Fallen Woman Pt 06 12

Chapter Six: The Guest

The bell rang just past noon, the sound sharp in the quiet. Amina wiped her hands on her apron and opened the front door.

Mr. Al-Rashid's mother stood with her usual stern posture, regal and precise. Beside her stood a younger woman, well-dressed and confident, her nails immaculate.

Zarah.

Amina stepped aside, lowering her gaze, hands neatly folded behind her back.

The women entered without acknowledging her.

Moments later, Mr. Al-Rashid descended the stairs. "Mother. Zarah. You're early."

His mother smiled. "You said anytime this afternoon, so we thought now would do. And Zarah hadn't yet seen the house, its beautiful in the midday sun."

"Of course. Please." He gestured toward the salon.

Amina followed, prepared the tea as expected, and stood behind his chair at attention.

Zarah's gaze drifted toward her and lingered. "She lives here?"

"She serves here," his mother answered flatly. "A temporary arrangement."

Zarah nodded, then looked at Amina over openly, as if examining a household fixture. "I suppose it's beneficial to you to have some help in this large estate. Though it must be strange--having someone with her background so close."

"She is obedient," Mr. Al-Rashid said simply, not looking up from the tray Amina placed before him.

Zarah glanced at him, then back to Amina. "Still... It must be difficult, staying quiet and behaving all day. With your past."

The jab landed silently. Amina said nothing.

Mr. Al-Rashid gave no sign he noticed the insult.

The conversation turned to other things--Zarah's recent travels, her charity work, what she was reading.

Amina remained at her post behind him, still and silent.

When tea was done, she cleared the cups. Zarah stepped lightly into her path, feigning surprise, making Amina pause mid-step to avoid brushing her. The younger woman smiled thinly. "Oh. You're quiet and clumsy."

Still, Mr. Al-Rashid said nothing.

Later that evening, Amina stood by the study door, awaiting dismissal.

He looked up briefly. "You may go."

She turned, quietly returning to her room.

There was no voice that followed. No reminder about the lock. It hadn't been used in days.

She sat on the edge of her bed, thoughtful. The visits, it seemed, would continue.

And next time, Zarah would not be any kinder.

Chapter Seven: Encroachment

Zarah returned two weeks later, this time without his mother.

Amina opened the door as she had been trained--headscarf pinned neatly, eyes lowered, hands folded behind her back. She stepped aside wordlessly to let the guest in.

Zarah paused just inside the doorway and gave Amina a slow, assessing look.

"Still here. I suppose that says something," she murmured, more to herself than to Amina.

Mr. Al-Rashid emerged from the study just then, dressed in his usual pressed white shirt and dark slacks. "Zarah. You didn't say you were coming."

"I didn't want to impose." Her smile was bright. "I was nearby and thought a quieter visit might be nice."

He nodded and motioned toward the salon. "Come in."

Amina moved silently to prepare tea. She carried the tray moments later and took her place behind his chair, standing at attention--feet slightly apart, back straight, hands clasped neatly behind her.

Zarah took her time sipping the tea, then looked around the room. "This space is well-kept. Could use better light. Maybe lighter curtains? The ones you have now feel too somber."

Mr. Al-Rashid gave a noncommittal shrug. "If you have suggestions, feel free to write them down."

"Careful, I might take you seriously." She smiled. "Then again, maybe you want a woman's touch around here."

He didn't respond, his attention turning to the papers on the coffee table.

Zarah's eyes drifted back to Amina. "Does she always stand there like that?"

"She is under training."

"For how long?" Zarah asked.

"She didn't come trained."

A small smirk played on her lips. "Ah. You're civilizing her."

Amina remained still. She had learned by now not to respond, no matter the tone.

Zarah continued to speak about a recent fundraising gala she attended, about mutual acquaintances, about the way her new abaya had been praised by someone important. Amina remained alert and silent behind him, stepping forward only when he raised his hand for a refill or to clear a plate.

Later, as the day waned, Mr. Al-Rashid invited Zarah to stay for dinner. Amina served both courses and remained behind his chair until they had finished.

Zarah glanced back at her once during dessert and said lightly, "When I imagine my own household, I can't say I see this kind of arrangement. I think I'd prefer things a little more... traditional."

