Beirut Before Silence
Chapter One
Beirut Before Silence
The electricity cut out halfway through Layla Haddad’s shower.
“Of course,” she muttered into the darkness.
From somewhere outside her apartment building, Beirut answered with the sound of car horns, distant music, and someone yelling across the street like the entire city had collectively agreed silence was unnecessary. A second later, the backup generator from the bakery downstairs kicked in with a violent groan.
Warm yellow light flickered through the bathroom window.
Layla leaned her forehead briefly against the cool tile and laughed tiredly to herself.
“Very elegant,” she murmured in Arabic.
It had been thirty-one hours since she’d slept properly.
Her shift at Saint George Hospital had technically ended two hours ago, except nothing at the hospital ever really ended anymore. Not the overcrowded emergency rooms. Not the shortages. Not the endless stream of exhausted residents surviving on coffee and nicotine and stubbornness.
She twisted the water off and stepped out into the humid apartment air.
Her phone buzzed violently on the counter.
Yara.
Layla already knew the message before opening it.
If you are late again I swear to God I’ll leave for China without you.
Layla snorted.
Another message immediately followed.
Wear something nice.
You dress like a homeless woman.
A third.
Also Mama says bring the blue folder.
Layla typed back with wet fingers.
Tell your mother I’m resigning from this friendship.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Too late. We are emotionally codependent.
Layla smiled despite herself.
The smile faded slightly when she looked around the apartment.
Medical textbooks stacked across the dining table. Laundry she hadn’t folded. Half-drunk coffee from yesterday morning still sitting beside patient notes. Her white coat hanging over a chair.
Her life had slowly become a series of unfinished things.
Outside, Beirut glowed gold beneath the evening haze.
Beautiful and exhausting but home.
Layla pulled on jeans and a loose black blouse before standing in front of the mirror to tame her curls. Pointless. The humidity had already won.
Her mother used to say her hair behaved according to her emotional state.
“Then I should shave it,” Layla had once replied at sixteen after exam season.
Her mother had nearly cried in horror.
The memory hit unexpectedly sharp.
She still hadn’t visited home properly in almost two weeks.
Dinner with Yara’s family before her flight to Shanghai tomorrow morning. Two weeks accompanying her best friend before returning to Beirut and pretending her life wasn’t slowly eating her alive.
A temporary escape.
Nothing more.
—
The Khoury apartment was loud before Layla even entered it.
Arabic music drifted down the hallway. Someone was arguing passionately about politics. Plates clattered in the kitchen.
Layla stepped inside and immediately got hit in the face with the smell of garlic, lemon, and roasting lamb.
“Finally,” Yara announced dramatically from the dining room. “The missing daughter returns.”
“I hope you suffer in Shanghai,” Layla replied, slipping off her shoes.
Yara gasped. “Mama, did you hear her?”
“I heard both of you,” Mrs. Khoury shouted from the kitchen. “Layla, come help me. Yara is useless.”
“Traitor,” Yara muttered.
Layla laughed softly and walked into the kitchen.
Warmth.
That was the first thing people noticed about Lebanese homes.
Not temperature.
Presence.
Someone always talking. Someone always feeding you. Someone always asking questions you didn’t want to answer.
Mrs. Khoury grabbed Layla’s face affectionately before handing her a bowl.
“You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“You’re too thin.”
“I saw you three days ago.”
“And you were too thin then too.”
Layla smiled helplessly.
From the doorway, Yara watched the interaction smugly.
“You see? I’m not the only one saying it.”
“You say it because you enjoy annoying me.”
“I say it because one day you’ll collapse dramatically in surgery and embarrass all of us.”
Layla threw a napkin at her.
The apartment erupted into overlapping conversation again.
Arabic flowed rapidly around her. Comfortable. Fast. Familiar.
This was what exhaustion couldn’t take from her.
Not yet.
—
The airport the next morning was chaos.
Layla stood beside an overflowing luggage cart while Yara argued into her phone in Arabic.
“No, Baba, I know where my passport is—”
Pause.
“Because I’m holding it.”
Pause.
“No, I’m not stressed.”
Layla raised an eyebrow.
Yara glared at her while continuing the call.
Across the terminal, travelers rushed beneath bright airport lights while announcements echoed overhead in Arabic, English, and French.
Layla tugged her coat tighter against the aggressive air conditioning.
She already regretted agreeing to a fourteen-hour flight.
Yara ended the call dramatically.
“My father thinks I’ll die in China.”
“He thinks you’ll die crossing the street.”
“That’s because he knows me too well.”
Layla laughed quietly.
Then she noticed him for the first time.
Not because he was handsome.
Because he looked completely unaffected by the airport chaos surrounding him.
Dark coat. Black gloves tucked beneath one arm. Calm expression. A badge clipped near his jacket pocket. Chinese, obviously. Early thirties maybe.
Government.
Everything about him felt government.
He stood beside two airport officials speaking in measured Mandarin while scanning documents with unsettling efficiency.
Composed.
Precise.
Emotionally impossible to read.
“Don’t look now,” Yara whispered suddenly, “but the Chinese official has looked over here three times.”
Layla barely glanced back.
“He’s probably wondering why you travel with six suitcases.”
“Five,” Yara corrected.
“Criminal behavior.”
Yara grinned.
A moment later, one of the airport staff approached them quickly.
Rapid English followed. Too rapid.
Yara blinked.
Layla caught maybe half of it.
“Sorry,” she interrupted carefully in English. “Slowly?”
The employee looked increasingly panicked.
Then the Chinese man appeared beside him.
Up close, he seemed taller than she expected.
Not intimidating exactly.
Controlled.
There was a difference.
He glanced briefly between the two women before speaking in careful English.
“Problem with your visa registration document.”
His accent was light but noticeable.
Yara immediately looked horrified.
“What problem?”
The airport employee launched into another explanation.
Layla lost track halfway through.
Beside her, Wenze seemed to notice.
He took the papers calmly from the employee’s hands, scanned them once, then looked at Yara.
“Your invitation number is missing,” he explained. “Easy fix.”
Yara exhaled loudly like she’d survived a near-death experience.
“You scared me.”
No visible reaction crossed his face.
“It happens often.”
Layla almost smiled at the dry response.
Almost.
Wenze handed the papers back carefully.
“For future,” he added, “keep the embassy copy separate.”
Yara nodded rapidly.
“Yes. Thank you. Really.”
He inclined his head once.
Professional. Efficient. Finished.
Then his eyes shifted briefly toward Layla.
Only for a second.
Long enough for her to notice how unexpectedly tired he looked beneath the composure.
Not physically tired.
Something quieter than that.
Then he stepped away again without another word.
Yara watched him go.
“He’s handsome in a terrifying government way.”
Layla rolled her eyes lightly.
“He looks like he sleeps four hours a night.”
“That’s your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
Yara laughed.
“Layla, you once dated a cardiac surgeon who looked permanently disappointed in humanity.”
“He was kind.”
“He corrected my grammar during dinner.”
“He corrected everyone’s grammar.”
“Exactly.”
Layla shook her head, smiling despite herself.
Across the terminal, the Chinese official disappeared back into the movement of the airport crowd.
Neither of them noticed him glance back once before walking away.
