The desert didn’t forgive trespassers.
Not even when the trespasser was a woman with flushed cheeks, camera in hand, and no idea that she’d just crossed the one line she shouldn’t have.
The palace rose like a mirage from the dunes—white limestone glowing under the moonlight, towers crowned with gold, glass windows reflecting stars that no longer felt distant. It was beautiful. Isolated. Untouched. And off-limits to anyone without blood, power, or permission.
She had none of those.
But she had curiosity. And hunger.
She wasn’t just a tourist.
She was a journalist. Or at least, she used to be. Fired six months ago from a New York publication that had traded foreign stories for celebrity gossip. Now, she worked independently, selling photos and exposés to whoever paid best. And this pal
