Excerpt

A young woman, perhaps a girl, even, sits in a crappy chair. Her hands are not bound, and neither are her wrists, which is a surprise since she is in Tahrir Square, the infamous setting for Egypt’s political statements, whether from the people or their rulers. The brown bag over her head, the background, Eilat, and everyone else, can immediately tell this is a public execution. A very controversial, very public execution.

He clenches his jaw. The camera pans to the crowd, a terrified bunch of hundreds. They watch her tremble with her hands, toy with the singular ring on her finger. A small child explodes into tears, nothing yet happened, but a sense, a palpable eeriness coating the air there, no doubt.

A man steps on stage, where the young woman sits. He holds out a paper in front of him and clears his throat. This man is not a public speaker. His hand so firmly grasps the paper that his knuckles turn a pearly white. The man stands tall, his voice cutting through the silent crowd, resonating with authority and condemnation. His gaze sweeps across the assembly, locking eyes with those gathered, ensuring that each Arabic word lands with the weight of truth and judgment.

"Loyal citizens, honorable servants of justice, today we gather under a solemn sky to address a grievous betrayal that threatens the very core of our trust, our unity, and our sovereignty. Before you stands a woman—a mere servant, but one whose actions have escalated to acts of unimaginable treachery. Though young in age, her deeds reflect a calculated and chilling disloyalty to our nation and to each of you. This woman, tasked with humble duties within the boundaries of our nation, did not remain a simple servant. No, she turned to treason and became an agent for our enemy, Egypt. In her quiet guise, she listened and recorded, stealing secrets meant to safeguard our people and preserve our peace. She befriended officials, earned their trust, and used their confidences as weapons against them. Her hands, though appearing clean, are stained with the harm she has brought upon our citizens, lives risked and lives lost due to her whispering treachery. Her espionage was not an act of a desperate woman trapped by circumstance; it was a deliberate choice, a calculated betrayal to serve foreign interests, to sow the seeds of discord and sabotage from within our walls. She passed intelligence—information on our defenses, our soldiers, our leaders. These were not harmless secrets; they were the lifeblood of our nation’s security, secrets she carried and handed willingly to those who wish to see our ruin. This punishment is not delivered in anger but in solemn duty. By her actions, she has renounced her allegiance, she has abandoned her place among us, and she has become a threat that must be removed for the safety of us all. Justice requires a reckoning, and so, in the name of the people, I declare that this woman’s treason warrants the finality of death.” A woman from the crowd cries out, invoking murmur among the crowd. “Let this be a warning to those who might seek the path of disloyalty and espionage. Know that we are a nation united, a people bound by trust, and we will protect that bond with the full weight of our law. Treachery will find no refuge here."

The man pauses, his eyes scanning the faces of those listening, allowing his words to sink deeply into the hearts of the crowd before he steps back, his stance unwavering, his message unmistakable.

“Let her punishment commence.”

The man rips the bag off of the young-woman’s head.

Eilat stifles a gasp— Charlotte’s maid. Oh fuck. What the hell has happened in the past few days?

The execution ground is stark and silent, framed by a row of soldiers standing at attention, each one with their gaze fixed forward, expressions set in cold determination. The young woman, hands bound behind her back, is led to the center. Her face is calm, though pale, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for one last glimpse of freedom before the end. The crowd watches in tense silence, a mix of anger, sorrow, and fear reflected in their faces. This is not a moment anyone relishes, but it is one they feel necessary, a grim reminder of the consequences of betrayal.

The execution ground is stark and silent, framed by a row of soldiers standing at attention, each one with their gaze fixed forward, expressions set in cold determination. The young woman, hands bound behind her back, is led to the center. Her face is calm, though pale, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for one last glimpse of freedom before the end. The crowd watches in tense silence, a mix of anger, sorrow, and fear reflected in their faces. This is not a moment anyone relishes, but it is one they feel necessary, a grim reminder of the consequences of betrayal.

The commander raises his hand, signaling to the execution squad. The soldiers step forward, rifles held in unison, their movements precise and rehearsed. Each one takes position, their stances firm, eyes set on the woman before them. They have trained for this, but today feels different. There is a weight to this moment, a solemn gravity that presses on them all, as they prepare to carry out the ultimate sentence.

