Page 12 of Saving Noor

“Come out now,” she called softly.

The sharp clang of the lock slicing through the sudden silence snapped the air taut. The girls’ laughter hung frozen mid-air, wide eyes instantly snapping toward Noor. Before the door could open, Yasmin and Amina exchanged a quick, silent look: not just a twin’s bond, but a shared, wordless understanding forged in fear. This time, they didn’t scatter but moved together, crouching behind the large cedar chest at the foot of the bed. Their small bodies pressed flat to the floor, breaths so shallow they might as well have disappeared.

Noor’s heart hammered. She moved swiftly to shield them, stepping between the door and their hiding spot. One hand trembled as it pressed hard against her stomach, a silent plea for courage.

The door creaked open, revealing not Faisal but Jamil: sharp-featured, cold-eyed, and unyielding. His gaze swept the room like a ruthless floodlight, stripping away any illusion of safety. To him, they were not children to nurture but property to command.

“Where are they?” Jamil demanded harshly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.

Noor met his icy stare, keeping her own expression blank. A brief, calculated pause hung in the air before she replied, her Arabic calm and practiced despite the trembling in her hands. “They are here. Just playing. You need not worry.”

Jamil stepped closer. The smell of stale tobacco and gun oil hung off him like a shroud. He muttered a quick command in rough English to a guard just outside the door, then turned back to Noor, his voice chillingly smooth in Arabic. “Faisal is inspecting his property. He is bringing guests soon. The western wing is being prepared for his…partners.”

Noor’s blood ran cold. Partners. The English word, overheard, hammered in her mind. Faisal rarely came here himself. This estate was a prison for her and the girls until the day they would be sold.

Jamil’s gaze swept the room, sharp and searching, his ears tuned for any sign of the girls. He spoke to Noor in Arabic, his voice low and severe. “Clean them up. The partners tastes are specific. Everything must be perfect. Wash their faces, they always look like street rats.” He finished with a sharp, dismissive wave.

Without another word, he turned abruptly, the door slamming shut behind him like a verdict.

Specific tastes. Partners. The words, Arabic and English alike, poisoned the air. Noor sank onto the bed’s edge, her legs suddenly weak. She knew the language of men like Abbas, Faisal, and Jamil—not just their words, but the chilling subtext beneath their assumed superiority. They were not merely hosting guests. They were bartering lives, trading human souls like commodities in a ruthless marketplace.

That evening, the sounds from the courtyard grew louder: voices, laughter, clinking glass. Noor cracked the window just enough to listen. Two guards stood directly below, speaking freely in English, their voices careless and cruel.

“Fresh shipment,” one said gruffly. “Younger than the last.”

“Faisal pays good for purity,” the other laughed. “But they all break eventually. The new one’s real pretty, they say. Lucky the old man left behind all those books. Keeps that original girl quiet, huh?” He sneered. “Thinks she’s smart because of those pages, but she’s just a stupid whore. Just watches the birds all day.”

The first guard grinned darkly. “Hope we get a go at her before the end comes.”

Their laughter bounced off the stone walls, a harsh soundtrack to Noor’s silent fury.

Noor’s hand flew to her mouth, struggling to stifle a gasp that threatened to escape. Her chest tightened and her breath caught like a sudden choke. The new one. A new girl had arrived, another thread woven into the growing, nightmarish web she was trapped in. But it was the casual cruelty, the chilling assumption of her own ignorance, that struck deepest, carving fresh wounds beneath her skin.

Her fingers trembled as she clutched the crumpled note hidden in her pocket. Samir’s words, etched softly in worn Arabic script, whispered in her mind like a fragile hope: Mama, I have gone to America. I will come back for you. Wait for me.

The weight of those promises and the harsh reality around her collided, fueling a fire beneath her quiet despair.

“Where are you, Samir?” she whispered, shoulders shaking. “Are you safe? Alive?”

A year of silence had stretched like a chasm, twisting doubt into a serpent coiled in her heart. Had he been caught? Had he forgotten? Or was America nothing but a dream that swallowed him whole?

No. She crushed the thought hard. Samir had his father’s stubborn heart and her own survival instincts. He was out there. He was coming.

But could she wait?

Her hand rose to her belly. The baby moved again, subtle and soft, barely there—a quiet pulse of life that filled her with hope and fear. If Faisal sold the twins, if he took them before Samir arrived…

A cold clarity settled on her: waiting was no longer enough.

She reached beneath the mattress, where she had slipped the rough, splintered piece of the wooden curtain rod she had broken off days ago. Carefully wrapped in strips of cloth to soften the jagged edges, the crude but sturdy weapon lay hidden in plain sight, ready at her fingertips.

She also kept a second piece concealed near the living room door, tucked beneath a loose floorboard, an emergency backup within easy reach if she needed to defend herself or her daughters quickly. It was little, but it was something.

She returned to the sleeping girls, smoothing Yasmin’s hair and stroking Amina’s cheek.

“I will not let them take you,” she vowed silently, words like fire in her mind. “I will burn this place to the ground before they touch you.”

If the walls were breached and the “guests” came for her daughters, she would do the unthinkable. Fight until her last breath. And if she failed…she would ensure no one suffered the life she had known.