The Pharaoh’s Favorite novel Chapter 7

The palace swallows me whole, its grandeur a gilded cage. Every surface glimmers with wealth and power, a tribute to the gods and the mortal who claims their favor.

My family’s goodbye fades from my thoughts like morning mist: Mother’s carefully staged tears, Father’s self-satisfied proclamations about honor, and Kiya’s smirk, sharp as a dagger. Their words mean nothing here.

The palace is a different world, one I am not prepared to enter.

Golden light floods the great hall where we gather, its radiance casting long shadows on the polished floors. Two dozen girls stand beside me, each adorned in gauzy linens that float like river foam.

“Smile,” a girl beside me whispers, her voice tight with forced cheer. “Today could change your life forever.”

Her words send a chill down my spine, but I force a faint smile, my hands clenching the fabric of my dress.

Jewels catch the sunlight, winking like fallen stars. We are a collection of treasures on display, waiting to be appraised and claimed. My own fine dress clings to my skin, an unwelcome reminder of my place among them.

I feel naked.

Exposed.

At the far end of the hall, the throne sits draped in light silks, its occupant hidden from view. The sheer fabric stirs faintly in the breeze, teasing with glimpses of the man who will decide our fates. My heart pounds against my ribs, frantic and wild. I pray silently to the gods for release.

Please, let me trip.

Let me fall.

Let me prove myself unworthy to him.

A steward steps forward, his voice rising over the quiet hum of the room.

“Today, on the Pharaoh’s sacred birthday, he will choose a new concubine for the Golden House among the finest daughters of great Egypt.” His words ripple through the hall, each syllable steeped in formality.

Music begins to swell, filling the vast chamber with sound. The low beat of drums echoes my racing pulse, while flutes rise in delicate harmony, weaving melodies as light as incense smoke.

The other girls move gracefully, their bodies flowing with the rhythm, telling ancient stories of seduction and submission.

I follow the steps as I have been taught, but my movements feel stiff, mechanical. My thoughts drift far from the dance.

I think of Amen. His smile, mysterious and teasing. His words, carefully measured and full of half-truths. His promise – We will meet again.

The memory of him lingers like a shadow, impossible to ignore.

The music fades, leaving the hall in expectant silence. We kneel as one, our heads bowed in submission.

My breath catches in my throat, the stillness pressing down on me like a weight. Moments pass, each one stretching longer than the last, until finally, the steward’s voice cuts through the quiet.

And then…

“The green-eyed one.”

No.

Belong.