The Sheikh Assad's office was bathed in dim light. The heavy sand-beige drapes let through a golden ray that caressed the carved woodwork and the shelves filled with ancient books. A faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, subtle but constant, like a reminder of the weight of tradition.
A guard knocked twice before entering.
— "Your Highness, Doctor Jalal is here. He says it's urgent."
Assad looked up from his papers, his brows furrowed.
— "Let him in."
The doctor entered stiffly, his features tight with worry. He closed the door behind him with care.
— "I'm listening, Doctor," Assad said directly.
Jalal wetted his lips, choosing his words carefully.
— "It's your father… The treatment is no longer working. His condition has been stagnating for weeks, and the latest tests show a clear decline. We're approaching a point of no return."
A chilling silence fell over the room.
— "So you're giving up?"
— "No. Quite the opposite. I contacted a colleague at a cutting-edge clinic… in Switzerland. He's working on an experimental protocol, and the results are promising. Very promising. I told him about the former Sheikh's case. He's ready to receive him, but… we must evacuate him quickly. Within a week, at the latest."
Assad straightened.
— "So there's a chance?"
— "Yes. Slim, but real. And far better than what we can still offer him here."
— "I have to convince him, don't I?"
— "He listens to you. You need his consent."
---
Moments later, Assad pushed open the door to his mother's chambers. Laila was seated near the window, a shawl draped over her shoulders. Her gaze filled with concern immediately.
— "What is it, Assad?"
— "Mother… the treatment is no longer working," he murmured, throat tight. "But there's a doctor in Switzerland who wants to try something new. We have to move him… quickly."
Laila brought a hand to her mouth, then slowly nodded.
— "Do it. Take him, if there's even a small chance… I'd rather know he's far away and alive than lose him here."
Assad took her hands, squeezed them, then stood.
— "Thank you, Mother. I needed to hear you say it."
— "You're his son, Assad. You're just as responsible for him as I am."
---
The scent of incense filled the old Sheikh's room. He was lying down, weakened, but his deep gray eyes still burned with the authority that had never faltered, even with illness.
Assad approached the bed, his tone grave.
— "Father..."
— "Assad," he said, his voice hoarse but firm. "Sit down."
Assad obeyed.
— "Father, I spoke to the doctor. There's a treatment in Switzerland. Experimental, but promising. I want to send you there."
The old man smiled, tired.
— "Still commanding me, even now… You've grown well."
Assad didn't respond. Silence had become a language between them.
The Sheikh stared at the ceiling for a moment, then spoke:
— "I feel the end approaching. And no, it's not a weakness of spirit. It's the lucidity of a man who has lived. I've seen kingdoms fall because an heir believed that the heart had more value than alliances. You are Sheikh, Assad. But being Sheikh is not just ruling. It's securing the future."
He caught his breath, each word seeming to cost him strength.
— "As I've told you before… I want you to marry Zeyneb."
— "I made a promise to Al-Rami. His friendship once saved my life. And his daughter Zeyneb… she was raised for this role. She has nobility, discretion, intelligence. She will be a wife worthy of your rank. She will stabilize your court, silence the opposition. She is the woman you need."
Assad closed his eyes for a moment.
— "I'm not forcing you, Assad. But I will not board that plane unless I know my son is securing this kingdom through a lasting alliance. I will not leave… without knowing that everything I've built won't collapse after me."
He turned his head toward him, weaker, but still in command of his words.
— "You can save me, Assad. But only on one condition: marry Zeyneb."
The silence stretched. Assad stood slowly. He gave a slight bow before his father, then left the room, his temples pounding. In the palace corridors, the gilded walls seemed to close in on him.
That night, Sheikh Assad understood that to save a man could sometimes require sacrificing a piece of one's soul.
---
Once inside his chambers, he closed the door and leaned against it, eyes shut.
Zeyneb.
A name without a face. A vague silhouette of whom he knew nothing, except her origin, her status, her suitability.
And Nahia.
Her image rushed into his mind — vivid, burning, unbearable. Her quiet laughter. The softness of her voice. He had avoided her, yes. Fled. Refused to listen to his heart. Out of loyalty. Out of fear. Out of guilt.
Samir…
He clenched his jaw. That name, that memory, pierced his chest.
How dare he still think of Nahia? Of love… when Samir would never again know tenderness or a future?
How could he look at himself if he betrayed the promise made to the one he had loved like a brother?
Honor. The weight of a given word. The memory of the dead.
Everything bound him.
And yet… somewhere inside, a voice was breaking, muffled.
He should turn away from her. For good. Close that chapter, seal that burning page of his story. Not because he didn't feel anything… but out of duty. Out of loyalty. Because he was no longer free.
Because he never would be.
He removed the vest from his tunic with a weary gesture and stood a moment before the mirror. His reflection felt foreign. He was no longer that free and fiery man he had once believed himself to be. Nor was he the obedient son, submitting to his father's will. He was caught between the two — a prisoner of a world he hadn't chosen but that now rested on his shoulders.
He whispered, like a confession:
— "I would have chosen you, Nahia. If I had been another man."
But he wasn't.
And fate had just sealed a pact to which his heart had not been invited.