Cheikh Assad's office was bathed in a warm, almost gentle light, a cruel contrast to the silent storm brewing inside him.
Amira entered on summons, head bowed, her steps hesitant. She hadn't met his gaze since crossing the threshold.
— Where is Nahia? And her sister? asked Assad, his voice deep but restrained, as if the words burned coming out of his throat.
Amira lifted her eyes, surprised by the question… but not entirely. She had expected it. She quickly lowered her gaze, hesitated.
Nahia had asked her not to tell anyone. She hadn't mentioned Assad. But… Assad was different, wasn't he? Maybe he deserved to know. He wasn't "anyone."
And yet, she said nothing.
Not a single word.
Her silence was clearer than any answer.
Assad slowly straightened in his chair. His gaze, first fixed on her with hope, wavered.
— So it's true… he murmured. They've gone. To Italy.
Amira's eyes widened. How did he know? Who had told him? But as she was about to ask, Assad cut her off, without even looking:
— You may leave. I want to be alone.
She would have wanted to speak, to say something, maybe explain… but the words escaped her. She obeyed and left quietly.
The door closed softly, and the silence fell again like a leaden weight.
Assad remained motionless, his gaze lost on the carved wood of his desk. Nahia's absence left a void he could neither fill nor ignore.
> She really left. Just… left.
> Without saying goodbye. After everything we shared.
His fists clenched on the arms of his chair, his jaws tightened.
He closed his eyes.
And the image returned.
The desert.
The tent.
The fire crackling softly.
They had made love for the first time that night.
She had given herself to him with gentleness, with trust. He still remembered her shivering skin, her muffled sighs, the firelight in her eyes.
And later, much later, while she slept, he had awakened, throat dry. He had wanted to get up without disturbing her… but as he turned, he saw the stain of blood on the fabric.
He froze. His heart stopped.
> She was a virgin.
A cold panic had fallen over him. Had he… abused her trust? His position? Had he taken what he should never have taken outside of marriage?
But no.
No.
She had smiled between caresses. She had responded to his kisses with passion, with tenderness. She had whispered his name like a promise.
And now…
She was gone. Without a word.
Assad raised a hand to his face, ran it through his hair.
> Maybe she feels nothing. Maybe she gave in out of fear… or out of respect for my title.
But immediately, he rejected that thought.
> No. It wasn't that. I saw her. I felt her heart beat against mine. I saw her eyes shine. It wasn't fear. Not duty. It was… something else.
He inhaled deeply, eyes still closed.
He knew now. Perhaps he had always known.
> I love her.
What he did not know was whether she loved him back.
And that uncertainty was worse than anything.
> Should I go find her? Bring her back to me?
For a moment, the idea electrified him. He stood, took a few steps.
But he stopped short.
> No… I can't impose another of my desires on her. Not if she doesn't share my feelings.
And yet… he hoped. He still hoped.
Because somewhere, in that silence, in that abandonment, there was a question left hanging. An invisible thread that hadn't yet broken.
And as long as he hadn't heard it from her mouth…
He could not give up.
> Even if Yasmina showed me the letter she left her. Even if every line was a cry of love… Even if her words still vibrated with what she felt for me…
> I won't believe it until she tells me in person. Looking me in the eyes.
Assad's footsteps echoed in the silent corridors of the palace. The guards straightened discreetly at his passing. He cast them no glance. His mind was still chained to thoughts of Nahia, but another worry gripped him: his father.
He entered the quiet apartments of the former Cheikh Khalil ibn Othman. The air was cooler here, heavier too. The scent of medicinal plants mingled with that of aged wood and embroidered rugs.
In the shadows, he saw his mother, Laila bint Malik, sitting near the four-poster bed. Dignified despite fatigue. The royal physician stood nearby, notebook in hand.
— Mother, he said softly as he approached.
Laila lifted her eyes. Her face brightened briefly at the sight of her son.
— Assad… You arrived just in time. She looked at her husband, asleep, pale, his features drawn. He weakened a little each day.
Assad approached the bed, placed a hand on his father's shoulder. The touch was light, almost tentative. Khalil did not respond. His eyelids remained closed, his breath barely perceptible.
— He whispered your name this morning, she murmured.
Assad nodded softly.
He sat beside the bed, throat tight, and took the rough hand of the man he had always seen as invincible.
— I'm here, father, he whispered. You're not alone.
He stayed a long moment, listening to the silence, feeling the weight of responsibilities, loss, and love intertwined with so much restraint. Then he turned to his mother.
— If he wakes, don't let him talk too long. And if he needs me…
— I will call you, she promised, placing her hand on his.
He left the room, his steps slow.
In the corridor, he paused.
> I can't lose two people I love at the same time.
And in that suspended moment, Assad made a silent vow.
> May fate leave me at least one chance… to make things right.