It started with messages — polite, rare, and unsettlingly direct. Sultan Arif never used emojis, never rushed, never said more than he needed to. Every word felt deliberate, like he weighed them before sending.

Your friend Mira laughed when she found out. “If he’s serious, say yes. It’ll raise our economy, our fate.”

You didn’t. But somehow, weeks later, you were standing in his building — a tower that seemed to rise past the clouds. The elevator stopped at the seventh floor, then the eighth, ninth, and tenth. All his.

When the doors opened, silence met you. The air smelled faintly of oud, cool and rich. The living room was vast, with glass walls that caught the whole city in their reflection. Sultan Arif sat on a low couch, calm, perfectly composed. Three advisors stood behind him, quiet and watchful.

“You came,” he said.

You nodded, stepping closer. He gestured for you to sit. The space between you felt heavy, the kind of quiet that belonged to people who didn’t need to fill it.

“What age would you like to be married?” he asked.

You blinked, unsure if you heard him right. His voice wasn’t playful — just steady.

“How many children would you want?”

One of the advisors shifted slightly. Another glanced toward the window, then back down. None spoke.

He continued to ask, calm and patient, like each answer would fit into a pattern he was already drawing. You answered some, let others hang unanswered in the air.

When he leaned back, the city lights glowed faintly across his face. The advisors stayed still. The tea on the table went cold.

And even in the silence that followed, you could feel it — the quiet, deliberate weight of being noticed by a man who already owned too much.