14 NALIA HAD ONLY BEEN ASLEEP FOR A FEW HOURS WHEN a soft knock sounded at her bedroom door. She turned over and mumbled a sleepy “come in,” expecting it to be one of the maids with a breakfast tray. There were always three or so in the house, ghosts that flitted from room to room, working their domestic magic. She heard the door open, then felt the mattress slant as someone sat on her bed. She opened her eyes, blinking against the late-morning sun. Malek was looking down at her, his eyes full of concern. He was impeccably dressed, as usual. He made money in his sleep, but even so, he rose early every morning to begin his endless wheeling and dealing. “Are you ill?” he asked. He ran a finger across her jaw and she endured his touch with the patient suffering of a martyr. She shook her head. “Just tired.” His eyes traveled across her face and she forced a smile. “What?” she said. “I want to make last night up to you. There’s a benefit at the Getty this evening. Will you allow me to escort you?
