The fabrics rested on his shoulders like chains.
The immaculate white of his traditional attire gleamed under the lights of the ancient chandeliers. Every fold was perfectly pressed. Every golden button, perfectly centered.
Everything about him screamed power, tradition, lineage.
But his heart beat in another language.
One word.
One name.
One absence.
Nahia.
He had learned to contain the pain.
To hide.
To square his shoulders.
But that night, he felt his inner walls cracking under the weight of the lie.
A marriage.
A life offered to another.
And his soul, still clinging to two days of eternity… lived with the one who was no longer there.
There was only her.
The taste of her skin.
The texture of her voice when she laughed against his throat.
Their shared breath.
Their sleepless nights discovering and losing each other.
Two suspended days.
Two days worth a lifetime.
And tonight, he was here.
In a ceremonial room.
Wearing the colors of family loyalty…
…for a woman he did not know.
A stranger with gentle eyes, but empty of memories.
He turned toward the mirror.
The reflection staring back was that of a sheikh.
But he felt like a traitor.
— One year, he whispered to himself. Just one year.
That was his inner pact.
Endure.
Stay silent.
Bear the masquerade.
Wear the ring.
Pretend.
Then leave it all behind. Divorce.
And if God willed it… return to Nahia.
He had wanted to reach for her hand.
To finally say what he had never dared to say:
Wait for me. I'll come back.
But she had left.
Far away.
Italy.
Gone without goodbye.
Without a promise.
Had she guessed?
Or had she been afraid?
Afraid to love him more…
And stay for nothing.
He had wanted to hold her back.
To write.
To call.
But he had done nothing.
He hated himself for it.
For his silence.
For his cowardice.
For his obedience.
A gentle knock at the door.
— My son, murmured his mother, her voice trembling. They are ready.
He closed his eyes.
Inhaled.
And walked out.
The palace corridors felt suffocating.
Too golden. Too long.
The music already rose from the great hall.
Joyful percussion.
Violins.
But in his chest, the sound was muffled… like a funeral march.
When he entered, all eyes turned to him.
Straight.
Solemn.
The flashes burst.
Smiles widened.
But nothing reached him.
He walked like an automaton.
An automaton with a shattered heart.
And then, in that sea of faces, he saw him.
His father.
Sitting in a chair, too frail to stand.
The body weakened, emaciated.
But his eyes full of light.
Proud. So proud.
Assad felt something break.
He had wanted to run to him, fall to his knees, rest his head against his legs… and cry like a child.
To say:
"Baba, I can't. I can't do this."
But he kept walking.
Then his gaze crossed his mother's.
She was crying.
Not loud sobs.
No.
But fine, continuous, silent tears.
And he knew instantly it was not joy.
It was sorrow.
She knew.
His mother, always silent, always withdrawn, knew that this marriage was not a victory…
…but a surrender.
At her side, his sister's eyes were red too.
Her hands trembled slightly on her scarf.
And Assad understood:
they were crying for him.
For the son, for the brother…
For the man chained with golden ribbons.
The music faded.
A majestic silence fell upon the hall.
The bride was announced.
Zeyneb entered.
She was beautiful.
With a cold, practiced beauty.
Her gestures were graceful, like those of a ballerina who had rehearsed each step a hundred times.
Her veil, light as a breath, floated gently around her face.
Assad looked at her.
But all he saw was a blur.
A woman he had seen only once.
On the day of his coronation.
And whom he had not truly looked at.
She approached.
Their hands did not touch.
She lowered her gaze, humble.
And yet, he felt she understood too.
That they were only two pawns on an ancient chessboard.
The imam took his place.
The Qur'an opened.
The first verses resonated.
But Assad heard nothing.
Everything around him blurred.
He saw Nahia.
She was not crying.
She was not shouting.
She was leaving.
And she took his heart with her.
— Assad ibn Khalil… do you accept this union, according to the sacred laws…?
Silence.
A suspended second.
Then Assad's voice, low, hoarse, strangled:
— Yes. I accept.
Everything was sealed.
Applause.
Smiles.
Cries.
Piercing ululations.
But he did not smile.
He turned his head to his mother.
Then to his sister.
Their eyes shone.
But it was not joy.
It was pity.
Pity for this man dressed in white, standing in a palace full of flowers…
…who had just buried his living love.
And while the cries of joy rose, while the applause echoed against the high ceilings of the palace, while all eyes turned to the newly united couple…
no one saw the chain.
The one binding all three.
Assad, standing in the center of the light, prisoner of a vow he had never dreamed of.
Nahia, absent but alive within him, beating at every pulse of his heart.
Zeyneb, beautiful, upright, dignified… but lucid. Too lucid. She had long understood he did not love her.
Three destinies braided together like a rope.
Tied too tight.
Too quickly.
Too strongly.
And none knew which of the three would suffer the most.
For sometimes, it is not the chains we see that weigh the most.
It is the ones carried in the soul.
The ones that make us walk, smile, breathe…
…in silence.
Then the music resumed.
The hall applauded again.
The veil was lifted.
And Assad, without a word, set his eyes on his wife.
But it was not toward her that his heart had turned.
It was toward an absence.
A ghost with the taste of honey and goodbye.