He raised an eyebrow. "This is a traditional arrangement."

She waved her spoon in the air. "You know what I mean. A proper maid service, for one. Not something this... personal."

He said nothing.

After clearing the table, Amina sat at the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen, eating her meal alone in silence, as always.

Later that evening, she stood outside the study, awaiting dismissal.

He looked up briefly. "You may go."

"Yes, sir."

She turned and walked down the hallway, her steps soft against the tile. There was no lock anymore--only the quiet understanding that her earned trust was fragile, and freedom was still conditional.

She washed, folded her prayer clothes, and lay down in silence, bracing herself for whatever tomorrow would bring.

Chapter Eight: Changes and Boundaries

The news of the engagement settled quietly but firmly over the household.

That evening, Zarah arrived dressed in elegant silks, her smile confident and commanding. "Soon we will be family," she said as she entered the room, her eyes briefly flickering toward Amina.

Amina lowered her gaze, hands clasped behind her back, feeling the weight of the unspoken tension.

Within days, Zarah's influence became clear. Among the most glaring changes was the large kennel-like structure placed just outside the house. It was made of dark wood with reinforced metal bars and a solid lockbox on the door. Inside, a thin mat lay on the floor, sparse but clean.

Zarah stood beside it, arms folded. "This is where you will stay from now on," she said, her voice sharp. "A proper servant belongs outside the family home. You have not been locked in for months, but that changes now."

Amina's throat tightened. "But, ma'am, I--"

"No arguments," Zarah interrupted, her eyes cold. "You will learn your place."

That night, after dinner, Mr. Al-Rashid accompanied Zarah outside. Amina stood silently beside the kennel door, hands behind her back, posture rigid.

Zarah unlocked the door and gestured for Amina to enter. "Inside."

With a steady breath, Amina stepped in. The wooden floor was cold under her bare feet. She looked up at the narrow space, enclosed by bars that let in the night air and faint moonlight.

Zarah closed the door firmly and clicked the lock.

"There," Zarah said with finality, "you belong here now."

Mr. Al-Rashid said nothing but nodded once before turning away.

That night, the chill seeped into Amina's bones. The sounds of the house drifting just out of reach made her chest ache.

The next morning, as Amina knelt scrubbing the kitchen floor, tears blurred her vision.

Mr. Al-Rashid entered quietly, noticing her trembling.

"Why do you cry?" he asked, voice low but firm.

Amina lowered her head. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't sleep well outside, it was cold and the mat was so thin. Is there anyway you could ask Ms. Zarah to let me back into the house?"

He crossed the room, folding his arms. "This is your place--as a servant, your duty is to obey and accept. You do not question those who are above you."

She swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. "Zarah is to be mistress soon."

"Yes," he said sharply, "and you will respect her as such."

Amina bowed her head. "Yes, sir."

Mr. Al-Rashid gave a curt nod before leaving her alone with her thoughts and the cold floor.

Chapter Nine: The Confrontation

The house felt colder now, not just from the chill of the night or the kennel, but from the growing storm between Amina and Zarah.

That afternoon, as Amina carefully arranged the tea service, Zarah entered the sitting room with a predatory smile.

She eyed the tablecloth and snapped her fingers. "Come here."

Amina approached slowly, hands behind her back, heart pounding.

Zarah pointed sharply at a faint stain. "You missed this. Do you think such carelessness belongs in my home?"

Amina bowed her head. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I will fix it at once."

Zarah stepped closer, her voice low and cruel. "No, Amina. You don't understand. You're nothing more than a worthless woman--shameful, dirty. You belong outside, locked away like the servant you are."

The words hit like a whip. Amina's chest tightened, but her voice rose, fierce despite her fear. "I am trying to serve with dignity and respect this household ma'am."

At that moment, Mr. Al-Rashid entered the room, his face stern as he overheard her defiance.

"Zarah," he said quietly but firmly, "I do not tolerate such cruelty. Mercy and hard work can restore dignity and respect--even to those who have fallen."

Zarah's eyes flashed. "She is a stain on this house. I will not have her disgracing us."

