The day was beginning to cool when Sonia slipped back into the shaded corridor that led toward the servants' quarters. The stone under her bare feet still radiated the heat of the desert sun, and sweat clung to the nape of her neck beneath her scarf. But her mind was elsewhere focused, sharp, and calculating.
She had spent days navigating the decaying corridors of the Sheikh's mansion, the hollowed-out carcass of an empire that once ruled through silence and fear. The guards were fewer now. Many had fled, some had died during the uprising that followed Ali's escape, and the rest had grown too cautious to act without direct orders. Even among the servants, whispers replaced commands. A strange fog of uncertainty had settled over the compound like dust over forgotten gold.
And Sonia moved through it like a ghost.
Though her legs trembled and her eyes ached from sleepless nights, her purpose had become clear. She would remain. She would gather the truth the full extent of the Sheikh's trafficking operations, his list of buyers and allies, the shipment trails that stretched far beyond the sands of Dubai. And she would expose it all.
But this was not merely justice.
This was revenge.
She paused near a wooden arch where the wall met the shadows and checked the hallway. No one. She entered the old utility room and pried open the crack behind the shelving, revealing a small hole she'd carved over time into the wall. Inside were three notebooks, hidden like relics. Pages were filled with coded accounts, symbols she'd borrowed from her native Amazigh heritage, to keep anyone from deciphering the truth if discovered.
Every night she returned here, documenting everything she could : conversations overheard, delivery routes, new faces she didn't recognize, unusual meetings in the Sheikh's upper quarters. The walls of the empire were crumbling. Sonia was determined to be the one to bury them.
She had just closed the journal when a soft knock echoed from the other side of the door.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three knocks ,short, long, short. A signal.
She opened the door carefully and was met with Halima, one of the younger kitchen maids. Her hands trembled as she held out a small box wrapped in velvet.
Sonia's breath caught.
"What is this?" she asked, even though she already knew.
"He said to give it to you," Halima murmured, eyes wide. "He said you'd understand."
Sonia took the box in her hands. It was heavier than it looked, and the rich red velvet shimmered under the flickering candlelight. Something about it made her stomach twist.
She nodded to Halima. "Thank you. And Halima… don't stay in the compound tonight. Tell your family you're unwell and sleep elsewhere."
Halima blinked, then nodded quickly and fled down the corridor.
Sonia sat down on the edge of a bench and slowly unwrapped the velvet.
Inside was a thin, gold bracelet ,delicate, elegant, and unmistakably familiar. It had once belonged to her mother.
Her heart nearly stopped.
She hadn't seen it in over a decade. The last time she had worn it was the day before she was taken. Her father had slipped it onto her wrist, whispering that it was her mother's blessing, that it would keep her safe.
And now here it was.
A gift from the Sheikh.
Or a message.
She turned the bracelet over, and her fingers brushed against something etched into the underside of the band. Three words.
"I never forget."
The bracelet clattered to the floor as Sonia's fingers released it like fire. Her breath came short and shallow. She stared at it, her pulse thudding in her ears.
The message was clear.
The Sheikh knew.
He knew about her. About the past. About her father.
He had taken something sacred and turned it into a weapon.
That night, she didn't sleep. Instead, she returned to the hidden room near the kitchens ,the place where she had first plotted with Ali and Yusuf. The maps remained pinned under stone plates. Routes were marked, escape paths traced in charcoal, and a new column she'd begun recently was growing longer by the day: Names.
Buyers. Traffickers. Government collaborators. Foreign partners.
She wrote them all down.
She had already passed some of this information to Yusuf before he and Ali had escaped. But more had surfaced since then. If she could get the rest of it into the right hands… maybe the Sheikh's empire would collapse under its own weight.
Still, the bracelet's return weighed heavily on her. It wasn't just a warning , it was a declaration. The Sheikh didn't act impulsively. He was a predator. And predators liked the chase.
She had to be careful now. Every move, every word spoken within these walls could lead to exposure. Her only advantage was his pride ; he still believed he held all the power.
And perhaps that belief could be used against him.
In the days that followed, Sonia resumed her duties in the kitchens, moving quietly, listening always. The other servants had begun to notice her silence, but none dared ask. The old routines had returned, but the tension under the surface was like a hairline crack in a dam ready to rupture.
One morning, as she diced vegetables near the window, she heard voices behind the pantry door.
"…She's still here. Walking around like nothing happened."
"She must have something on him. Why else would he let her stay?"
"…Or he's waiting. He always waits."
The whispers died as quickly as they'd come.
Sonia didn't flinch. She kept cutting, her movements precise.
She was being watched. And not just by the Sheikh.
That evening, she returned to her journal and removed a thin packet she had sealed with wax. Inside were all the coordinates of the routes used by the Sheikh's smugglers. She needed to find a way to get this into the hands of Yusuf or someone he trusted. But contact was dangerous now. Her previous messenger ,Amine had vanished three days ago.
She feared the worst.
Later that night, Sonia was summoned.
The summons was not formal. No guards came. No threats. Only a note, slipped under her door.
"Come to the garden at midnight."
She didn't need to ask who it was from.
The garden had once been a place of calm, before it was tainted by blood. Now, under the pale glow of moonlight, it looked like a graveyard of memories. Statues of forgotten gods cast long shadows. The air was thick with the scent of night jasmine and hidden rot.
He was waiting by the fountain.
The Sheikh.
He wore a white robe trimmed in black, his hands folded behind his back. His beard was trimmed, his smile neutral but his eyes glimmered like coals.
"You've been quiet," he said. "Too quiet."
Sonia didn't respond. She stood three paces away, chin lifted.
He gestured toward the fountain. "Sit. Let's talk."
She remained standing.
"As you wish," he said.
A long pause passed between them.
"Did you like the bracelet?" he asked at last.
"It wasn't a gift. It was a message."
"And yet you wore it once with such pride. Your mother had excellent taste."
"You killed her husband."
He didn't deny it. "I needed leverage. You were special even then."
Sonia's hands curled into fists.
"Why did you let Ali go?" he asked suddenly. "You were always the smart one. You knew it would end badly. For you."
She didn't answer.
He stepped closer. "Tell me, Sonia. Do you think they care for you out there? Do you think your little cook's rebellion matters in the world beyond this desert? You belong to me. Always have."
Her voice was ice. "That time is over."
He smiled faintly. "Loyalty is a rare thing these days. You could have left. You had the chance."
"I didn't want to run," she said. "Not yet."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "So you're waiting. For what? For justice? Revenge?"
"Maybe both."
He laughed, a deep, humorless sound. "You've changed. The girl I bought would never have dared to speak to me like this."
"The girl you bought died years ago," Sonia said, her voice cold.
His smile faded.
Silence stretched between them.
"Be careful," he said finally. "You may find that the past you're digging into will bury you."
"We'll see," she replied.
She returned to her room with fire in her chest.
The bracelet still sat on her bedside table, a relic and a threat all at once.
She knew now he would not let her go unpunished. He was watching, waiting, preparing.
But she was no longer the scared girl from Morocco. And the story was not over yet.
It was just beginning.