The young woman closes her eyes, shoulders straight, exuding a calm that surprises even those who have condemned her. There is no plea for mercy.

“Service to the Kingdom,” her voice shakes, but she is clear and loud. She stands with her rebellion, and for that, Eilat applauds her bravery.

 Now she stands alone, a solitary figure against the cold, unyielding judgment of her country.

The commander’s hand falls.

In a synchronized motion, the soldiers lift their rifles, aiming with steady precision. There is a heartbeat of silence, the world holding its breath. And then, the command rings out, clear and sharp:

"Fire!"

The shots ring through the air, a series of cracks echoing across the ground. The woman’s body jolts, her form folding in upon itself as she falls to the earth. The sound fades, leaving only the quiet weight of what has transpired.

The soldiers lower their rifles, their expressions unreadable as they stand back, letting the silence settle. The crowd shifts, some averting their eyes, others staring ahead, marked by the sight before them. This execution is not a moment of victory or satisfaction; it is a solemn act, a final answer to betrayal, left to resonate as a warning and a reminder that justice, in this place, is absolute.

Excerpt

For as long as she could remember, Alia had convinced herself and others that at her core, she was a good person, simply born into a life of misfortune and difficult circumstances. In her mind, the wrong choices she made were never really her fault, but rather the product of a troubled upbringing. She was certain that if she had grown up with a mother, she never would have betrayed her brother by getting involved with his girlfriend. It wasn’t her true nature to deceive or hurt people—those actions were, in her view, the unfortunate consequences of a chaotic and abnormal life. If things had been different, she reasoned, she never would have been pushed to the point of killing those people. Maybe, if she hadn’t been trapped in such a toxic school environment where manipulation and betrayal were the norm, she wouldn’t have developed the need to backstab or claw her way through life just to survive. 

On some subconscious level, though, Alia understood that there were very few excuses that could justify what she has done. The drinks and drugs helped keep the thought deep down when she was younger, but unfortunately, it’s all treatment, no cure. 

It’s only when Lottie and Nora begin to board the plane that the guilt of what she’s just done crashes into her. 

Now, she’s coming to terms with the fact that she is a selfishly horrible person. She feels frail on the inside, full of regret.

Just the night before, before she visited Haider and █████ room after the █████ , Ramses had stopped her in the middle of the hallway. He looked genuinely empathetic for her, a facial expression she wasn’t aware Ramses was familiar with. His eyebrows creased together, wrinkling his old forehead even more. He rubbed the back of his bald head, and she recognized the tone of news he was about to share with her.

“What?” she had asked urgently.

“This is about your yellow-haired friend,” Ramses said. “Pass on the message that her family can visit her when she flies back to wherever. We need to make sure she’s properly motivated to get on the plane given the whole Yuri situation. Fabricate some reason why.”

The statement had taken Alia aback.

“Her family agreed to meet with her, for real?” She repeated, excitement raising the pitch in her voice. 

“Not quite,” he smiled sadly. “Just tell her that. We don’t want any problems, correct?”

She nodded, dazed. He patted her on the back without an inch of affection and walked away.

So, without hesitation, she complied. She passed on the message without asking a single question, following instructions blindly as if it were second nature. Yet from the very moment she did, a gnawing sense of dread had settled deep in her stomach, a quiet but persistent rumble of anxiety that she couldn't shake. It was as though her body knew before her mind could catch up that she had just made a terrible mistake. The thought of deceiving her friend, leading them astray without even knowing what consequences lay ahead, all because she was too afraid to stand up to someone like Ramses—a little, pathetic bitch—made her stomach churn. The more she thought about it, the more nauseated she became, as if the weight of her betrayal was physically manifesting within her.

A deep sense of guilt gnawed at her, as if she instinctively knew something terrible was about to unfold, and it would be her fault. Now, as ██████████  stepped the stairs up to the plane, dark thoughts of what would really happen as soon as they stepped onto the plane surfaced. It would blow up. They would separate █████  They would send them to a prison. She wanted to think Ramses just really wanted her out of the palace and would do anything to keep that so.

