Rain lashes against the nursery school glass, blurring the world into a grey watercolor. Inside, the lobby smells of floor wax and damp wool. Layla Hart stands alone, her fingers tightening around the strap of her son’s small red satchel. Through the distorted pane, she sees him. He is a dark pillar against the London drizzle, a ghost she hasn’t managed to outrun in four years.
Tariq al-Quresh is unmistakable even through the mist. He wears a charcoal overcoat that absorbs the morning light, his posture reflecting the absolute authority of a man who owns the horizon. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even know this street exists. The pulse in her neck thrums—a frantic, trapped rhythm. He found us.
She looks back toward the classroom where Sami is still finishing his snack, oblivious to the storm outside. Her son has Tariq’s eyes, a fact she hides behind every lie she’s told since fleeing the palace. When she turns back to the window, the man has moved. A shadow detaches from the iron gates, stepping into the glare as he begins to walk toward her.
