The afternoon sun pierced through the heavy drapes, casting golden rays across the shelves crowded with books and files. The warm air in the office was saturated with dry ink, dust, and a silence so thick that even the slightest breath seemed to echo.
Assad, the Sheikh, was there, seated behind his wide desk, fingers dancing over the keyboard, focused… or so it appeared. His mind, however, wandered elsewhere, trapped in a silent struggle. For several weeks now, a dull unrest had taken root inside him — a discreet yet persistent fire he refused to name, for fear of giving it life.
He had made himself a promise — a clear decision, taken in the secrecy of his sleepless nights — to love Nahia from afar, without ever crossing the line. Far from prying eyes, far from whispers, in the respectful silence of his world.
And then she entered.
Nahia, light as a shadow, carrying a box filled with files. Her movements held an almost sacred delicacy, as if each sheet of paper contained the fragile balance of the world.
She rarely spoke, if at all. But Assad knew every detail of her presence: her measured steps, the way she laid down her burdens, the slightly short breath when she concentrated too hard.
He didn't look up.
He didn't want to.
Yet her scent preceded her — a soft and captivating trail, a subtle blend of orange blossom and white musk.
Suddenly, a muffled cry. The dull thud of a box falling. The sharp rustle of papers scattering like light snow.
Assad froze.
Then, instinctively, he leapt to his feet.
"Nahia?"
He looked at her.
Just for a moment.
But long enough for everything to shift.
She was on her knees, one hand gripping her ankle, her face slightly contorted. A stray strand of hair fell across her cheek. Her eyes, lowered, held a strange vulnerability.
A flash pierced through his heart.
He immediately looked away, as if burned.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice more anxious than he'd intended.
She nodded silently, embarrassed.
"Let me help you."
"No… I'll get up by myself," she murmured, teeth clenched.
But her body betrayed her.
Assad knelt down gently beside her.
His fingers brushed her ankle through the fabric, applying a light pressure.
That simple contact was an electric jolt.
Nahia flinched.
Assad felt every nerve in his hand tremble with the nearness.
He should have pulled back.
He should have called a guard.
But he stayed.
A prisoner of the moment.
A prisoner of her.
It wasn't just compassion anymore.
It was something else.
Something he had tried to bury.
Something forbidden.
He stood abruptly, as if scalded.
"You can't walk. Wait here."
He gestured toward two guards who appeared at once, alert and ready.
"She's injured. Take her to the infirmary."
Nahia tried to stand, but her leg gave out.
One of the guards gently supported her.
Assad turned his eyes away. He couldn't look at her like this. He mustn't.
But just before she left the room, she turned back.
A glance.
A suspended instant.
And in her eyes, he saw an answer. A spark.
Then she was gone.
Silence returned.
Assad remained still, breath shallow.
He should have remained composed.
He should have felt nothing.
But now he knew.
He had crossed an invisible line.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
---
The pain was sharp. Dry, burning — like an alarm blaring in her body.
But it was nothing compared to what she had just felt under Assad's gaze.
No anger. No judgment. Just… concern.
And that was the most destabilizing part.
The trip to the infirmary had been silent, almost unreal.
Nahia, seated on the white bed, her eyes fixed on the floor, was still struggling to gather her thoughts. Everything had happened too fast. She had barely had time to feel Assad's hand lifting her — firm, yet careful — before the guards escorted her to the doctor.
He hadn't said anything else.
He had simply acted.
As if, for a moment, he wasn't the cold and distant Sheikh… but simply a man, concerned.
And that… she didn't know how to handle.
The doctor, a man with a strict demeanor, entered a few minutes later. He greeted her with a brief nod.
"Let me see your ankle."
She nodded silently, slowly lifting her leg. The pain made her wince, but she stayed quiet, tense.
"Nothing's broken," he concluded. "A mild sprain. Rest, and it will heal."
She nodded again, as if she'd forgotten how to speak.
Relief was there, but faint. It couldn't soothe the storm inside her.
When he left, she found herself alone. Or almost.
Because his gaze — Assad's gaze — lingered somewhere in her memory. And that voice. Calm. Deep. She couldn't erase it.
The door opened.
She didn't even need to look up. She knew it was him.
Her heart pounded violently.
She hated that reflex — this body that betrayed her, this sudden warmth in her chest.
Assad walked in, silent.
He stopped just in front of her. And this time, she looked up.
Their eyes met.
Gray. Deep. Intense.
And different.
There was something strangely soft in that look. A crack. A barely noticeable hesitation. As if he no longer knew whether to keep his distance or step closer.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She nodded… then slowly shook her head.
She honestly didn't know.
She should have looked away, turned aside, but she couldn't.
There was something there, between them, suspended in the air, that gave her no rest.
"You need to rest," he said. "Take all the time you need."
"But I can still work, it's not—"
"No. You'll receive your pay as if you were here. I'll make sure of it."
She blinked, frozen. It wasn't what he said — it was the way he said it.
As if he knew.
As if he understood her without her needing to speak.
No one did that.
And that's what terrified her.
Because she couldn't afford to be seen like this.
Fragile. Lost. Attached.
Not to him.
And yet, she already felt the ground slipping beneath her feet.
Assad remained there, silent.
As if he couldn't bring himself to leave.
Or as if he was waiting for her to say something.
To stop him.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
And in that suspended second, she understood something had shifted.
This wasn't just a conversation.
This wasn't mere compassion.
This was a slide.
Uncontrollable.
And dangerously real.
> Because deep down, she knew that if she kept looking at him like that —
She would fall.
And this time… he might not be able to catch her.