He held up a hand to silence her. "You will be the mistress of this home soon, but I am still the master. And you will not speak back to me--or to her--in such a manner."

Turning to Amina, his voice softened. "Your place here is earned, but it must be honored with obedience and respect."

Amina nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Yes, sir."

Zarah's lips tightened, but she said nothing more, although the fire in her eyes did not dim.

That night, as the kennel door closed behind Amina once again, the cold metal bars felt heavier--but so did her resolve.

Chapter Ten: Authority and Obedience

The afternoon sun filtered through the heavy curtains of Mr. Al-Rashid's study, casting long shadows over the polished wood floor. The room was quiet, save for the low ticking of a clock and the faint rustle of papers on the desk.

Zarah sat stiffly on the edge of a leather chair, her eyes fixed on the intricate patterns of the carpet. Across from her, Mr. Al-Rashid's calm gaze never wavered.

"You will be the mistress of this home when we are married," he began, voice measured but firm, "but understand this clearly: I am still the master. My word is law, both to you and to Amina. That will not change."

Zarah's fingers clenched in her lap. She raised her head, meeting his eyes with a flash of defiance. "Of course," she said, her tone polite but cool, hiding the resentment beneath.

He leaned forward slightly, the faint scent of oud filling the air. "There are expectations that come with your new position. One of the most important is modesty. When we are married, you will wear the scarf in public. This is not optional."

Zarah's brow furrowed, and a flicker of irritation crossed her face. "I do not agree with that," she said, voice rising just a bit. "It feels constricting. I am used to my freedom."

Mr. Al-Rashid's expression darkened subtly. He lifted a hand to silence her before she could continue.

"When I speak," he said quietly but with steel beneath, "whether it is to you or to Amina, the proper response is 'Yes, sir.' This is respect and obedience I demand. Not a request."

Zarah's jaw tightened. "I am not a child," she retorted, struggling to keep her voice steady. "I do not appreciate being spoken to as such."

His gaze sharpened, the calm authority in his tone brooking no argument. "This is your new life, Zarah. Here, respect is earned by obedience. You will show the same respect you expect from others. That includes how you speak to me."

Zarah's eyes flickered with a mixture of frustration and something darker--resentment, perhaps. She swallowed hard, the fire in her dimming just enough to keep her from breaking the rule laid before her.

He paused, letting his words settle like a weight in the room.

"You will find that the strength of this household lies in discipline and order. You are part of it now. You will learn to accept that."

Zarah looked away, her mind racing. Freedom was slipping through her fingers like sand, yet defiance stirred within her--a stubborn flame she was not yet ready to extinguish.

Mr. Al-Rashid stood, signaling the end of the conversation. "Remember, Zarah, obedience is not weakness. It is the foundation of respect."

She rose as well, nodding slowly, eyes lowered but voice clear and steady.

"Yes, sir."

Chapter Eleven: The Line Crossed

It had been nearly two weeks since Zarah began wearing the scarf. Outwardly, she complied -- her hair neatly pinned, the scarf draped over her shoulders when she entered the home. She said "yes, sir" when Mr. Al-Rashid spoke, never once defying him in public.

But in private, something festered.

Zarah resented the quiet authority that pulsed through the home. The obedience. The structure. The unspoken reverence for rules that placed her, the future wife, under the same expectations as the house's only servant.

Amina.

Amina who stood silently at attention every morning with hands behind her back. Amina who obeyed the printed task lists, served meals without question, and retreated into invisibility once dismissed. Amina who never raised her voice, never made demands -- who simply existed within the boundaries she had been given.

And Mr. Al-Rashid treated her with an oddly consistent fairness -- strict, yet never cruel. It unsettled Zarah more than she expected.

"She should be outside," Zarah whispered once during a quiet evening in the salon. "She's a servant. Not family. Not your equal. Why is she allowed to serve guests inside the house?"

Mr. Al-Rashid didn't raise his voice. He simply replied, "Because she earns her place through obedience and effort. Mercy belongs to those who are willing to be redeemed."

Zarah looked away, jaw tight. "So that's all it takes to be dignified again? Even after what she was?"

