They called me Irena though my name felt like a relic of another life, one I barely remembered. Here, in the harem of the Emir, I was but another blossom in a garden he owned. At least, that’s what they wanted me to be. But I was different—I knew it, and so did he. It was on one of those sultry desert evenings, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine, that the Emir first spoke to me. I was sitting beneath the blooming tree in the garden, tracing idle patterns in the sand, when I felt his presence before I saw him. His robes whispered against the stones, and though the other women straightened, their movements like ripples in a pond, I stayed still. “Irena,” he said, his voice low, warm, like honey spiced with cloves.