The golden hues of the dying sun bled across the skyline of Riyadh, casting long shadows over the murmuring assembly of men gathered in his office. Yusuf Siddique's.

The place smelled of zukhruf as he leaned over, fingers drumming a deliberate rhythm on the marble table. The air felt heavy with the weight of important decisions, the scent of expensive cologne mixing with the subtle aroma of sandalwood incense that always lingered in the corners of his office.

Blueprints of a new philanthropic project—a hospital to serve the Bedouin communities near Al-Ula—lay unfurled before them, the detailed architectural plans illuminated by the warm glow of the overhead chandeliers.

"The architects insist on solar integration," a man across his seat murmured—Mustaqeem—his right-hand man. Tracing the design with a critical eye. "But the tribal elders want courtyards, not panels."

"But-but khaloo—!" Mustaqeem's clearing throat made Faisal, Nabeela's son, pause. Steadying his eagerness to learn business, he pointed, "Why not both? Glass-domed courtyards that filter light and power the wards."

A hushed murmur started at the boy's suggestion like wind through palm leaves. Yusuf's voice cut through the room like a knife through silk. Clear and concise, "That's something we could do. It's beneficial after all."

Faisal suppressed his smile, though his eyes danced with pride at being heard. Conversation continued until the adhan call sliced through the air like a melodious blade. Asr—time to pray.

Business stilled instantly. Words died on lips. Every man bowed their head as Yusuf rose, the rich fabric of his thobe whispering against the marble tiles like a secret being shared. Prayer came before power. "We will continue this tomorrow. You may go home now."

The room emptied slowly, leaving only Yusuf with his nephew and right hand man. He raised an eyebrow, the gesture carrying generations of authority, "What are you both standing there for? You two as well, out."

"But we want to pray together with you—" Faisal murmured, the deference in his voice belying his eagerness.

Mustaqeem clamped a hand on his shoulder, a silent warning. Before he could open his mouth, Yusuf's voice came first, "Is that so?"

"Yes!" The reply came eagerly, like water bursting from a dam.

"Then join, don't waste your time standing." Yusuf breathed, already turning toward the musallah in the corner, his thobe swirling around his ankles like dark water. He didn't need to glance at the photograph on his desk—a woman with black hair, her smile preserved behind polished glass—to feel the old ache bloom beneath his ribs like a desert flower pushing through stone. Maria.

He knelt, forehead pressing against the cool surface of the prayer mat, his body moving through the familiar motions that had anchored him through decades of loss and responsibility. The rhythm of his devotion shattered suddenly by his sister's voice, sharp enough to split someone's ear.

The door burst open as Nabeela entered, "Brother—!!" She froze mid-reproach, hands clutching her abaya in startled realization, remembering herself. The prayer couldn't be interrupted.

She waited, simmering like a covered pot, until the final words of prayer left Yusuf's lips, hanging in the air like delicate glass.

Then, like floodgates breaking—

"That girl of yours—"

"The lioness," Faisal teased his mother, quirking a grin that earned him a sharp look.

"Yes! That lioness of yours, brother, took the new stallion from the stables!!" She huffed, her tone indignant as only a woman who has spent decades perfecting the art of family exasperation can be, before adding, "The purebred!! The one you insisted not even royalty could buy"

A pause stretched between them like the vast desert outside the city. Then, Yusuf's chuckle rumbled like distant thunder across sand dunes. "What do you expect? She has fine taste."

Nabeela's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Taste? She's a girl, brother! What if she'd fallen? What if—"

"She won't." His voice, steel wrapped in silk, brooked no argument. But for his sister's sake, he softened like the evening breeze. "She is capable and strong"

Yusuf strode past them with purpose, his sandals clicking against the floor. "Come," he said, already reaching for the doorknob. "Let us see what you have done now."