Since the announcement of Sheikh Assad's engagement, something had frozen inside Nahia.
A fragile, secret part of her had withdrawn behind an invisible wall.
A survival instinct.
A way to remain standing when everything inside her threatened to collapse.
After several days of forced rest due to her sprained ankle, she had returned to work.
Not because anyone had demanded it.
She had wanted it herself.
She couldn't bear staying locked in a silent room any longer, just thinking.
Just feeling.
So, despite the still sharp pain in her ankle, she went back to work.
Limping slightly.
But without complaining.
She refused to be weak. Especially now.
---
She didn't really know why, but whenever her steps echoed through the silent palace corridors, a dull tension would catch up with her.
As if, around every corner, she might run into him.
Him.
So she rose before dawn.
She woke when the sky was still black.
And slipped through the walls like a shadow.
Silent.
Methodical.
Invisible.
She cleaned his office.
Sorted his files.
Ironed his clothes.
Filed every document with obsessive precision.
And disappeared.
---
Every move was calculated.
She avoided the floors where he might be.
Changed her routes.
Asked other maids to deliver messages or trays.
She had become a rumor.
But she knew he had noticed.
She could feel it.
Even in his absence, he was there.
Like a scent that refuses to fade.
Like a gaze lingering on the back of her neck.
And it was driving her mad.
But it was her way of surviving.
Her strategy to not give in to the silent fire consuming her.
She knew the risks.
A look. A word. A rumor.
And everything could fall apart.
So she clung to her routine like a rope stretched over the void.
Not to see him.
Not to hear his voice.
Not to remember the warm, disturbing scent of his perfume.
But even in this escape…
She thought of him.
Every day.
Every night.
---
On his side, Assad was unsettled by a strange emptiness.
For several days, something had felt wrong.
His office was always perfectly clean — too clean, in fact.
The computer sparkled like new.
The papers were arranged with almost clinical precision.
And that faint scent of orange blossom lingered in the air.
He knew exactly to whom that scent belonged.
But she, Nahia, was no longer there.
Before her fall, she had stayed in the office nearly all day.
He'd sometimes catch her gaze.
Maybe linger a little too long on her silhouette.
He hadn't admitted it…
But he had looked forward to those moments.
And now, they were gone.
She had erased even her presence.
As if she'd never been there.
As if she wanted to erase herself from his life.
And it bothered him.
More than he wanted to admit.
He had done nothing. Said nothing.
He had controlled himself.
Set limits.
But...
Had she understood?
Had she sensed what he was holding back?
Was that why she was avoiding him?
---
One morning, irritated by the weight of her absence, Assad stopped in front of the guards posted at the entrance of his wing.
— Does the young maid who cleans the office still come? he asked, feigning indifference.
The two men exchanged a glance.
Then one replied:
— Yes, Sheikh. Every day. Very early. Before the halls come alive.
Before him, then.
He looked away, nodding as if it meant nothing.
But inside, he was boiling.
Not with anger.
With longing.
An unsettling emptiness.
A gentle habit he didn't want to let go of.
Tomorrow…
He would wake earlier.
And this time, she wouldn't escape him.
---
The next morning, well before dawn...
Nahia walked through the dimly lit corridors.
A bucket in one hand, a cloth in the other.
And in her eyes... a fragile determination: do not run into him.
Finish quickly.
Slip away.
Disappear.
But her heart was beating too fast.
Like a warning.
She entered the office and pulled back the curtains to let in the fresh morning air.
A breeze gently lifted the veil from her shoulders.
And suddenly, she felt it.
Without hearing.
His presence.
His voice, deep and calm, resonated behind her:
— You always come this early?
Nahia turned slowly.
Sheikh Assad stood there, leaning against the doorway.
He had not yet dressed in his formal clothes.
He wore a long ivory caftan.
His damp hair clung to the nape of his neck.
Not yet the head of state.
Just a man.
She lowered her eyes.
— I wanted to finish before your arrival, she murmured.
— Why?
She hesitated.
Telling the truth was too risky.
Lying… impossible.
— I don't want to disturb, she said simply.
He stepped into the room, approaching slowly.
His footsteps echoed on the floor.
And in her heart, like a warning bell.
— You don't disturb me, Nahia.
Her name in his mouth.
She stepped back.
He studied her, more closely now.
His gaze dropped to her ankle, still slightly bandaged.
— Who authorized you to resume work? he asked, his tone suddenly firmer. The doctor prescribed rest.
Nahia looked away.
— I couldn't stand staying locked in anymore. I'm better… it barely hurts now.
He didn't respond immediately.
He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to guess what she was truly running from.
Then his voice softened:
— It's not just about the pain, Nahia.
She lowered her head, unable to answer.
— What's the point of waking at dawn to work? Are you trying to avoid me?
She briefly lifted her eyes.
Their gazes met.
Intense.
Burning.
— No, I… no.
He observed her carefully.
— Did I say or do something that made you uncomfortable?
She opened her mouth…
Closed it again…
Then shook her head.
— No… Everything's fine. You didn't do anything.
A silence. Then:
— Alright. I'll let you finish.
Before leaving, he turned slightly toward her.
His gaze briefly met hers.
— If you'd like, I can ask to lighten your tasks for a few days. Just until your ankle fully heals.
Surprised, she looked at him.
Throat tight.
There was no obligation, no condescension in his voice.
Just… a thoughtfulness she hadn't expected.
She lowered her eyes.
— Thank you… for your kindness.
He paused.
Didn't turn back.
— It's not kindness, Nahia.
Then he walked away without another word.
And she, heart in her throat, had to lean on the desk to keep from collapsing.
---
Silence returned.
Thick.
Still vibrating with his presence.
Every object seemed charged with his gaze, his voice.
She kept wiping the same corner of the desk. Again and again.
But it wasn't dust she was trying to erase.
It was the effect he had on her.
But deep down, she knew…
That kind of fire doesn't wash away with soap.
---
In his chambers, Assad stared at his reflection without really seeing it.
He buttoned his shirt mechanically, his mind elsewhere.
With her.
He shouldn't have spoken to her that way.
He shouldn't have looked for her.
He shouldn't have noticed her unease.
Her gaze.
Her fragility.
Her strength.
But he had.
And now, he had to do what was right.
Because he wasn't a free man.
Because a proposal was already underway.
A commitment to honor.
A strategic alliance.
Not a crush.
But with Nahia, it was different.
Silent.
Irrational.
Dangerous.
He couldn't afford to go further.
He had to put an end to this confusion.
Today.