Chapter 10

Omar Al-Mansour's laughter cut through the tension of the restaurant like a jagged blade. He leaned back, his eyes darting between Layla and Salma, savoring the sight of their pale faces. "Haha! Forgotten to bring your bank card? What a splendid reason!" He shouted the words, ensuring every patron at the surrounding tables could hear. "Layla, for a General Manager, that's a pathetic excuse. And Salma? Did you forget to bring yours too? Or did the Mansour family suddenly run out of plastic?" Salma's face flushed a deep, humiliated crimson. She opened her mouth to snap back, but the weight of the thirty-eight million dollar bill anchored her tongue. Layla looked down at her lap, her fingers twisting together. The silence of the family was an admission of guilt to the growing crowd of onlookers. A young girl standing near the buffet line blurted out to the room, "Tariq Al-Khoury must have forgotten his card too! This whole family came here to eat a free meal! Look at them, trying to act like big shots while they plan to sneak out the back." The murmurs from the other tables turned into open jeers. The manager stood nearby, his arms crossed, waiting for a resolution that seemed less likely with every passing second. Tariq Al-Khoury stepped forward. His expression was calm, contrasting sharply with the frantic energy of the Mansours. "I brought my card," he said, reaching into his pocket. "It's just that..." "You brought your card?" Omar interrupted, lunging forward. He snatched the card out of Tariq's hand before the other man could finish his sentence. Omar held it up like a trophy, his lip curling in a sneer. "Come, let's see whether this card has even 300,000 bucks in it! Knowing you, Tariq, it's probably a library card or a voucher for a free shawarma." Omar looked down at the card in his palm. It was matte black, heavy, and lacked the usual embossed numbering found on standard bank issues. There were only three Al-Mas Bank black cards in all of Al-Fajr City, a fact known only to the highest echelons of the elite. To own one required a minimum of one billion in liquid savings. Layla's heart sank as she watched Omar parade the card. "Tariq, stop it," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and exhaustion. She was certain he was about to make a fool of himself on a scale they couldn't recover from. A fake card would be worse than no card at all. Standing among the crowd, Lina Jamal narrowed her eyes. Her family's antique business required her to be an expert in recognizing the authentic from the counterfeit. As the light from the chandeliers hit the surface of the card in Omar's hand, she gasped. "I didn't see it wrongly, right?" Lina exclaimed, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Al-Mas Bank's black card?! Is that actually a black card?" The room went silent. The name of the card carried a weight that transcended the current argument. For a moment, the observers looked at Tariq with a sudden, sharp terror. "This... this is just a sticker for bank cards, right?" a man at a nearby table blurted out, breaking the spell. He laughed nervously. "Yeah, that's it. You can buy those skins online for a few bucks. He's just pasted a black sticker over a regular debit card." The tension broke, replaced by a wave of relief that manifested as even harsher mockery. Omar roared with laughter, slapping his knee. "Haha! Tariq Al-Khoury, you're one disgusting man. Don't mind that you're poor, yet you try to act like a wealthy person. A sticker? You really thought you could fool us with a sticker?" Tariq didn't argue. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stood there with a thin smile playing on his lips. His voice was soft, yet it seemed to carry to every corner of the room, cutting through Omar's hysterics. "If it's a sticker, the machine won't read it. Why don't you just swipe it?" Layla stepped toward him, her face a mask of shame. "Tariq Al-Khoury, get rid of that sticker when we get home. Aren't you shameful?" she hissed, leaning in close so the others wouldn't hear. Then, her eyes darted to the bill on the table, her desperation overriding her pride. "Also... does... does your card have sufficient money in it? Even if it's not a black card, can you cover this?" Tariq looked at her, his gaze softening. "It's enough," he said in a soft voice. "I saved the allowance you gave me every day. Including my savings from before, it's enough to cover a meal." The transaction went through. The silent swipe of the card against the terminal ended the chaos. The manager's attitude shifted instantly, bowing low as he returned the matte black card to Tariq. The bill was settled. Thirty-eight point two-six million dollars had vanished from Tariq's account as easily as a tip for a valet. As the Mansour family stood in stunned silence, Adnan Bakri appeared from the shadows of the hallway. He didn't look at Omar or Salma. His eyes were locked on Tariq. He moved with a sense of urgency, his hands visibly shaking. "Second Young Master..." Adnan whispered as he reached Tariq's side. He looked around to ensure the others were far enough away. "I finally meet you again..." Tariq looked at Adnan, his face neutral. "Where are you taking me?" "I'm bringing you to meet a few people, they are very eager to see you!" Adnan's voice was trembling with a mix of excitement and reverence. He gestured toward the exit, where a luxury vehicle was idling. "You must come with me, Second Young Master. There is so much to discuss." Adnan discreetly guided Tariq away from the lingering crowd and into the car. As the doors closed, the