As dawn gilded the skies over Aureliah, Julia rose quietly, her heart unsettled. She needed space, a breath of freedom, and a voice from her past. Slipping from the palace undetected, she found a secluded alcove near the citrus grove and dialed the encrypted number.
When Stacy answered, Julia's voice softened. "Everything's fine," she said, though the words felt like a lie. "I'm still learning how to survive this place."
Fifteen minutes later, she returned to her suite and dressed deliberately: a gold blouse with fine embroidery at the wrists, a black skirt with swirling floral patterns, and a dark scarf wrapped neatly over her hair. A palace car took her to the Azura Dance Chamber at noon, where the air was perfumed with oud and rose petals, and the chamber echoed with the haunting rhythm of ceremonial drums.
The royal dances of Zephyrabad were acts of inherited poetry. Al Rahil al Samit—the Silent Departure—spoke of exile and memory, told through veiled gestures and sweeping turns. Qalb al-Layl—Heart of the Night—was a somber tribute to blood-bound loyalty, danced in perfect synchronicity by men in deep indigo robes.
Julia sat quietly among the invited guests, watching with awe. But the awe would not last long.
At precisely 2 p.m., as the last dancer bowed and silence reclaimed the chamber, a uniformed aide approached her.
"Miss Lucas," he said briskly. "Her Highness Princess Ranya has summoned you."
The walk to the eastern wing was brief and silent. Waiting near the entrance to a private salon, Princess Ranya stood like a judge on the throne of her youth—seventeen, with sharp cheekbones, sharper words, and the cold grace of one raised to command.
"You're late," she said before Julia could greet her.
Julia blinked. "I was told to come after the ceremony—"
"I don't care what you were told," Ranya snapped. "When I summon you, you come."
Without another word, she turned and walked into the salon. Julia followed, her expression composed, her pulse sharp beneath her skin.
Inside stood Crown Prince Jasir Al Farsi. His presence was immediate and dignified—tall, with silver streaking his dark hair, and eyes that missed nothing. He was dressed in a cream bisht, and though he said nothing at first, he observed Julia with curiosity.
Ranya made the introduction in a clipped tone. "Father, this is the language tutor. The one they say knows five languages and too many secrets."
Julia dipped into a low bow. "Your Highness. It's an honor."
Crown Prince Jasir offered a faint smile. "So this is the elusive Miss Lucas. My daughter speaks of you—though not always favorably."
"She'll earn her place," Ranya said coldly. "Or she'll lose it."
Julia remained poised. "I hope to be worthy of the trust the royal family has placed in me."
At that moment, the door opened again. Princess Samira entered, wrapped in ivory silk and diamonds that glinted with every step. She took one look at Julia—tall, graceful, and standing far too close to her husband—and felt a flicker of instinctive unease.
Jasir turned toward his wife. "Samira, come meet the language tutor."
Julia offered another respectful bow. "Your Highness."
Samira nodded slowly, assessing. "So. The one with the golden tongue."
Julia smiled faintly. "Only borrowed gold, I assure you."
But Samira's eyes were no longer on Julia's face. She had caught the look her husband gave the young woman—curious, attentive, far too warm. And something inside her began to twist.
The afternoon sun had faded into muted gold by the time Julia returned to her rooms. She hadn't expected to be summoned again that day—certainly not by the Crown Prince himself. Her pulse quickened at the news, though her expression betrayed nothing.
She was led through winding colonnades and out into the garden pavilion—a quiet enclave of jasmine, ivory marble, and trailing vines. The scent of frankincense lingered in the cooling air.
Crown Prince Jasir stood with his back to her, watching the rooftops of Aureliah turn bronze under the descending sun.
"You move like someone who doesn't belong here," he said without turning. "But somehow, you belong more than most."
Julia came to a graceful stop a few paces behind him. "That depends on what this place considers belonging, Your Highness."
He turned now, his expression calm but alert. "You're observant. Too observant for a tutor."
"I was trained to listen. To adapt." A pause. "And to survive."
Jasir studied her face for a long moment. "You speak five languages, according to my daughter. Where did you learn Arabic?"
"My father was half-Arab. He taught me the basics before he died. The rest I picked up in Spain, from books and people."
"Yet you wear it like it's in your bones."
She allowed a quiet smile. "Some languages crawl into your blood."
He nodded slowly. "You interest me, Miss Lucas. That is both a blessing and a risk in this palace."
She lowered her gaze, her voice measured. "I'm not here to pose a threat, Your Highness. Only to teach."
The moment stretched—tense, unspoken. Jasir took a single step closer, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You have a certain... composure. It unsettles people. My wife, for instance."
Before Julia could reply, the rustle of silk interrupted them.
Princess Samira entered the pavilion, her gown gleaming like pearl in the fading light. Her gaze swept the scene—Julia standing close to her husband, the intimacy of silence between them.
"Your Highness," Julia said at once, bowing respectfully.
Samira's smile was razor-thin. "I didn't realize this was an evening lesson."
"It wasn't," Jasir said evenly. "We were only speaking."
