The days inside Nuradrah's grand estate moved like whispered verses slow, intentional, and heavy with meaning. Each morning, Tariq rose before the call of Fajr, the silence of the house embracing him like a cloak. Within its towering arches and sun-dappled courtyards, he learned the rhythm of stillness: where time didn't race forward but instead lingered, as if reluctant to disturb the memories etched into every corner.
The scent of jasmine and sandalwood was ever-present, clinging to the curtains, woven into the rugs, and carried softly on the breeze. He imagined it had been here long before him, perhaps since Zahra's girlhood when she was simply the daughter of Az-Zubair, unaware she would one day rule an empire cloaked in quiet power.
Though Tariq had glimpsed her only once her figure wrapped in flowing silk, the edges of her veil kissed by moonlight, her presence enveloped the home like a second skin. She lived in the way servants spoke with measured respect, in the carefully prepared meals, and in the handwritten notes she left him on parchment scented with rose oil.
"You'll find the southern wing library to your liking,"
One note had read, penned in elegant script.
"The works of Ibn Khaldun are best read by the garden light."
He spent his hours there, seated beneath carved wooden arches, thumbing through pages of ancient texts and philosophical treatises. Yet for every line he read, he found himself wondering not about the authors but about Zahra herself.
Who taught her to write like that?
What books had shaped her silence?
What secrets had she buried beneath that veil?
Tariq didn't seek answers out loud. Not yet. The walls in Nuradrah had ears, and some of them, he sensed, didn't belong to the living.
One golden afternoon, while the call to Asr echoed through the breeze from the city beyond the estate, a servant entered his quarters without a word. She bowed lightly and extended a scroll sealed in crimson wax.
"Her Grace requests your presence in the garden."
Nothing more. No explanation. No urgency. But her eyes held a knowing softness, as if she understood something sacred was about to unfold.
Tariq smoothed his robes, washed his hands as if approaching prayer, and stepped into the garden.
It was not merely a space, it was a sanctuary. Enclosed by tall myrtle hedges and adorned with date palms, the garden shimmered beneath the touch of sunset. Marble benches lined its edges, and in the center stood a fountain shaped like a falcon with wings spread wide, its water catching the gold of the fading light.
And there, beneath the gnarled shadow of an olive tree older than memory, stood Zahra bint Az-Zubair.
Her silhouette was draped in ivory, today she was without a veil, this made his heart skip a thicker beat than usual. Her flawless skin makes her presence undeniable to his heart especially.
As he approached, she turned not with surprise, but intention. Her eyes met his with such clarity and depth that Tariq felt unmoored, as though the entire estate had narrowed to this single moment.
"I wanted you to see this," she said softly, voice like evening rain.
In her gloved hand, she held a velvet box the color of desert wine.
Tariq opened it with careful fingers.
Inside lay a necklace, simple, elegant, and impossibly fragile. A single pearl strung on a gold chain, no larger than a tear.
"It was my mother's," Zahra said. "She wore it the day she wed my father."
Tariq stared at it, words caught in his throat. "Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because," she said, "you've offered me something few men ever have. Patience. Stillness. Space to remain unseen without questioning why."
There was no pride in her voice. Only truth, spoken plainly.
He bowed his head, not out of obligation but reverence. "I did not know what you needed. Only that I did not want to intrude."
Her shoulders relaxed.
In that small movement, Tariq sensed something in her unlocking like a fortress unlocking a single gate. And he craves it.
They sat beneath the olive tree as the sky bruised from gold to lilac. No guards. No prying eyes. Just two strangers sharing stories too long buried.
Tariq spoke of his childhood of cinnamon-laced winds near the Siraj spice market, of his mother's soft songs during dusk, and his father's rough hands that taught him how to count coins and blessings alike.
Zahra told him little. Only fragments. That she was once fond of writing poetry but stopped when her name began appearing in newspapers. That no one had asked what she wanted since she was fifteen. That her silence wasn't shyness; it was defense.
He listened, and she let him.
And somewhere between the second call to prayer and the rising of stars, their words began to fill the spaces that solitude had carved in them both.
They parted that night with no promises.
Only a shared breath, and the memory of a pearl that once belonged to a woman who loved bravely. And that alone has fed a hunger for both. At least for a while.
After the Garden Meeting, Zahra returned to her wing of the mansion just as the late-afternoon light cast long shadows through the mashrabiya windows. She unpinned her veil with deliberate care, her fingers lingering on the brooch Tariq had noticed earlier. A faint smile danced across her lips, but it faded quickly, replaced by the guarded serenity she wore like armor.
She was barely seated when Salma entered quietly as always, but with her eyes glittering with curiosity that she made no attempt to hide.
"You took your time in the garden today," Salma said lightly as she set down a tray of dried figs and almond milk.
Zahra raised a brow. "Do you have spies among the guards now, Salma?"
Salma chuckled as she adjusted a pillow behind Zahra's back. "When the mistress of the house disappears into the royal garden with her husband for more than an hour, the walls themselves start whispering."
Zahra let out a breath of laughter and reached for a fig. "It wasn't that long."
"It was long enough," Salma said, pouring the almond milk into a jeweled goblet. "So? What happened?"
Zahra took a sip before answering. "We talked."
"Talked?" Salma echoed with a feigned pout. "What kind of talk? The kind that builds bridges or the kind that lights fires?"
Zahra leaned back, her expression softening with a touch of wonder. "Neither. Or... both, perhaps. He asked questions, not about my wealth or status. He asked about my father. About Nuradrah. About what I miss most in silence."
Salma's teasing faded. "He asked about silence?"
Zahra nodded slowly. "He listens. Not like a man looking for advantage—but like one trying to understand something he cannot name."
Salma grew still for a moment, then sat beside her mistress on the settee, her fingers folding Zahra's discarded scarf. "That's rare. And dangerous."
"Why dangerous?" Zahra asked, amused.
"Because men who truly listen tend to leave marks on the heart," Salma murmured.
Zahra glanced at her sharply, but said nothing. Outside, the muezzin's call drifted through the window, a reminder that even the sacred moments of the day waited for no one.
"Shall I prepare your clothes for the evening banquet?" Salma asked.
Zahra rose, her voice low. "No. I think I'll stay in tonight. Let them wonder where I am."
Salma smirked. "Let them wonder who you're becoming."
---
But outside the garden's hidden gates, the world was sharpening its knives.
Rumors swirled in the city. That the heiress of Nuradrah had married a common man. That she was ill. That he was a decoy. That it was a union forged for politics, for profit or perhaps for something far more dangerous.
The whispers weren't new.
But now, they had found feet.
And within the estate's walls, not every shadow was loyal though.