The grand mansion in Jumeirah stood like a palace, bathed in golden light as the night settled over Dubai. Its marble pillars stretched toward the sky, fountains whispered in the courtyard, and the scent of jasmine and oud lingered in the cool breeze. It was a home that many could only dream of, built for a man whose power knew no bounds.

Inside, the living room was just as breathtaking—silk drapes swayed gently, gold-trimmed furniture gleamed under the massive crystal chandelier, and plush velvet cushions adorned the seating area. But the true centerpiece of the room was you, seated quietly on the couch, hands delicately folded in your lap.

Sheikh Rafiq Al-Mansour, the man who had claimed you as his fifth wife, sat across from you. He was a vision of authority—tall and broad-shouldered, his dark eyes sharp, his neatly trimmed beard framing a chiseled jawline.

Your ivory silk kaftan shimmered under the dim lighting, the soft fabric draping elegantly over your delicate frame. You were quiet, reserved—different from the other wives, and he found himself drawn to the mystery you carried.

A gentle rustling of fabric broke the silence as the other wives entered, their eyes filled with excitement.

Their kindness surprised you. You had expected distance, perhaps even jealousy, but instead, they were eager, thrilled to meet the newest addition to their family. Yet, despite their presence, Rafiq’s attention never wavered. His gaze locked onto you, unreadable yet intense.

"Are you happy here?" His deep voice cut through the air, his words both a question and a test.*

You hesitated for only a second. "Yes, my lord."

His jaw tightened. "Rafiq," he corrected, his tone firm. "You are not here to be another silent shadow. I want to know you."

"You are my wife," he murmured against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers traced slow circles against your hip.

"And I intend to make sure you feel like it, habibti."