The officiant made the formal introductions in Arabic and English. She responded only when necessary, signed papers she hadn’t read, accepted a ring, a blessing, and a title. She was officially his wife. After the ceremony, the sheikh approached, bowed slightly, and kissed her hand. She stood motionless, eyes wide. “You’re even more radiant than they described,” he said with a polite smile. She forced a smile in return, feeling a knot in her stomach.
As evening fell, she was guided down a narrow corridor, through heavy doors and thick curtains, into a quiet inner garden. The attendants left her in front of a golden door. “This is your suite, Lady Emma,” one said. “And Lord Tarik?” she asked. “He will join you shortly, as tradition dictates.” The door closed behind her, and alone in the luxurious room, she sank onto a bed she hadn’t chosen, heart racing, unable to calm her thoughts. One question ran through her mind: Will tonight really go as tradition demands?
The room was silent, vast, and cold. The decor was lavish but impersonal—golden furniture, heavy drapes, a massive mirror facing the bed. Everything seemed designed to impress, to assert control. She sat on the edge of the bed, feet cold, hands trembling on her lap. She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.
Suddenly, the door opened. Two attendants entered, heads bowed. Without asking, they said, “The bath is ready, and the attire for tonight is laid out.” She said nothing, simply watching. They moved with quiet precision, preparing her bath and placing delicate clothing nearby. “Lord Tarik will be here soon,” one said flatly. “He values tradition above all.” Tradition—she repeated the word silently in her mind.
She stepped into the bath, the warm water washing away some of her fear. Dressed in the sheer garment, she returned to the room, sitting on the edge of the bed again. The emptiness of the space made her chest tighten. Minutes passed before the door opened once more.
Tarik entered, dressed in traditional robes, his presence commanding. He moved slowly, taking in the room, his gaze on her. He spoke softly, “You look beautiful tonight.”
She didn’t respond. He gave a courteous bow and waited, the room heavy with tension. He didn’t force her; he merely observed, allowing the silence to stretch. Emma held her breath, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on her.
“Shall we follow the traditions of the night?” he asked quietly. She nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Slowly, she followed his guidance, aware of every movement, every ritual, every expectation. Though the night was tense and unfamiliar, nothing crossed the line into harm—only the weight of centuries-old customs pressing down on her.
Hours later, the attendants returned to guide her to rest. The evening had been long, full of careful gestures and silent anticipation. She lay back on the bed, exhausted, the golden room now feeling less intimidating. Outside, the palace was quiet, but inside, the night had left its mark, leaving her thoughtful, wary, and profoundly changed.
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