The Nishat Hotel didn’t sleep. It breathed. A low, constant hum of air conditioning, the distant shush of a vacuum cleaner on a far-flung carpeted corridor, the imperceptible vibration of a hundred mini-bars. For Amara, perched on the edge of a stiff armchair in the lobby, it was a living creature, and she knew its rhythms intimately.Call Girls In Nishat Hotel Lahore.
She wasn’t waiting for anyone. Not in the way the other women in the lobby were, with their nervous glances towards the brass-and-glass revolving doors. Amara was an observer, a curator of moments. Her presence itself was a performance—a woman of impossible composure, dressed not to scream for attention, but to whisper of exclusivity. A single, heavy pearl pendant rested against her collarbone. Her espresso, untouched, was merely a prop.
Her eyes, the colour of dark honey, skimmed the scene. A group of businessmen laughed a little too loudly by the marble pillar, their eyes darting, assessing the inventory of the lounge. A lone man in a well-cut but slightly tired suit checked his phone for the tenth time, the blue light illuminating the anxiety on his face. Amara knew his type. From Sheikhupura or Sialkot, in the city for a deal, trying to project a success he hadn’t yet achieved. He would either choose someone obvious and brash, or he would chicken out, order room service, and fall asleep to satellite TV.
This was her stage: the gilded cage of the Nishat. The chandeliers driight light onto polished surfaces, the scent of oud and jasmine from a hidden diffuser was a carefully crafted mirage of Arabian Nights, and the staff moved with a practiced indifference that was the highest form of discretion. They saw everything and acknowledged nothing.
A man approached her. Not the anxious one. An older man, his confidence worn like a comfortable watch. He didn’t ask if the seat was taken. He simply sat.
“It’s a long way from the bazaars of Istanbul,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Amara didn’t startle. She turned her head slowly, a faint, enigmatic smile touching her lips. It was their code. A week ago, he’d been a client, a collector of rare carpets and, it seemed, memorable evenings. He’d told her about the Grand Bazaar.
“Some treasures are found in unlikely places,” she replied, her voice smooth, melodic. No Lahori accent, but something more neutral, more international. Another carefully crafted part of the persona.
He didn’t want to negotiate. This was a callback. A repeat customer, the highest compliment in her world. There was a brief, quiet exchange—a number murmured, not a price, but a duration. A room number. A time.
He left as quietly as he arrived, the ghost of his cologne lingering beside the scent of her perfume.
Amara finally took a sip of the cold coffee. The performance was over for now. The lobby, for all its opulence, was just the foyer. The real theatre was upstairs, in the soundproofed rooms where loneliness was bartered for a few hours of manufactured intimacy. Where men came to feel powerful, interesting, or simply less alone, and women like her provided the set, the script, and the leading role.
She stood, smoothed her dress, and walked towards the elevators. Her reflection in the polished brass doors was a portrait of elegant composure. But the eyes that looked back—the honey-coloured eyes—held a universe of stories she would never tell. She was a ghost in the machine of the Nishat, a fleeting, expensive dream in a five-star hotel that never, ever slept.
