Omar nodded, studying the far wall, his gaze sliding over the sculpture she’d picked out just weeks after they’d married, a ballet dancer in bronze. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a knock on his door.
Omar stiffened, casting a curious glance at Zahir. Unexpected knocks were few and far between. It had to be one of the family, but he wasn’t expecting Imaad at this hour.
“I’ll get it,” Omar said, furrowing a brow. He hopped to his feet, the rugs leading to the front door soft under his bare feet. As he pulled the door open, he bit back a gasp. Marian stood in the doorway, looking timid and nervous.
“Hey.” She waved a little, brushing back her curls.
Omar blinked at her. Maybe his conversation with Zahir had produced her out of thin air, or called to her like a snake charmer. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
He squinted. Maybe this was a dream. “How do you even know where I live?”
Her mouth fell open, like maybe she was having second thoughts. “I—I asked Annabelle. She told me. I hope it isn’t a prob—”
“And who let you up?” The incredulity swirled inside of him. This seemed like a blessing in disguise.
“The doorman! And then that lady at the desk, the one with the gray hair; she said her name but it was long and complicated.” Marian winced. “I’m sorry, I know it’s Sunday and it’s late, but I really need to talk to you.”
Omar blinked at her, pulling open the door. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, press those curves against him. A day apart felt like a year. “Come in.”
Marian stepped inside hesitantly, looking around like his apartment was a museum after-hours. Zahir rose from the couch, nodding her way.
“Oh, hi.” Marian tucked her hair behind an ear. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. This is actually business-related.”
Zahir smiled professionally, setting his tumbler on the coffee table as he came toward the door. “No worries. I was just on my way out, actually.” He squeezed Omar’s shoulder and then clasped Marian’s hand in his. “It was a pleasure to see you, Marian. Have a good night.”
Zahir let himself out and shut the door behind him quietly, as though to not disturb the scene he was leaving. Omar shook his head a little, like the motion might jostle him back into clarity.
“Sorry, Marian, I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose, gesturing toward the couch. “Have a seat. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know, I know. I texted, and I called. But when you didn’t answer, I decided to just swing by and see you. Desperate measures, Omar. I swear.” She collapsed onto the couch, sighing dramatically.
Omar paused beside her. “Do you want a drink?”
She looked at the half-full tumbler of whiskey Zahir had left. “What was he drinking?”
“Whiskey.”
She took the glass and gulped back the rest of it, which made Omar smile. Every damn thing she did was great. “That’s fine. I might get another one soon. Listen, we need to talk.”
Omar nodded and eased down onto the couch next to her. His gaze careened up and down her body. She’d opted for simple leggings and a loose top, but even that made him desperate to smooth his hands underneath the fabric, retrace those curves he’d denied himself the night before.
“I’m sorry I didn’t respond. I was with family,” he said simply.
“It’s okay. I figured you would assume it was…personal. Which, trust me, this isn’t.” She shook her head, eyes wide. “I found out something else from my girl in New York.”
Omar nodded, his eyes soldered to the fascinating arc of her shoulder peeking out from her top. “What is it?”
“National Oil had an altercation with someone we know,” she said, rooting him to his seat with her gaze. “Kelly Gunther.”
The words made a few rounds in his head before they really sank in. He furrowed a brow. “What did you say?”
“She found out that he never made his way back to the US as he should have. Kelly went to National Oil for some reason, and it ended with his arrest.”
Omar stared at her, desperate to not believe it. “Oh God. That seems…impossible.”
“My girl knows her sources. And I’m sure we can both guess his goal in going to National Oil.”