  █████ waved goodbye to her, turning quickly and showcasing their melancholic smiles. They were just going back home at the end of the summer, basically. Not the total end of the world. She smiled back, although tears, real tears, pooled in her eyes. It was just the wind, she told herself. 

“Bye!” Nora shouted down just before they shut the plane door. “Love you!”

That was it. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. 

“I know!” Alia shouted back, but the door had already closed tightly.

Turning from idle, hums and whirrs with a low rumble, to revved up for takeoff, the plane emits a loud, consistent roar. The engine produces a deep, powerful roar that increases in intensity as the aircraft steadily accelerates. 

Alia turns around so her back fronts the plane. She crosses her arms close to her chest, and allows the weight of her head on her neck to fold forward. All energy deflates out of her; like punching an airbag.

As the plane flies, she hears a steady, deep drone, punctuated by the whine or whistling sound of the turbine blades. A gust of wind from the takeoff swoops her hair up and down, and she anxiously tames the stray strands. 

Haider walks over to stand next to her, still waving away the plane. They face opposite directions. 

“Are you crying?” Haider asks, his face spread in disgust. “Stop it.”

Alia remains silent— ignoring her brother completely, as he lacks the emotional range to express true guilt. He’s a man, after all. Her deep upset prevents her from acknowledging Haider’s dumb comments. She doesn’t know what exactly he did, but whatever he’s done, it's enough for her to be pissed at him. As soon as she realized Lottie and Haider hadn’t given each other their farewells she knew he did something. Because Lottie is forgiving, too forgiving. And if Lottie hadn’t forgave, he must’ve really fucked up. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Haider scoffs. “She’ll be back soon enough.”

At this, Alia whips her head up to him. “What do you mean?”

Haider smiles knowingly. “You’ll see.”

She pinches his arm and he yelps, eventually slapping her hand away from him. 

“What the hell did you do?” Alia seethes, her eyebrows furrowing in suspicion. 

He shoves her in response, and she stumbles back, shocked at his aggressive behavior that has replaced all passiveness. 

“I did this for you, too,” Haider snaps cryptically. “Fucking bitch. You don’t get to order me around. I’ll be your king someday, treat me like it.”

Alia stares at him in shock and disappointment for her once-kind brother. This is not the Haider she knows. It’s as if a dark fungus has overtaken his body, like some evil entity has possessed him into acting exactly like Davina and Ramses. She’s all alone now, in this battle of political war, the only one with some semblance of empathy. 

“I could be queen, too,” Alia murmurs under her breath. 

“Yeah, right,” Haider scoffs. 

She turns to face him, so he can see it in her eyes that she’s being honest. 

“There’s a progressive movement for me to be queen now that everyone has found out I exist,” she unfolds a crumpled paper from her pocket and hands it to Haider. “I’m technically the rightful heir to the throne. I was born before you.”

He peers down at the paper. Front and center is a black and white paparazzi photo of Alia in the car, with a call to action to have her instated as the rightful ruler. She found one of the servants carrying the anti-propaganda in their pocket, and confiscated a piece for proof. No, she doesn’t desire to rule a nation, but at least she has some stake now in how all of this plays out.

“This is a conspiracy, anyway,” he scoffs. “You are far from rightful, Alia. You’re an illegitimate bastard. I’m the king’s son. I have a birth certificate. You do not.”

“Fine,” she shrugs indifference. “But you underestimate the power of the Egyptians. I know them, I’ve been among them. I have seen the poorest parts of this country, I have seen tragedies that you’re privileged enough to be sheltered from, golden boy. If anyone can rally the people, it’s me.” She steps up closer to him. “I’m not a pawn, but I’ll be an opponent if you make me be one, Haider.”

His hands twitch as he straightens his jacket, a tightness in his jaw betraying the calm he tries to project. He stands still, shoulders rigid, but the subtle tremor in his fingers hints at the unease beneath the facade.

“Ramses’d kill you if you tried anything. He could claim you’re trying to corrupt the country with your womanly, hysterical claims.”

She pats him on the back harshly and passive-aggressively. 

