She had only stayed in the palace for a week. Just one week—yet it had felt like stepping into a different life. She'd come to prove something to Naeena, to herself—that she could teach the prisoners with patience, with heart, and that perhaps, she could change one life, even in a place like this.
But now, she was leaving before her story here had even begun.
After hours of lying awake, thoughts turning over like waves on a restless shore, sleep finally took her. And when the bell for morning prayer rang through the stillness, she rose with quiet resolve. She reached for her bag—already packed—and dressed in silence. Outside her window, Aureliah was waking up, its golden rooftops catching the first light of dawn.
She slipped through the palace halls unnoticed, moving with purpose. Servants were already at their posts, attending to the rituals of the day. Her footsteps led her to Lady Naeema's office.
Inside, Naeema sat behind her desk, poised as always. As she entered, Naeema looked up, and there was something knowing in her gaze—as if she'd expected this all along. No surprise. No questions.
"Good morning," she said quietly.
The resignation letter passed between them without resistance. Naeema took it, glanced at the signature, and gave a single, subtle nod. The silence that followed said more than words could.
And that was it.
She left the room, her pulse steady, her emotions locked behind her eyes. As she made her way to the palace entrance, she could feel the weight of watching eyes. Whispers behind curtains, stillness in passing corridors. But she didn't pause. She didn't look back.
At the main gate, a car was already waiting. The driver, a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a courteous nod, stepped out and opened the door for her.
"Ma'am," he said. "I've been instructed to take you to the airport. Here is your travel ticket. Someone will receive you on arrival."
She took the envelope from his hand and unfolded the ticket. London.
The name on the paper stirred something in her—a mixture of familiarity and finality. Cold skies. Distant memories.
As the car pulled away from the palace gates, she watched the city of Aureliah pass by one last time. The winding streets, the scent of spice and morning bread, the soft call of prayer drifting between domes and towers. It was a city that had cradled her gently, even if only for a moment.
It had given her hope.
For the first time in a long while, she had felt as though she was on the edge of a new beginning. A happier one. But perhaps the old saying was true—the past has a way of seeping into the present, no matter how far we run.
At the airport, the driver helped her with her bags, then bowed slightly.
"Safe journey," he said.
She offered a quiet "thank you," then turned and walked through the doors.
The flight was long. The world turned beneath her, a patchwork of cloud and shadow. She stared out the window, watching the sky dim and brighten again. Between meals and quiet announcements, her thoughts wandered to the days she had spent in Zephyrabad, to the faces she had met, and the ones she had left behind.
Eventually, the plane touched down in London.
After the procedures—passport control, baggage claim, customs—she stepped into the arrivals hall, her suitcase trailing behind her like a tired companion.
Then she saw him.
A man stood just beyond the crowd, dressed in black trousers and a black top, a white cap tilted over his brow. He was waving, a smile warm and familiar on his face.
She approached cautiously.
He stepped forward, extending a hand.
"My name is Saleem," he said. "It's nice to meet you. I've been instructed to pick you up."
She nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile.
Julia followed Saleem as he led her across the quiet terminal driveway to a sleek black BMW parked under the low grey sky. The windows were tinted, the car spotless. Salim opened the door without a word. She slid in, the leather cool beneath her palms. A few seconds later, they were gliding out of the airport and into the pulse of the city.
London moved past the window in blurred streaks of grey, red, and steel. Neither of them spoke. After nearly an hour, the car turned onto a quiet road lined with old trees and high walls. At the end of the lane stood a grand, ivy-draped mansion—regal and private.
This was Prince Khali's London home.
The gates opened soundlessly, and the car rolled into the stone-paved compound. There was no staff waiting outside, no noise or movement—only silence and a soft wind curling through the garden hedges. When the car came to a stop, Salim got out and opened her door again. Julia stepped onto the gravel, her shoes crunching softly beneath her.
A tall woman in her late fifties—Khali's cook—came to the door and greeted them. Her expression was calm, almost warm.
"I'll take your luggage, Miss," she said, already reaching for the bags.
Julia hesitated, then nodded. The woman turned and led her inside, through a quiet entrance hall with high ceilings and dark wooden floors.
"He's not here," the cook added as they moved through the corridor. "Prince Khali had an important meeting. But he'll return soon."
That made her pause. Her breath caught slightly in her throat.
She wasn't ready.
Her room was upstairs—modest in size, but tastefully decorated, with tall windows and heavy curtains. A deep wardrobe stood in one corner. The cook placed her bags down gently and left without another word.
Julia unpacked in silence, her fingers working methodically. A part of her kept listening—for a door, footsteps, his voice. But there was nothing yet.
She lay on the bed for a moment, letting the soft silence of the room press into her. But it didn't last long.
The quiet hum of a car engine stirred the stillness.
She sat up. Her heart skipped.
He was back.
She rushed to the window and then to the hallway, moving on instinct. As she reached the stairs, the front door opened. Prince Khali stepped inside, tall and composed, his dark coat still buttoned, his expression unreadable.
She stood at the edge of the staircase, frozen.
He looked at her—but said nothing. He walked straight past her without slowing his stride. It was as though she weren't even there.
She watched him disappear down the hallway.
Thirty minutes passed. Then the cook returned, this time with a message.
"He's waiting for you in the library," she said.
Julia stood up, her pulse quickening.
The library was dim, filled with the scent of aged books and leather furniture. He was standing near the hearth, hands behind his back.
When he turned, he spoke plainly.
"We're having a small church wedding," he said. "Today."
She blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Get ready."
And that was it.
An hour later, she found herself dressed in white, sitting beside him in the car again. No flowers. No music. No witnesses apart from the cook and Saleem. The ceremony was brief and cold. He placed a plain silver ring on her finger, his face blank, his tone mechanical.
When they returned to the mansion, she could no longer hold it in.
She turned to him, her voice trembling with restrained rage.
"I know you have a girlfriend. So why marry me? Why did you do this?"
He didn't flinch.
He met her eyes, calm and cruel.
"To make you suffer," he said.
Then he walked away.
And the silence in that grand house grew even heavier.