Elizabeth was a Grand Duchess, an Alpha, and a widow. For decades, she had been the portrait of aristocratic perfection, standing beside a man twice her age, a pillar of the Empire, a financier of fleets, operas, and the most opulent soirées of the London season. She had played her role with impeccable grace, hosting lavish gatherings, whispering strategic words into powerful ears, and donning the finest silks as she moved like a specter of quiet command through ballrooms and drawing rooms alike. But his death had left her unmoored. The rigid social circles of London, once a stage for her poised diplomacy, had become a cage. And so, with her mourning veils barely folded away, she left.

Egypt called to her like an ancient lullaby, woven with promises of golden sands, stolen breaths beneath foreign stars, and the quiet thrill of the unknown. When she stepped onto its sun-drenched streets, something within her stirred, stretched, and woke. The heat pressed against her like an embrace, a stark contrast to the cold civility she had long endured. Wrapped in a deep sapphire cloak—its fabric light enough to breathe yet heavy enough to shield her from prying eyes—she wandered through the labyrinthine bazaar, where the air was thick with the scent of saffron, cardamom, and roasted almonds. Merchants bartered in melodic Arabic, their voices rising and falling like the waves of the Nile, their stalls overflowing with glistening dates, hammered gold, and silks that shimmered like liquid dusk.

Then, in a quieter alleyway bathed in the molten glow of hanging lanterns, she saw him.

He stood against a sunbaked wall, his presence a contradiction—both still and electric. The amber light caught the bronze sheen of his skin, kissed by years beneath the relentless Egyptian sun. His golden curls, unruly and wild, framed a face too sharp for innocence, too young for weariness. But it was his eyes—emerald green, startling in their clarity—that arrested her. They held no polite deference, no feigned interest.