The Call Girls in Heritage Luxury Hotel Lahore didn’t simply occupy a space in Lahore; it absorbed the city’s old soul and re-packaged it for a price. Its walls, artfully distressed to mimic the Walled City, were perfumed not with the scent of dust and jasmine, but with chilled air and European lilies. It was a beautiful illusion, a stage set for a certain kind of life. And Amara was one of its principal actresses.
Men like Mr. Asif didn’t come here for the history. They came for the discretion that history’s heavy stone walls implied. Amara watched him from the plush armchair in the Crimson Lounge, her posture a study in elegant indolence. She was not part of the décor; she was a focal point, a deliberate flaw in the perfect tapestry that made the whole picture more intriguing. Her emerald silk dress was quieter than the laughter of the socialites at the next table, but it drew more furtive glances.
She had chosen the name ‘Amara’ for its meaning—‘eternally beautiful’. It was a brand, a promise of an experience untarnished by the mundane. She was not a ‘call girl’; that was a crude, transactional term. She was a composer of evenings, a curator of fantasies, and the Heritage was her gallery.
Mr. Asif finished his single malt and made the subtlest of gestures—a glance at his watch, a slight adjustment of his cufflink. The signal. Amara gave him a five-minute lead, the time it would take for him to reach the sanctum of his suite on the top floor. She used the time to observe the room. A wealthy industrialist nervously rehearsing a pitch to his bored wife. A group of foreign investors, their eyes glazed with privilege and jet lag. She saw the secrets they thought they hid, the tensions thrumming beneath the surface of their polished conversations. In her line of work, she had become an archaeologist of desire and loneliness.
Her heels made no sound on the intricate Persian carpets as she walked towards the elevators. The staff, impeccably trained, saw nothing. She was a ghost in the machine of luxury, acknowledged only by the soft chime of the private elevator accepting her keycard.
The suite was a masterpiece of understated opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering, nocturnal view of the Badshahi Mosque, its sandstone glowing under floodlights, a silent witness to centuries of whispered secrets. Mr. Asif stood by the window, his back to her, the city’s ancient heart laid out before him.