“Or I could kill him,” she says bluntly, a sudden boost of confidence moving through her. “I’m a saint to the people standing next to you all.” He clenches his jaw, but she continues. She points her pointer finger up at him in a fist. “I’ll find out what kind of deal you struck with Ramses to get yourself out of this pile of shit in regards to Lottie. Oh, and if you do anything to Nora, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I would never.” He catches her wrist with a closed fist. “You do a horrible job at staying out of shit you shouldn’t stick your nose in.”

“It’s what makes me so productive,” she says. “Most of the time. I couldn’t stop you from choosing her over Lottie.” 

He inhales deeply. “I did what I needed to do.”

“Oh yeah? Because I remember, just months ago, before we even came to this hell-on-earth, that you said you would rather cut your own dick off than marry Davina and rule this god-forsaken country.”

“Things change,” Haider asserts sternly. 

“That much is apparent,” she scoffs. “So what? I know what you did. I know you. Let me guess here, you dumbass piece of shit. You brought Lottie here because you felt bad her family disowned her. You forgot what life was like before the Institute, before school, and you let your dick and your nativity bring her here. You were angry at Davina at first, but you let her seduce you. And you let Ramses talk you out of being with Lottie to be with Davina instead, and Ramses convinced you that you would never be able to rule Egypt if you were with a white girl like Lottie, despite the question if Ramses will even step down from being a ‘temp’ king at all. But you still have feelings for Lottie, and you can’t let her go. So you’ve been leading her on, all the while getting engaged, conspiring with Davina, and letting the bitch convince you that being king is what you truly desire. But it’s not. It’s what she desires, and you go along with it, because you’re infatuated with her, too, and so you’ve allowed her to change you into her fantasy. Oh yeah, and the fact that you feel like you owe her for covering up the fact that you. Murdered. Baba.” 

Haider’s eyes widen and he slaps his hand against her mouth. 

“Would you shut the fuck up?” he panics. “How the hell do you know that? Did Ramses tell you?”

She licks his hand and he pulls it away in disgust.

“Alia!”

“So, it’s true.”

She pauses for a moment. Then, her hand raises, and promptly strikes Haider across the cheek. He reaches up, and lightly places his fingers on the tendered area, but he doesn’t fight back. His only smart decision, Alia thinks.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I was drunk,” Haider admits. 

“I’m drunk half the time, and I don’t go around killing Baba, you… ugh, Haider! You’re so stupid. So, so stupid. What goes on up there? Why the fuck did you tell Davina, and not me?”

He stares at her. “You just found out I killed Baba and you’re just angry at me for not telling you, and telling Davina instead.”

“I would’ve strangled the bastard myself if I had enough courage,” she scoffs. “But Haider, do you not realize what you’ve done? I’m asking you, actually. This is not a rhetorical question. Do you realize all the shit you’ve caused?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it does!” She throws her hands up expressively and counts on her fingers. “You’ve jailed  █████ , had half of the servants fired, had an innocent woman tortured, invited batshit crazy spies into the castle, betrayed Lottie, betrayed me—”

“Just drop it, Ali,” Haider interrupts. “What’s done is done.”

She stares at him, flabbergasted by his ignorance, but something deeper strikes her—a slow, dawning realization. An epiphany. His apparent lack of remorse, the casual shrugging off of responsibility, is disturbingly familiar. It hits her like a wave, sharp and cold. This mindset, this evasion of guilt, is the very one she once nurtured in herself, convincing herself that forces beyond their control dictated their lives, shielding her from her own accountability. Now, seeing that same hollow justification take root in him, she feels an unsettling churn in her gut. It’s as if she’s looking into a mirror, but what reflects back is rotten—decayed by self-deception and denial.

What can she possibly say to make him see the truth? Is there any combination of words, any argument, any plea that could pierce the thick armor of ignorance he’s wrapped himself in? She wants to shake him, force him to look into the abyss of his own choices, his own guilt, and own it for once. But as she watches him, his indifference etched into his face, she feels powerless. How can she correct his skewed sense of morality when it was she who once showed him how to slip free from its grip? Is there even a way to untangle this knot, or has she lost him to this convenient numbness?

It seems to her that all the standards she thought they shared, all the values they once upheld, have evaporated like the desert heat as soon as they set foot back in Cairo. This place, this city, has eroded him, or perhaps it has only revealed what was always lurking beneath the surface. She wonders if it's not just him that’s changed, but if she, too, had been shaped by these same forces, and Cairo has merely exposed the truth neither of them wanted to face.