"She is no longer what she was," he said calmly. "We are all more than our sins if we seek to rise from them."

Zarah said nothing after that. But something hardened in her.

Later that week, Zarah returned from a visit with her mother and took Mr. Al-Rashid aside.

"I had something made," she said. "For Amina. To restore order."

She led him outside to the back courtyard. There, beside the wall, stood a custom-built structure: part metal, part wood, with a latching gate and a low roof. A kennel. Raised slightly from the ground, padded with a coarse mat, and barred on all sides.

"It will remind her," Zarah said, chin lifted, "that she is a servant. And servants belong beneath their masters and mistresses."

Mr. Al-Rashid looked at it in silence for several long seconds.

"This is unnecessary," he finally said, voice quiet.

"It's fitting," Zarah countered. "She's been far too comfortable here. She doesn't need a room, she needs a place that reflects her station, more permanent than the kennel."

He didn't argue, but his jaw set in a way that said the matter was not closed.

That night, after dinner, Zarah walked with Mr. Al-Rashid to Amina's new room. Without waiting for instruction, she held out a key to the small padlock that secured the kennel door.

"She should sleep here tonight," she said. "Just as a reminder."

He hesitated.

"She hasn't been locked properly for months," Zarah added, watching him. "If she's truly obedient, she'll accept it without protest."

He gave her a slow, unreadable look -- then nodded once, as if granting a trial.

Amina didn't cry in front of them. She didn't speak at all. She stepped into the kennel, knelt, and lowered her head.

Zarah latched the door herself with a smile.

The next morning, Mr. Al-Rashid found Amina drying her eyes near the kitchen. She had prepared his coffee already, but her hands trembled slightly. Her scarf sat uneven on her head.

"Was the kennel too cold?" he asked.

"No, sir," she whispered.

"Then why are you crying?" He waited.

Finally, she looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. "She cut my hair, Master. Last night. She put me in the pillory stocks and took an electric razor to my head. She said... she said a woman like me didn't need to wear a scarf. That shame should be visible."

His face didn't change at first. But something behind his eyes shifted--sharp, dark, dangerous.

He reached forward slowly, as if touching something wounded, and drew back her scarf.

Where her thick, beautiful curls had once been, there was now only uneven stubble. A close, brutal buzz--rough, ugly in its cruelty. Not a correction. A humiliation.

He stood without a word.

Amina remained kneeling, head bowed, still clutching the scarf to her chest.

The hallway was quiet as he walked, measured steps down the polished tile toward the main room. The doors were open. Afternoon light streamed in, warming the space that suddenly felt cold.

Zarah was sitting there, perfectly composed, her posture regal, a cup of coffee balanced on her knee.

She looked up and smiled coolly. "If you're here about her," she began, "I told her the truth before you say anything. You've been far too merciful with that girl. She doesn't deserve to be covered like a modest woman. She's not your equal, and she never will be. She should wear her shame. I did what had to be done."

He didn't sit.

"You shaved her head without my permission?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made people stop breathing.

Zarah crossed her arms. "She needed it. She needed to be reminded of who she is, who she will always be."

He stepped forward, not looming, but firm. "You will be the mistress of this house, but I am still the master. You do not make decisions about punishment. You do not touch another soul under my roof without my command."

Zarah laughed, bitter and wounded. "I'm not even above her anymore, am I? What's the difference between me and the slave? We both wear the scarf, both say yes, sir. Maybe I should be on my knees too."

His eyes sharpened. "Perhaps you should reflect on why obedience feels like humiliation to you. When a woman submits with grace, she is raised in dignity -- not lowered."

She scoffed, turning away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"This conversation is not over," he said, voice quiet but edged with warning. "But it is ended for now."

She didn't respond, but as he turned to leave, Zarah's eyes flicked back toward the window -- to where Amina was kneeling silently in the courtyard, head bowed, scalp freshly buzzed.

Zarah's lips curled in thought.

"This isn't finished," she murmured to herself. "If you want her shamed... a buzz isn't enough. She needs to be razored bare. Stripped of every ounce of false dignity."

And with that, Zarah turned back toward the hall, her quiet rage sharpening into resolve. She hadn't lost yet. Not by a long shot.