahia could hear:
"Breathe… I'm here, okay?"
Under Yasmina's hand, a little of Nahia's distress began to melt, though shame still crushed her chest.
Not far off, Assad's guests exchanged looks heavy with curiosity.
Some whispered.
Others stared at Nahia without an ounce of discretion.
Eventually, Sheikh Mahran, the boldest of the visitors, stood up.
He smoothed the silk of his caftan slowly, seeking to draw Assad's attention without seeming insolent.
Then, in a loud voice, he asked:
"Your Highness… Who is this young woman?"
The soft murmur of the instruments couldn't mask the sudden tension that fell over the hall.
Assad, still standing near the head table, remained frozen, his steel gaze fixed on the scene.
When he answered, his voice cracked sharp and cold:
"No one."
A ripple of surprise spread through the assembly.
Nahia felt her stomach twist so violently she thought she might collapse.
No one.
The word echoed in her head like a sentence.
But Yasmina, faithful to her silent promise, tightened her hand on Nahia's shoulder, pouring all her support into that one gesture.
A discreet, conspiratorial wink passed between them—imperceptible to others, yet full of infinite tenderness.
To Yasmina, Nahia was not "no one."
Never.
Assad turned his gaze away, his face masking the silent storm building within.
Around them, despite the music continuing its rhythm, the banquet had lost its shine.
Some guests bowed their heads in discomfort.
Others stared, hungry for answers.
But Assad offered none.
Clinging to Yasmina like a lifeline in a storm, Nahia stood still, her throat tight with shame and sorrow.
The banquet carried on.
But for Nahia, it was already over.
Yasmina could feel the tension in Nahia's fragile body—her shallow breathing, her eyes glued to the floor, unable to speak, unable to move.
Without asking anyone's permission, Yasmina slid her arm beneath Nahia's, supporting her with fierce gentleness.
"Come," she whispered, her gaze proud and defiant in the face of the assembly.
No one dared stop them.
Not even Assad, whose fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white.
Behind the soft hum of music in the heavy air, Nahia and Yasmina left the hall.
No glances back.
No words.
Only the fragile but unbroken dignity Yasmina tried to preserve for them both.
In the silent palace corridors, their footsteps echoed faintly.
Arriving at Yasmina's chambers, the young princess quickly opened the door and ushered Nahia inside, closing it firmly behind them.
A sigh of relief escaped Yasmina's lips.
She turned toward Nahia, gently guiding her to sit on a divan covered in plush cushions.
"You're safe here," she whispered, a hand resting on Nahia's cold cheek.
Assad's vest slipped from Nahia's shoulders, revealing her now-loosened hair—a cascade of black silk fanning out around her like a deep sea.
Yasmina picked up a soft, warm shawl from a nearby shelf and wrapped it gently around Nahia's shoulders with infinite care.
"No one will bother you here. No one."
For the first time in hours, Nahia lifted her gaze.
And met Yasmina's sincere eyes, overflowing with warmth and compassion that shattered the last walls around her wounded heart.
A silent sob shook her frame.
But Yasmina stayed by her side, letting her cry, never releasing her protective embrace.
---
Outside, the corridor was empty.
Only the distant echoes of forced laughter and muffled conversations from the banquet remained, a bitter reminder of what had just happened.
Assad walked slowly, almost absent-mindedly, his hands clasped behind his back.
His gaze was fixed on the floor, but his mind… was elsewhere.
He had stayed in the banquet hall long after they left, frozen, unable to explain the storm of anger boiling inside him.
None of it made sense.
She was just a servant.
Nobody.
That's what he had said, coldly, to one of his curious associates.
One harsh word, sharp as a blade.
A word meant to end the conversation, to protect him from what he felt stirring inside.
But the sting of that lie still echoed in his chest.
Nobody.
So why had he acted like that?
Why, in front of the whole assembly, had he thrown his vest over her head to protect her—like a jealous man?
Like a man wounded?
He took a deep breath, pushing the thought away, and quickened his pace.
He needed to know.
He needed to know if she was okay.
If Yasmina had managed to calm her.
If… she had cried.
He arrived at his sister's chambers, hand rising to knock on the door.
But he hesitated.
His hand froze in the air, trembling ever so slightly.
Inside, he could hear muffled whispers, the soft sob of a female voice.
Yasmina.
And… Nahia.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to silence the confused rage choking him.
He had no right.
He wasn't that kind of man.
He was Assad, son of a proud and powerful lineage, destined to rule—not to be shaken by a mere servant with a frightened gaze.
He clenched his fists.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he stepped back.
And walked away—faster, harder—like a man fleeing something he wasn't ready to face.
Not yet.