Her utter disillusionment translates into a sharp pain in her chest. Through this whole war, they had changed. Faced much different choices, much different challenges. And it buried Haider deeper into himself, but allowed Alia out of that cave, into the light. 

“It’s not too late,” she says gently. “It never is. You can still make things right.”

His gaze softens, but his breath catches. 

“I’m not going to fight you for the throne,” she admits. “But I’ll help you clean all of this mess up. I’ll help you make amends.”

“Amends?” he murmurs. 

She nods hopefully. In his eyes, she notices a glimpse of belief, a glimpse of remorse. She pulls on his hands persistently. 

“Come on, Habibi,” she insists.

His eyes flash in surprise; she never calls him that. But if there were any time to show her brother some compassion, now would be it.

“No, there are no amends,” he pulls his hands away. “I have to go.” He turns, straightens his button-up, rolls his shoulders back, and confidently walks away from her.

“What are you planning?” she calls out after him. 

He ignores her.

Prologue: Scorpions

In Genesis 22, God instructs Abraham to bring Isaac, his son, to Moriah. He is ordered, in a test to prove his piousness and loyalty, to tie Isaac up and sacrifice him to God. Yes, yes, Abraham is momentarily conflicted, and I do give him a sliver of credit for that, not jumping to murder his son. Father of the year. But in the end, he was not only willing to execute his own blood, but actually went through the motions of doing so, tying up his son before an angel came down and sent a lamb to substitute for Isaac. When I recounted the verses to Alia, she raised her eyebrows, remarking it must have been an awkward dinner conversation after the whole charade. No, I said. They never even spoke again.

Alia and I both draw parallels between Genesis 22 and our lives, which is why I told her. Her father sacrificed her right to the Egyptian throne and a social standing, for his own religious delusion that a single son must be brought to an Arabic throne to please Allah. My family, Irish Catholic, sacrificed me by disowning me. I think they believe that by accepting my daughter and I, they too would be disobeying God, as I did, and would be sent to Hell with me. And as I sit in my empty dorm room now, in the most prestigious boarding school in the world, on the most joyous day of a Secondary’s career, all my mind is focused on is the final email I received from my mother two months ago.

Dear Charlotte,

We hear your studies are concluding well. We would expect nothing less from an O’Ryan. Now, to get to the point. Your father and I believe it is best to come to terms with the choices you have made. You have chosen to disobey God’s plan for you. Our household is devoted to God and we have tried to fix the situation, darling, but still you rebel. So unfortunately we have no place for you in this family, and as you are an adult now, we hope that by some miracle God sends an angel’s light to lead you in the right direction.

Best,

The O’Ryans.

It has been three years since I have seen my mother. Five years since I have seen my sisters. Six since I have seen my father. Theoretically speaking, I have been disowned from my family ever since I found out I was pregnant at 16, the letter just made their decision official. It is my last day at the Institut, the last day I will be in the care of anyone else. I am no longer an O’Ryan, I no longer belong to anyone, or anything, and I feel so utterly alone I could cry.

Storage boxes are filled to the brim around me, each containing a fraction from the most important years of my life. The only things left untouched are Eleanor’s diaper bag, her travel car seat, and my own personal luggage. I look down to the floor where Eleanor is napping in her car seat. She is my everything. I have to manage both our lives with limited resources now, with my bank account only holding a hundred grand Euros, and draining quickly. We won’t be able to last long on such dire holdings, but we will be forced to make it through the summer on the futile funds I do possess. I have been adequately procrastinating for the last half of the month, dreading the day where I will have to move out with nowhere to go and build a whole new life for Eleanor and I. And today, the day has finally come, and sure enough, we are homeless.

I see outside my windows the vast, beautiful Swiss campus and the happy families embracing their children with bouquets, sweet treats, perhaps a new horse or car. Even if my family hadn’t disowned me, I doubt they would’ve remembered or cared to show.

I pack my graduation papers into my Birkin and pick Eleanor up from the floor as she awakens, smelling her diaper to make sure it’s still good. I sigh in relief, it is. I loathe changing diapers. Before, I could just use my employed and on-call nurse, but as I am no longer reaping the benefits of belonging to a multi-billion dollar family, I have no one.