Samira's eyes flicked to Julia, cold and cutting. "I'm sure you have much to say. Young women often do."
Julia nodded politely. "With your permission, I'll take my leave."
She walked away without haste, her back straight, her heartbeat thunderous. Behind her, Samira turned to her husband, her voice low but laced with venom.
"You're too old to entertain these games, Jasir. And she's too clever to be harmless."
The next day came quickly and ,The morning sun did little to warm the chill in the tutoring room. Princess Ranya arrived five minutes late and slammed her books down on the table with a scowl.
"You've made quite the impression," she said without greeting.
"I'm here to teach," Julia replied calmly.
"And what are you teaching my father?" Ranya asked, lips curled. "Flattery? Obedience? Or something more... flexible?"
Julia didn't flinch. "Respect. Something I hope you'll learn, too."
Ranya glared. "Don't speak to me like I'm your equal."
"You're right," Julia said, meeting her gaze. "You're younger. Which means you still have time to choose what kind of woman you want to become."
That struck deep. Ranya's fingers curled into fists. "Careful. I could have you dismissed with one word."
Julia inclined her head. "And yet you haven't."
Silence fell—tight and electric.
Ranya snatched her French book, flipping it open. "Fine. Let's begin. But don't think I trust you. You're too calm. People like you always have secrets."
Julia gave the barest of smiles. "Then we understand each other."
And the lesson began—not in peace, but in battle.
-
After the lesson with Princess Ranya—a session laced with veiled barbs and simmering tension—Julia exited the study with a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. The air in the corridor was cool, touched faintly by the scent of fresh myrrh and lilies placed in bronze urns at every corner. She was just steps from her chambers when she noticed the envelope tucked into the handle of her door.
Slipping it open, she found a cream-colored card adorned with silver script:
> "Since you enjoyed the last party—and since I imagine you're slowly dying of boredom in that gilded cage—here's something to look forward to. There's a gathering tonight at the Palazza Havan. Ten o'clock. Dress beautifully. Be dangerous."
—Nadia.
Julia smiled faintly. It was typical of Nadia: extravagant, untamed, and perfectly aware of how stifling life inside the palace could be. Perhaps, she thought, she understood her better now. For Nadia, parties weren't mere diversions—they were escape. Noise and lights, silk and perfume, wine and dancing—her way of outrunning whatever silence haunted her in private.
Julia tucked the invitation away and made for her room. She would go. Not because she needed distraction—but because Nadia wasn't wrong. The palace was beautiful, yes. But it was also a prison carved in gold.
In another wing of the palace, far from the chambers of tutors and guests, Prince Khali Al Farsi sat beneath the carved ceiling of his quarters, pouring over letters with a scholar's eye and a strategist's precision. The quiet was broken by a knock at his door.
He opened it to find his brother's wife standing there, draped in a satin robe the color of burnished wine. Her face, usually schooled in grace, wore a hint of frustration.
Without waiting to be invited, Princess Samira swept into the room and sank onto the brocade divan. Her movements were poised, but her intent was anything but casual.
Khali raised a brow. "To what do I owe this rare visit, sister?"
She looked up sharply. "It's about the tutor. Julia."
"I assumed as much." He leaned against the desk. "Go on."
Samira's lips curled slightly. "I think she's too tall."
Khali blinked. "Too tall?"
"Yes," she said, folding her hands. "Too tall, too graceful, too fluent in all the wrong ways. The way she bows, the way she speaks—it's too precise. Too calculated. She wants my husband's attention."
Khali exhaled through his nose. "Or she's simply well-trained."
"She's strategic," Samira hissed. "She knows what she's doing. I want you to drive her attention elsewhere. Make her look away from Jasir. Distract her. Charm her, if you must."
He looked at her for a long moment. "Why not simply have her removed?"
Samira's voice softened to something colder. "Because if I remove her now, Jasir will know why. And I will not be made to look like a jealous wife in front of this court."
Khali considered. "So you want me to... seduce her?"
Samira shrugged. "Or pretend to. Just enough to draw her eyes—and his. Let her fall into her own trap."
He smirked. "You always did prefer theater to warfare."
"And you've always been good at both," she replied sharply. "Can I count on you?"
There was silence. Then Khali nodded, slowly. "Fine. I'll play your game."
Satisfied, she stood. But as she reached the door, he added, "There's something else you should know."
She turned.
"One of the servant boys said he saw her making a discreet call yesterday morning—alone, in the gardens. And from what I've observed..." He leaned forward. "She's not who she says she is. Her story doesn't line up. Her name, her past—fabricated."
Samira's eyes sharpened. "You're sure?"
"I will be soon." His tone darkened. "I have a scheme. And if I'm right—your rival won't be your husband's new pet. She'll be a spy."
Samira's smile returned—cold and glittering. "Then we both win."
And with that, she left his chambers, the rustle of her gown echoing down the marble hall.
In the silence that followed, Prince Khali turned back to his desk. He poured himself a small glass of arak, held it up to the light, and whispered to the room:
"Let's see who you really are, Miss Lucas."