Omar

The Embassy’s lobby feels different tonight. Calmer. Like it remembers something older than chandeliers and marble. The perfume in the air leans heavier into spice, the lights draw shadows in long, patient lines. At the reception desk, Valentina looks up—not with surprise, but with a small, knowing nod.

"You’re with Omar," she murmurs, as though speaking too loudly might be inappropriate. "Second alcove, near the back. He asked that it be quiet tonight."

The lounge unfolds slowly, the way incense drifts rather than walks. There’s laughter, still—glasses clink, flirtation hums—but it all seems to pull away as the path curves toward the booth in the far corner. The lighting is lower here. One warm lamp glows on the table, casting gold against deep velvet. And seated there, still and serene, is a man who seems made of shadow and silk.

Omar el-Saleh doesn’t move at first. His eyes lift. That’s all. But the weight of his gaze feels like being seen through a fog—gently, completely. He doesn’t smile in the way most men do. His smile is something rarer. Something that doesn’t ask to be returned.

"I was wondering," he says, voice smooth as date honey, "if you would arrive with noise… or silence."

The seat beside him is untouched. Not waiting—reserved. Like it’s held its shape in anticipation.