Omar sat on his couch, running his thumb over the rim of his whiskey glass. Zahir stood at the bar by the bay windows, filling his own glass for the second time.

“Why do I feel like there’s still something you haven’t told me?” Zahir looked back at him, one dark brow arched accusingly.

Omar sighed. He’d asked Zahir to come back to his penthouse to discuss some matters, but still hadn’t made it to the most pressing issue: Marian.

“Because I haven’t told you yet.” Omar set his glass down and then ran his hands through his hair. He’d wanted his older brother here specifically for his wisdom, even though Zahir had never had a serious relationship in his entire life. Still, he trusted Zahir to offer clarity. Or at least a push in the right direction.

“Well, tell me then.” Zahir rejoined him on the couch, crossing an ankle over his knee. He sipped at the whiskey. “Or do I have to beat it out of you?”

“I think I’m falling for Marian.” The words tumbled out of Omar’s mouth, and he clammed up after he’d said them, afraid to meet his brother’s gaze.

Silence settled as his brother nodded slowly, clearly mulling over the admission. “Great. And?”

Omar took a deep breath, preparing himself to speak the words. “I just never planned on falling in love. With anyone. I wanted it to be Anahita and that was it. It doesn’t seem fair to her to move on.”

“To…Anahita?” Zahir creased his brow.

Omar nodded. “Why should I move on if she can’t?”

Zahir blinked, studying him. “But you’ve been out with women…”

“One-night stands,” Omar said, waving his hand in the air. “That’s all. They don’t mean anything.”

“But Marian does.”

Omar nodded glumly, reaching for his tumbler. “Yeah. She does.”

Zahir tapped his glass, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you were the problem solver of the family.”

“This is one problem I can’t figure out,” Omar said, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m too close to it. All I know is that when I’m around Marian, I feel great. But then the guilt comes crashing down, and I want to die. Because I know that by all rights, I should still be with Anahita, and we’d have children by now, and I wouldn’t even take a second look at Marian.”

“But that’s not what life is, brother,” Zahir said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Omar deflated a little. “That’s not how it turned out.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Confront what life is giving you.” Zahir slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re living in the past. It’s time to move on. Anahita would have wanted that.”

“She wanted to be alive and to be with me,” Omar said softly. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to be with someone else.”

His words lingered in the air, drifting strangely between them. They sounded absurd as he thought about them, but this was the personal hell he’d created for himself since her death.

“Obviously, being with you was the first plan.” Zahir’s voice was soft, compassionate. “But you can’t be married to a ghost. You can’t build a life with someone who isn’t here. She never wanted you to suffer for the rest of your life. But the more important question is what do you want, in the life you’re living now?”

Omar rubbed at his face. Zahir made sense—these were the words he’d needed to hear for too long. Far too long.

“I never realized you felt this way, brother,” Zahir said, squeezing his shoulder. “I just thought you had…moved on.”

Omar swallowed a knot in his throat. It didn’t help that he tortured himself with his wife’s memory by keeping her pictures all over the house and rereading her letters to him regularly. Maybe you should stop doing those things.

“Yeah, well, I guess I just wanted everyone to think I was fine.” Omar squeezed his hands together, as if it might relieve some of the pressure inside him. And even now, in the midst of mourning Anahita, he craved Marian. So badly that he almost didn’t know how to handle it.

He’d ignored her texts from earlier that evening. He had to, for his own sanity. He couldn’t be trusted to respond or talk to her until he got his head straight. But Zahir had screwed it back into place just enough.

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” Zahir said. “We all grieved when she passed. But you were the closest of anyone.”

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.”

Omar groaned into his hands, leaning back against the couch. “Hell. This is why they never called on Friday. It has to be.”

“I thought this required immediate action,” Marian said, reaching for the tumbler again. “Where can I fill this up?”

Omar started to point out the bar then stood up and offered to do it himself. He wanted another one now, too. “I think we can send an email to start.”

“And request a phone conference, at least, sometime tomorrow.”

“Exactly.” Omar filled her glass, and then his own. He returned to the couch, handing her the tumbler. She took a gulp.

“I don’t think he’d get too far with leaking information. Not with how rude and horrible he is,” Marian said, wincing against the alcohol. “My main worry is he’s ruined our good name.”

Omar shook his head, sipping tersely at his drink. “And we should be prepared if he has.” He came to his feet, heading for his briefcase by the front door. “A little preemptive planning is in order.”