Sorry for the wait! I've quite busy and sick these past weeks, I didn't have the time to write.
I hope you'll like today's chapter.
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The night was thick with the scent of perfume and burning incense as Sir Hassan stepped into the dimly lit halls of The Silk Garden, the most discreet and lavish pleasure house in the city. He barely registered the welcoming smiles of the attendants as he strode past the entrance, his movements tight with restrained anger.He ignored everyone—except for the woman he came to see.
"Sir Hassan," a smooth voice called from the balcony above.
Lady Fan, the Matron of The Silk Garden, watched him with knowing eyes. Draped in deep crimson, she exuded the air of a woman who had seen the secrets of kings and commoners alike.
"I was wondering when you'd come," she said, resting her hands on the wooden railing. "You're late tonight."
He barely looked up. "Is Rashia here?"
Lady Fan smiled faintly.
She stopped in front of him, studying his face. "Rashia is waiting for you. And you should be grateful—she's had quite the evening herself."
Hassan raised a brow. "Something happened?"
Lady Fan sighed, folding her arms. "A nobleman thought he could buy her silence after speaking to her like she was beneath him. She handled it, as she always does, but even Rashia gets tired of men who think money makes them gods."
Hassan's jaw tightened. "Did he touch her?"
Lady Fan waved a hand dismissively. "No. But she was in no mood to dance after that. I imagine she'd rather talk to you than the imbeciles downstairs."
Hassan exhaled slowly, his anger shifting. "I'll keep her company, then."
Lady Fan's lips curved into a smirk. "As if you wouldn't have done so anyway."
She stepped aside, gesturing toward the familiar corridor. "Go. And Hassan—"
He paused, glancing back.
"Don't drink yourself into oblivion tonight," she said, amusement laced in her voice. "Even Rashia has limits to her patience."
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He gave her a wry look but said nothing as he strode toward Rashia's room.
Inside, the warm glow of candlelight softened the silk-draped walls. Rashia sat near the window, gazing out at the city below. When she heard the door close behind him, she turned, a knowing smirk curving her lips.
"Drunk already?" she mused, watching him with her usual sharp gaze.
Hassan sighed, dropping onto the cushions beside her. "Not enough."
She handed him the cup, sitting beside him with the ease of someone who had done so many times before. "Bad night?"
He took a deep sip before letting out a sharp breath. "Alexander."
Rashia hummed in understanding, resting her chin on her hand. "Ah. Him again."
She chuckled, pouring him a drink. "Then tell me—what did he do this time?"
He didn't answer immediately, swirling the liquid in his cup before downing the rest in one go. Then, he leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Every time," he said bitterly. "Every time he lets me get close, only to push me away. He won't even tell me why. He just… looks at me, like he wants to say something, but he never does."
Rashia sighed, reaching for the bottle to refill his drink. "And yet, you still run back to him."
He shot her a glare. "I married him."
She hummed in amusement. "By contract. Not for love."
She chuckled softly, tucking her legs beneath her as she watched him.
"You knew from the beginning he was difficult. Why does it bother you now?"
Hassan let out a humorless laugh. "Because I don't mind the rejection. But I mind the silence. He won't tell me why, Rashia. And that—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That makes me angry."
Hassan set the cup down harder than necessary. "I never cared about the politics of it. He wanted to overthrow the regent? Fine. He needed an ally? Fine. I gave him my name, my loyalty, my damn patience—but every time I try to touch him,to get him to open himself he—"
"Pulls away," Rashia finished for him.
Silence stretched between them for a moment before Rashia stood, crossing the room with effortless grace. She poured herself a drink and took a slow sip, watching him.
"You know," she mused, "the first time you came here, you and your friends were drunk out of your minds, throwing gold at me like I was some goddess."
Hassan let out a short laugh, remembering the night he first saw her dance. "You were a goddess."
She chuckled, sitting back down. "And yet, instead of bedding me, you sat here drinking, telling me all the things that weighed on you. It seems not much has changed."
He looked at her, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Rashia had always been a constant—a friend, when he needed one.
"You know me too well," he admitted.
She smirked. "Of course I do. Now, drink less and talk more. You married a man who won't touch you—what else?"
Hassan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I think he's afraid of something. I just don't know what."
Rashia tilted her head. "Then perhaps that's the real question you should be asking him."
He scoffed. "As if he ever gives me real answers."
She smiled knowingly. "He will—when he's ready."
Hassan didn't respond. Instead, he let Rashia take the cup from his hand, watching as she set it aside.
He turned his head toward her, his expression weary. "I didn't come here for that, anyway."
"I know." She reached out, gently brushing his hair back like she used to when he was younger, before the world made him bitter. "Stay here for a while. Sleep, if you can. You'll feel better in the morning."
He didn't answer, but he didn't resist when she guided him to rest against the cushions, her presence a familiar comfort in the chaos of his mind.
As the city outside continued its revelry, Sir Hassan closed his eyes, allowing himself—for just a moment—to let go.