6 Elena

6

Elena

The marble clacked under the heels of my boots. Stone pillars and golden chandeliers lined the ceiling of the marble pathway to the cabins of Omar Ali. One of the most powerful Sheikhs of Azmia—well, the second most powerful, considering the most powerful, is a cranking idiot, Zayed. But Omar Ali was the oldest and the smartest one.

My father.

My fist clenched and felt the brush of balmy, dry air that somehow hovered in the middle of April.

“How nice of you to finally visit your family,” Ahmed, our advisor, scrunched his nose as I ventured inside my father’s room.

“How nice of you to invite me to my home for the first time in twenty years,” I replied with a saccharine smile, the feel of the pistol on my back making it tolerable. Without the metal impression of it, I would feel as if I was not in my own skin.

My mother, who was walking ahead of us, came to a halt and turned towards me, her expensive gown, clanking jewelries and her frowned face, glaring up at me. Her golden ha