Chapter 59 Fifty nine

Chapter 59 Fifty nine

Leyla's POV

The hardest part wasn't pretending to love Khalid. That was easy. He was my partner, my ally, a man I respected and even liked. Playing the adoring wife required acting, but the affection underneath was real in its own way.

The hardest part was pretending not to love my six beautiful wives.

The first morning, I walked past the library instead of going in. I heard Samira's voice inside, discussing a text with a servant. My feet wanted to turn. My heart wanted to join her, to lose myself in old words and new arguments. I kept walking.

At breakfast, I sat beside Khalid instead of between Samira and Yasmin. I felt their eyes on me. Samira's confusion. Yasmin's quiet hurt. I smiled at Khalid, laughed at his small jokes, and did not look at them.

The days became a blur of small betrayals.

No more lingering debates with Samira. When she tried to catch my eye across a room, I looked away. When she approached me with a question about a legal text, I answered briefly and moved on. The light in her eyes dimmed a little more each day.

No more shared teas with Yasmin in the garden. I walked through her green world with Khalid on my arm, admiring the flowers from a distance, never stopping to sit, never letting my hand brush hers. She stopped looking up when I passed.

Nadia trained alone. I watched from windows sometimes, hidden behind curtains. Her sword work was more brutal than ever, each strike a release of anger she couldn't aim at me. Her jaw was perpetually tight. She didn't smile anymore.

Mia stopped playing. The music that had filled the palace during the crisis went silent. I passed her room one evening and heard nothing. Just silence. Just grief.

Imani grew suspicious. Her sharp eyes tracked me everywhere, measuring every interaction. She didn't say anything, but I felt her questions. Was this a real change? Had Khalid truly won me? Was I playing them all?

Even Mariam, who understood strategy better than anyone, looked at me with something like disappointment. She knew why I was doing this. She approved, logically. But her eyes said it cost her something to watch.

The strain built. Days passed. A week. The performance never stopped.

Samira's POV

I cornered her after dinner.

The meal had been unbearable. Leyla sat beside Khalid, laughing at his words, touching his arm, never once looking at us. Nadia barely ate. Yasmin stared at her plate. Mia looked like she might cry. Even Imani was quiet, her usual sharp observations replaced by a brooding silence.

When Leyla rose to leave, I followed.

I caught her in the corridor near the library. My library. Our library. The place where we had first argued, first connected, first kissed.

She turned when she heard my footsteps. Her face was smooth, composed, the mask firmly in place.

"Samira. Can I help you?"

The politeness was a knife. I stepped closer, my voice low and shaking despite my best efforts.

"This performance is killing us," I hissed. All the hurt, the confusion, the fear of the past days poured into those words. My intellectual composure, the thing I valued most, cracked wide open.

She didn't move. Didn't react.

I stepped closer still, close enough to see the tiny flicker in her eyes before she hid it.

"Who are you saving?" I demanded. "The house? Or yourself?"

Leyla's POV

Her words hit me like a physical blow. The house or myself. Did she really think I was that selfish? Did any of them?

I wanted to grab her. To pull her into the library and hold her and explain everything. To tell her about Malek's eyes, his threats, his spies. To make her understand that every cold glance, every avoided conversation, was a sacrifice I was making to keep them safe.

But I couldn't. The corridor had ears. Malek's network was everywhere. One whispered word, one moment of weakness, and everything I was doing would be for nothing.

I held the mask steady. I met her eyes and let her see nothing but polite distance.

"I am saving what matters," I said quietly. "Trust that."

Her face crumpled. For one terrible second, I saw the brilliant, fierce scholar reduced to a woman with a broken heart.

"Trust," she repeated. "You ask us to trust, but you give us nothing."

She turned and walked away. Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, each one a judgment.

I stood there until the sound faded. Then I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and let the mask slip for just a moment.

The tears came. Silent, hot, desperate. I wiped them quickly, forced them back. There was no time for this. No space for weakness.

But her question stayed with me, burning in my chest.

Who are you saving? The house, or yourself?

Both, I told myself. I'm saving both. I have to.

The corridor was empty. The palace was quiet. Somewhere, Malek was watching, waiting for me to slip. Somewhere, my wives were hurting, doubting, wondering if I had ever been real.

I pushed off the wall, straightened my dress, and walked toward Khalid's study. The performance continued. It had to.

But inside, something had cracked. And I didn't know if it could be fixed.