Chapter 8

The months that followed were not easy.

There were afternoons when the weight of the world pressed down on her, when the protocols of his family felt like a cage, when the distance between the girl at the checkout counter and the wife of the heir felt too enormous to cross. There were evenings when she sat alone in the study, surrounded by books she wasn't sure she would ever understand, and wondered if she would ever find her footing.

But there were other times.

There were mornings when she woke to find Rais already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting—not impatiently, but with the patient attention of a man who had learned to wait for the things that mattered. There were afternoons when they sat in the garden together, her hands in the soil, his eyes on her face. There were evenings when they ate dinner, just the two of them, and the silence between them was not heavy, but full.

She learned to read him, the way she'd learned to read the turn of the ship's wheel in the cabin—the small shifts of his mouth, the way his hands moved when he was thinking, the particular stillness that preceded a decision. And he learned to read her, too. He learned the exact weight of the glance she gave him when she was tired, the subtle rise in her voice when she was happy, the way she looked out the window on long drives as if memorizing the route for a return she wasn't sure would happen.

And the staff whispered.

They were careful—they were always careful—but she knew. Farhad had learned to anticipate her needs before she voiced them. Anwar had begun opening doors for her, not just for Rais. And when she walked through the villa, she caught the eyes of the household on her, followed by quick, respectful looks away.

She was no longer just the new wife.

She was *his* wife. And in this world, that made her a force to be reckoned with.

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It was about six months after the flight that the true test came.

Rais's father summoned them to the main house for dinner. Not a formal occasion—just the family. But Selene knew better by now. She'd learned the architecture of these dinners, the careful social chess that was played across the table.

When she entered, dressed in a deep sapphire gown that Rais had chosen for her—his attention to her wardrobe having become a private ritual between them—his father rose to greet her. And the older man took her hand, held it for a moment, and said, in front of the assembled family:

"You've brought our son to life. I had stopped believing that was possible."

There was a silence. Selene felt the weight of it, the eyes of the family on her, the sudden, unexpected force of the statement. And then Rais was beside her, his hand at the small of her back, his voice low: