The Minister's building was taller than she remembered.
Twenty-one floors of mirrored glass and silence. No security checkpoint. No greeting desk. Just a thumbprint scanner and a camera that already knew her face.
Sami El-Amin had always preferred it this way — clean, efficient, quietly terrifying.
She was led through the sterile corridors by a woman in a gray suit who never spoke. The woman stopped at a large black door, tapped twice, then vanished like smoke.
Layla stood alone.
She didn't knock.
She entered.
Sami sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes unreadable.
He hadn't aged much. A little grayer, maybe. Still the same tailored suit. Still the same cologne — subtle but expensive. Still the same voice, too, when he finally spoke:
"I thought you'd come back in handcuffs, not heels."
She didn't flinch. "You always did appreciate irony."
A smile flickered — or maybe it was just the light.
"Layla Rami. My favorite mistake."
"You don't get to flirt. Not after what you let them do to me."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her like a puzzle he'd already solved.
"I didn't let anything happen. I simply chose not to stop it."
She walked to the desk, dropped the flash drive onto its surface.
He didn't move.
"That's Project Safa. Your golden toy. Your Orwellian fantasy on steroids. I know what you're doing, Sami. And so will the world."
Now he moved — but not in anger. He stood slowly, walked around the desk, and stood just close enough to smell the defiance on her skin.
"You always did think exposure equals justice. But this is Aldarrah, Layla. Truth doesn't live here anymore. It rents a room and pays in silence."
She stepped back. "Not everyone is afraid."
"No. But enough are. And that's all we need."
The silence held for a long, tense moment.
Then he reached into his pocket and tossed her something — a keycard.
"What's this?"
"An invitation."
"To what?"
"To dinner. Tonight. At the old presidential estate. Everyone will be there. Ministers. Generals. Foreign observers. Cameras."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Why me?"
"Because you're not dead," he said simply. "And I have a weakness for unfinished business."
Layla stared at the card.
He leaned in close. "One more thing," he whispered. "Whatever you're planning, don't do it there."
"Why not?"
"Because they won't just erase you, Layla. They'll make you the villain. And it'll stick."
She left the building with more questions than answers.
But one thing was clear:
Sami still wanted her alive.
Which meant he either needed her — or wanted her to believe he did.
Both were dangerous.
Either could be fatal.