Beit ed-Dine Palace | قصر بيت الدين
"She organizes the summer festival at Beit ed-Dine Palace. He's the conductor whose orchestra is headlining. Between rehearsals and revelations, they orchestrate their own duet. 'Inti el symphony el kamle' (أنتِ السيمفونية الكاملة)."
Beit ed-Dine Palace
قصر بيت الدين
Palaces remember grandeur.
Beit ed-Dine was built for emirs; now it hosts music. I've organized the summer festival for fifteen years.
Then the maestro arrives, demanding perfection.
I'm Lara.
Forty-eight, festival director, body built by stress eating and late nights. My organizational skills rival the palace's architecture.
Maestro Viktor Koslov expects impossible acoustics.
"The echo is too long."
"It's an Ottoman palace, not a concert hall."
"Then make it a concert hall."
"In three days?"
He's fifty-five.
Russian-Lebanese conductor, world-famous, returning to his mother's homeland. His standards are legendary; his tantrums worse.
"I don't throw tantrums—"
"Your reputation precedes you."
"Then you know I only want excellence."
"So do I. We'll find compromise."
Compromise becomes collaboration.
He adjusts arrangements; I adjust staging. His demands become requests. My rejections become solutions.
"You're remarkable," he admits at midnight rehearsal.
"I'm exhausted."
"Same thing, in this business."
The festival begins.
Sold-out performances, standing ovations. We watch together from backstage wings.
"You made this possible," he says.
"We made it possible."
"Then we should celebrate."
"What kind of celebration?"
His answer is a kiss.
The palace's inner courtyard, musicians departed, stars above. His conductor's hands frame my face.
"Viktor—"
"Inti el symphony el kamle." You're the complete symphony.
"That's—"
"True."
We make love in the palace.
Where emirs once ruled, where music now reigns. He lays me on ceremonial cushions.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Large. Exhausted—"
"Magnificent. Every movement."
He worships me orchestrally.
Every touch a section joining. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Viktor—"
"Let me conduct your pleasure."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip palace silks, crying out in emir's quarters. Pleasure building to crescendo.
"Ya Allah—"
"Hold it. Hold it. Now—release."
When he enters me, I feel scored.
We move together in the palace—his rhythm conducting mine, building toward finale.
"Aktar—"
"Da—"
The climax is standing ovation.
We cry out together—performance complete, excellence achieved. Then silence, breath, the palace approving.
Three years later
Viktor guest-conducts every summer.
Returns for the festival. Returns for me. We've built something that outlasts seasons.
"Worth the compromise?" I ask.
"Best collaboration of my career." He kisses me in the palace. "Best everything."
Alhamdulillah.
For palaces that host.
For conductors who learn.
For directors who become symphony.
The End.