engine roared to life. Inside the car, Adnan couldn't stop glancing at Tariq through the rearview mirror. "Fadi Nasser... you remember him, don't you?" Tariq nodded slowly. He remembered Fadi. Years ago, Fadi had been nothing more than a general worker employed by the Khoury family, a man with ambition but no means. Tariq had seen something in him and promoted him to a managerial position, giving him the leverage he needed to build his own life. Fadi had worked for the Khoury family for two years after that promotion before leaving to start his own business ventures. "What are we doing at a place like this?" Tariq asked as the car pulled up to a sprawling, neon-lit facade. The car had arrived at the entrance of the Desert Oasis Lounge, the most luxurious bar in Al-Fajr City. It was a place of excess, where the city's most powerful figures came to disappear. "To give you a surprise!" Adnan beamed, hopping out of the car to open Tariq's door. "Second Young Master, the boss of Desert Oasis Lounge is an old acquaintance of yours, Fadi Nasser. He's built all of this on the foundation you gave him. He's been waiting for the day you returned." The minimum spending for just two people at the Desert Oasis Lounge was ten thousand bucks, a barrier that kept the common public firmly on the sidewalk. Adnan led Tariq toward the entrance, the security guards bowing the moment they saw Adnan's face. "Second Young Master, please head inside first and wait for me in room number 888," Adnan said, bowing deeply at the waist. "Fadi and I shall prepare a surprise for you which you'll definitely love! I just need to coordinate a few things." Tariq sighed, pushing open the heavy, soundproofed doors. The interior of the lounge was a sensory assault. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and premium tobacco. The bass from the music vibrated in his chest, and the lighting was a dim, moody gold. It was too noisy for his taste, far removed from the quiet discipline he had maintained for the last three years. As he navigated through the crowd toward the private corridors, a familiar, sharp voice pierced the music. "Oh? Am I seeing correctly? Isn't this useless Tariq Al-Khoury?" He turned to see Yasmin leaning against a velvet pillar. She was dressed in a revealing gown, holding a cocktail glass. Her eyes were full of a seductive, predatory mockery as she looked him up and down. Tariq stopped, his expression unreadable. "What should you call me?" he asked, a small smile appearing. "Shouldn't you call me daddy? That was the deal, wasn't it?" Yasmin's face tightened for a second before she let out a harsh laugh. She turned to the man standing beside her, a burly figure with a scarred brow. "Even you with your uncouth look can manage to come to a place like this? Saving 200 bucks a day over a year, just to spend it all here once. Is it worth it, Tariq? You'll be eating ramen for the next decade just to stand in this hallway for five minutes." The man beside her, Wael Khalil, stepped forward. Wael was a name famous in the darker corners of Al-Fajr City. He was the head of security for the Desert Oasis Lounge and Yasmin's most powerful client. He had twenty to thirty men under him at any given time to keep the peace in the bar. "Yasmin, who is this?" Wael asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He looked at Tariq with pure contempt. "Why does he talk like an idiot? Do you need me to teach him a lesson?" Yasmin smirked, swirling her drink. "He's just a live-in son-in-law who thinks he's found a golden ticket. He's harmless, Wael. Just delusional." Wael took another step into Tariq's personal space. "Skinny bastard, did you hear that? F*ck out here yourself before I break something you need." Tariq didn't acknowledge the threat. He didn't even look at Wael. He simply turned and continued walking toward the private wing of the lounge. He found the door marked 888 and pushed it open. The room was a masterpiece of opulence. It was gold-plated from floor to ceiling, the furniture upholstered in rare silks. It was a room that had not been used for half a year, reserved only for the owner's most esteemed guests. The cost to reserve and use Room 888 was eight hundred thousand dollars per hour. Tariq walked in and sat on the central sofa, leaning his head back. "Stop right there!" Wael Khalil's voice boomed from the doorway. He had followed Tariq, and behind him, a small army of twenty bouncers had assembled, filling the hallway. Yasmin stood at the back of the group, her eyes glinting with malice. "Are you deaf? Can't you hear me?" Wael shouted, his face turning a dark shade of purple. He couldn't believe the audacity of this man. To walk into the most exclusive room in the building without a reservation was a death sentence for one's reputation—and physical health. Wael turned to Yasmin, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "Yasmin, how should I deal with this guy? He's clearly lost his mind." Yasmin stepped into the room, her heels clicking on the gold-dusted floor. She looked at Tariq, who remained seated, looking entirely bored by the display of force. "Make him call me mommy," Yasmin said, stomping her feet in a mock tantrum that didn't hide her genuine spite. "Make him crawl on this expensive floor and call me mommy, then throw him out into the street where he belongs." Wael laughed, cracking his knuckles. The twenty bouncers moved into the room, circling the sofa where Tariq sat. "You heard the lady, skinny," Wael said, reaching out to grab Tariq's collar. "Time to start begging." ════════════════════════════════════════