They thought they buried me under velvet and pearls.
But even in exile, I built an empire.
Abdul never loved me.
But I was never his to begin with.
Long before him, I wore white.
Not for a wedding, but for the church.
I married faith, not flesh.
And I will never love a man like I loved Jesus.
---
London sparkled that winter—an icy, glittering cruelty, much like the man I was forced to call husband.
The Abduls lived in a penthouse the size of a palace, hung with chandeliers carved from Murano glass and warmed by Persian rugs older than most monarchies. They entertained foreign ministers over twenty-course dinners served in gold-rimmed china, while I—the real reason for their rising stock value—was paraded like a vintage diamond no one deserved to wear.
My marriage was arranged like a business deal signed in secrecy. My brother, the Sultan, inked the contract behind closed palace doors. It was simple: give Salma to the Abduls, and in return, they'd keep her occupied, silenced, and far from the oil councils that she legally controlled.
The Abduls accepted—not out of admiration, but opportunity.
They didn't need a wife.
They needed a walking asset.
And I—foolish only in how much I once cared—allowed them to crown me "Mrs. Abdul," while they siphoned off profits from the mines that carried my grandfather's name.
But even diamonds buried under sand don't lose their brilliance.
---
They never saw me coming.
---
Abdul took mistresses the way some men collect cufflinks—easily, carelessly, and without shame. He dined without me. Slept beside me but never with me. Gifted me cars not because he loved me, but because a Bugatti was cheaper than a conversation.
Once, I asked him, "Why marry me?"
He said, "Because power doesn't marry itself."
I smiled. "Then remember this—one day, power walks away."
He laughed.
He doesn't anymore.
---
While he flaunted influence in London's elite circles, I was quietly buying them.
I became a ghost shareholder in a series of energy and logistics firms across Europe and Asia. The oil refineries from the Gulf? Half of them were now under my shell companies. The air transport corridors used by Abdul's tankers? My signature, hidden in legal ink, owned the permissions.
I never needed to scream to be heard.
I whispered in numbers. And the world listened.
I hosted exclusive soirées in Chelsea—inviting diplomats, investors, and former royalty. I wore gowns spun with silk from Uzbekistan and diamonds mined from my own fields in Sierra Leone. I smiled, made toasts, and watched men who once underestimated me ask for handshakes.
---
Wealth has a language.
And I spoke it fluently.
---
The Abduls, intoxicated with the illusion of control, didn't realize I was bleeding their accounts slowly. Legally. Quietly. Every week, a percentage of their shares rerouted to a trust I had named after my late convent.
And when the time came, I pulled the plug.
They fell.
Publicly.
Violently.
And the headlines called it:
"Princess Salma bint Kareem reclaims the Crown of Oil."
---
But none of it mattered to my heart.
Because my heart never lived here.
It remained back in the stillness of the chapel, where candlelight flickered on old stone, and the scent of lilies reminded me of truth.
I never loved Abdul. Not even for a second.
Because long before I was ever a princess or an oil heiress,
I was a bride of the Church.
I gave my love to God in whispers, kneeling before marble altars.
Men like Abdul could only offer silk and insult.
But Christ had already crowned me—with grace.
---
Journal Entry – London Spring
They wanted to erase me.
But I wrote my name in contracts, currencies, and companies.
They wanted me silenced.
But I sang hymns in gold.
I was never their bride.
I am the church's daughter, and the desert's heir.
—Salma