Eleanor tugs on my shirt and babbles what she sees, a bed, a desk, a puppy from outside, “mommy boobies” is my personal favorite, a phrase she noted from Sebastian. I bounce her on my lap as Haider knocks on the door. I know it’s him because he routinely knocks on my door more than anyone else, and because he has a signature pattern. Bah, bah, bah bah bum. I imagine again, like I imagine every time I hear him knocking, his calloused knuckles and bruised chest from participating in underground fighting rings (which I have repeatedly expressed my dissent for). My breath hitches a little.

“Haider?” I call out, just like I do everytime, both verifying that he is the one standing on the other side of the door, and giving him approval to enter.

He comes in. He wears nothing but black athletic shorts, leaving very little to the imagination. And I imagine quite often, unfortunately. The first thing he does is peck Eleanor on her head, in which she coos out a “Hi-da” in response to his affection, clapping her hands and giggling. I’m worried that she’ll start calling him “dada,” when in reality, we are not even close to a family. I’m all she’s got.

Then, he sits down on my bare bed across from me, and I find it very difficult to be a lady, and a friend, and avoid making direct contact with his muscular, sweaty abdomen.

“Habibti,” he begins, which is what both he and Alia nicknamed me. “How are you?”

I blink. “Did you win?”

I only ask this because I’m not sure how to answer his question. I know he won. But what am I to say? Should I lie and reassure my friend that Eleanor and I will be fine, or do I confess my homelessness?

“Yes,” he nods. “But how are you?”

I shrug. “I have… things… I need to straighten out. But I think after I get my affairs in order, we’ll be doing fine.”

Haider nods slowly, his hands awkwardly positioned on his thighs, like he wants to reach out for something, but he’s containing himself. Then, his gaze shifts from me to the screen behind me.

“Huh,” he murmurs.

He leans over to get a better look, and I whip around to where he’s looking so quickly that my neck burns. I forgot to close my laptop, and the email my family sent is still up. I pray to God and hope that if he can’t see the words and only my indifferent reaction to the screen, he’ll drop the matter. I smile back at him so his attention will rest back on me.

He stands up, and I shoot up with him, making a futile effort to block him, as he comfortably rests at a whole foot taller than me.

“Where are you going?” I nervously ask. One, because I don’t want him to see the screen, and two, because I genuinely enjoy his company and would like him to stay.

“Just over here.”

I exhale as he turns to walk to the window and not the door or my desk, but I let my guard down. He swiftly and speedily moves to the computer, grabbing it from the desk and holding it up in the air so I cannot reach it.

“Dear Charlotte, we hear your studies…” he murmurs the path his eyes follow on my screen and trails off as he finds the embarrassing contents within.

I snuggle Eleanor a little tighter, and kiss her sweet cheeks for comfort. When Haider concludes reading the letter, he places the computer back on my desk, and just stares at me like I’m a wounded bird. His eyebrows are ever so slightly furrowed, and his mouth opens partly in sadness for me. All I can think to myself is, don’t cry, don’t cry, blink it off. He moves towards me, and I’m hopeful for some reason, and then he drops down on the bed instead, and I’m disappointed. I have known Haider for five years now, almost two thousand days. We have been friends for half of that time, and still, nothing. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what I’m getting at.

“Come with me,” Haider says after a while. “Come to Cairo. Come stay at my estate. Summers are so fucking boring alone and I could use some company.”

My eyebrows shoot up in shock.

“Stay with you, in your castle?”

“Alia never stays for the summer, the only people occupying are the politicians, Baba, and me. I’m serious, Charlotte, I need a friend. Please. Come with me.”

I know he’s only pleading with me to come live with him for the summer because of his own thoughtfulness and the fact I’ve got no other chunk of land I can call home at the moment. But why should his motivations stop me from agreeing? I’m desperate for a place to go, and there are worse places to be than in a castle.

“What about your father? Are you sure they would even allow me?”

Haider waves off my concern.

“Don’t worry about it, the estate is so wide they wouldn’t care. Someone’s gotta occupy the empty space we have.”

I bite my lip, and then I make a great mistake, and concede.