Sheikh Assad closed the meeting room door behind him without a word.
The voices of his advisors had faded into a distant hum—he hadn't listened to a single word.
His mind was elsewhere.
It wasn't the palace's finances or security concerns that haunted him.
It was her.
Nahia.
And that man.
He walked slowly to his office, his gaze dark, his expression closed.
Once seated behind his imposing black wooden desk, he remained still for a moment, hands clasped beneath his chin.
Then, abruptly, he pressed the button that summoned his personal guards.
— "Bring me the gate guard. The one who was on duty this morning. Immediately."
A few minutes later, a guard entered.
A man in his forties, sturdy, looking slightly uneasy.
— "You were on duty at the gate this morning?" Assad asked without lifting his eyes.
— "Yes, Sheikh."
— "Did someone come to see the servant Nahia? Who was it?"
— "An old man. I heard the servant call him Uncle Ahmed."
— "And what did they say?"
The guard hesitated, uncomfortable.
But the Sheikh's gaze was merciless.
— "I… I didn't hear everything, my Sheikh. But I caught part of their conversation.
She seemed surprised to see him.
He spoke quickly, his words rushed.
He asked how they were—her and her sister.
Then… he apologized. Several times. I don't know why."
The guard paused.
— "But?" Assad pressed.
— "Nahia just asked what he had come for.
She seemed sad… shaken."
Assad didn't reply.
His face remained expressionless, but his eyes burned with a contained fire.
— "He said he'd been searching for them for months.
And that he'd understand if she refused to forgive him.
Then… he gave her a letter.
She cried, I think. I'm not sure."
— "That's all I saw and heard, my Sheikh."
Silence fell.
Assad nodded slowly.
— "You may go."
The guard bowed, visibly relieved, and left.
---
Assad remained alone, his gaze lost in the void.
His fist clenched on the leather armrest.
He had to know why that old man had asked Nahia for forgiveness.
He must have hurt them.
He took a deep breath.
His heart was beating too fast.
A shadow of remorse crept in.
He knew almost nothing about this woman… and yet, she haunted his every silence.
After a few moments, he stood, resolute, and left his office.
He walked with determined steps to the staff quarters…
And sent for Amira, the housekeeper in charge of Nahia and her little sister.
She arrived shortly after, upright, dignified, her hands clasped in front of her.
— "Amira, sit," he said softly, a shadow in his voice.
She obeyed, intrigued.
— "I need you to tell me what you know about Nahia and her sister.
Everything you know."
Amira lowered her eyes.
A silence settled.
— "It's not an easy story, Assad," she finally said.
"But if you ask, I owe you the truth."
She took a slow breath.
— "The first time I saw Nahia, it wasn't here… but at the market in my village.
She was a customer…
Or at least, she tried to be.
She held a small pouch and wanted to buy vegetables.
But none of the merchants would sell her anything."
Assad frowned.
— "Why?"
— "They called her a witch. A living curse.
Stupid superstitions, rooted in fear.
She stood there, eyes lowered, tears on the edge of her lashes—but proud.
Too proud to let them fall.
I… couldn't just watch.
I bought fruits and vegetables and gave them to her."
Assad clenched his fists.
His heart pounded harder.
— "At first, she refused.
She was scared, poor girl.
But I insisted, so she finally accepted.
Then I left…
But I never forgot her.
Not for a single day.
I wanted to know who she was.
Why she was so hated."
She paused, swallowing down an old emotion.
— "Two weeks later, I went back there.
And this time, she approached me.
She wasn't alone.
Her little sister was with her. Amaya.
They looked… drained. Tired. Starving.
They told me they'd been thrown out.
That they lived on the streets.
And that all they wanted was a roof to sleep under. A chance."
Amira looked up at Assad, who remained silent.
— "I took them in.
And you know the rest, Sheikh…"
The silence thickened.
Assad suddenly stood, turning his back to the housekeeper.
His jaw clenched.
It felt like someone had just ripped a blindfold from his eyes—violently.
A wave of emotions surged in him: anger, shame, guilt.
And something more troubling, deeper: pain.
He understood better now.
Nahia's silences.
Her pride.
Her hardness.
Her sad, yet dignified gaze.
They weren't just servants.
They were survivors.
As Amira left the room, leaving behind a silence heavy with revelation, Assad remained still, frozen under the weight of what he had just learned.
His fingers tapped slowly on the armrest, his eyes fixed on the ground, distant.
But in his mind, the puzzle pieces were falling into place.
And suddenly, a thought flashed through his mind like lightning:
He knew that what he had just discovered… was only the beginning. Only part of the story.
Without waiting, he sprang to his feet.
He needed to talk to her.
Tonight.
He had to know the whole truth.
Not just about that man…
But about her.
About what she carried.
What she hid.
About that painful past he had never tried to understand.
Not until today.
Tonight, he would knock on Nahia's door.
And this time, he hoped for an answer…
sooner than a retreat.