Chapter 6 Six

  The marriage contract stipulated freedom, not obedience. It was the first line, and it changed everything.

  I did not go to his palace. He came to my father’s study the next day, but this time, my father was not invited. Khalid dismissed him with a quiet word. This was not between families. This was between strategists.

  The room felt different with just the two of us. The morning light cut across the desk, illuminating the dust in the air. Khalid unrolled a blank scroll of the finest vellum. He set out an inkwell and a pen. He did not have a pre written contract. He was going to draft it with me, line by line.

  "This will be the truth of our arrangement," he said, his voice matter of fact. "The public ceremony is theater. This," he tapped the blank scroll, "is reality. Speak your terms."

  My heart was beating a steady, strong rhythm against my ribs. This was the real negotiation. The conversation yesterday was the test. This was the prize.

  I took a deep breath. "My family's debt to Malek is erased. Fully. Not transferred to you. Gone."

  "Agreed." He wrote, the pen scratching decisively.

  "I have my own apartments within your palace. Separate. Lockable."

  He glanced up, a flicker of that same amusement. "Expected. Granted."

  "Full access to your library. Your archives. Your messenger network."

  Now he paused, his pen hovering. "To what end?"

  "To be useful, I require information. You cannot deploy a weapon in the dark." I kept my voice level. "If I am to be a piece on your board, I need to see the board."

  A slow nod. He wrote it down. "Supervised access."

  "Reasonable access," I countered.

  He met my eyes. "We will define 'reasonable' later. Continue."

  "No conjugal demands." I said the words clearly, though a heat touched my cheeks. This was business. "The marriage is in name and public perception only."

  This time, he did not just nod. He put the pen down. "Leyla, that is the entire foundation. You offer your mind and your political presence as my seventh wife. I offer you protection and a platform. That is our transaction. My interest is in your intellect, not your body. This term is implicit."

  "Humor me," I said, my gaze steady. "Make it explicit."

  A faint, approving smile. "Explicit it is." He wrote the clause with a firm, unambiguous stroke.

  The list went on. A personal allowance. The right to retain a servant of my choosing. Freedom of movement within the palace and its grounds. Each of my demands was a brick in the wall of my own private fortress, built inside his kingdom. He agreed to most, modified a few, and only refused one outright my request for a personal guard. "Security is provided by the house," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "One chain of command."

  Finally, he set the pen down and pushed the scroll toward me. "Read it."

  I read every word. The language was precise, dry, legal. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It spelled out my liberation. My debt, the monstrous weight that had crushed my father, was here dismissed in a single, clean line. My life, which had been shrinking to the size of a auction block, was here expanded into apartments, access, and agency.

  He leaned back in my father's worn chair. "In return," he said, summarizing the other side with chilling clarity, "you become my Seventh Wife in the eyes of the world. You play the part in public. You offer your loyalty to my household. Your mind and your judgment are at my disposal. You become a piece on my board. Your mind, for your freedom."

  It was not romantic. It was not kind. It was a transaction. It was honest.

  He handed me the pen.

  I took it. The ebony was cool and smooth in my hand. I looked at the signature line. This was the moment. Signing away my old life, my name, to a man I barely knew. But I was not signing myself away. I was signing a treaty. I was forging an alliance.

  I signed. Leyla al-Kasim. My handwriting, usually quick and fluid, was deliberate and bold. The ink, black and permanent, soaked into the vellum. A thrill shot through me, so sharp and sweet it was almost painful. It was not the thrill of a bride. It was the thrill of a general who has just secured a vital, impossible alliance. It was pure power.

  I pushed the scroll back to him. He signed without hesitation. Khalid al-Munsif. His signature was a series of sharp, angular lines, like the silhouette of a mountain range.

  He sprinkled fine sand over the ink to dry it, then rolled the scroll with a practiced twist. He held it in his hands, this document that was now the architect of my future.

  "The world will see a wedding," he said, his voice quiet. "They will see another woman won by the Falcon. They will gossip and judge and envy. They will see only the cage."

  He looked directly at me, and his forest dark eyes were utterly serious, all traces of earlier amusement gone.

  "But you and I, Leyla, we see the key."

  He stood, tucking the scroll inside his jacket. It was done. I was safe. My family was safe. I had done it.

  He walked to the door of the study, then paused with his hand on the latch. He did not turn around, but his voice carried clearly in the quiet room.

  "There is one thing not written in the contract."

  I waited, the lingering thrill mixing with a new spike of caution.

  "My other pieces," he said, the words soft but distinct. "The ones you will meet. The lawyer, the artist, the dancer, and the others. They are not like the simpering women of court. They are not like you, either. They are formidable. Each in her own way. They have carved their own places, as you intend to. They have their own alliances, their own territories."

  He finally glanced back over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable.

  "I have brought you into the machine. I have given you the blueprint. But I do not control how the existing gears will react to a new one. That," he said, "is your first test."

  He opened the door, the light from the hall framing him for a moment.

  "I wish you luck, Leyla."

  And then he was gone. The words hung in the sunlit study. They were not a blessing. They were a warning.

  The thrill of power settled into a steady, focused hum. The contract was signed. My freedom was purchased. But my war, it seemed, was just beginning. And my first battlefield would not be a courtroom or a trade route. It would be a palace full of formidable women who had no reason to welcome a new wife. A web I now had to find my way through, or become hopelessly entangled in.

  I looked at the empty space where Khalid had stood. A slow smile touched my lips. It was not a nice smile.

  Luck? I thought. I don't need luck.

  I need a plan.