Chapter 15

Layan Al-Mansour adjusted the hem of her tight sheath dress, ensuring every curve was perfectly accentuated before she stepped toward the glass doors of Al-Khoury Corporation. She had spent two hours on her makeup, confident that no man in Al-Shamal City could look at her and say no. As she approached the reception desk, she noticed several paparazzi lurking near the perimeter, their lenses catching the sunlight. She offered a practiced, subtle tilt of her head, giving them her best profile. "I am Layan Al-Mansour," she said, her voice firm and layered with the casual arrogance of a woman used to being pursued. "I am here to see your President regarding the partnership contract." Zahra Murad didn't even look up from the tablet in her hand for the first five seconds. When she finally did, her eyes were cold, devoid of the admiration Layan expected. "Do you have an appointment?" Layan's smile didn't waver. "The Al-Mansour family doesn't usually need—" "If you don't have an appointment, please leave," Zahra interrupted, her voice soft but sharp as a razor. She signaled to the security detail standing by the elevators. "The President is not seeing anyone from the Mansour family today. Especially not you. Please eject her." Layan's jaw dropped. Before she could utter another word, two burly guards stepped forward, their shadows looming over her. She found herself being marched back toward the rotating doors. The paparazzi she had posed for moments ago were now snapping photos of her being unceremoniously tossed out. Layan stood on the sidewalk, her face burning with a humiliation she had never known. Usually, she was the one rejecting suitors, tossing their flowers in the trash and watching them crawl away. Now, she was the one discarded like yesterday's news. She thought of Tariq Al-Khoury, that useless wretch who had somehow started this cascade of failures. If he hadn't been so incompetent, perhaps the corporation wouldn't be treating the Mansours like lepers. She climbed into her car, her grip tightening on the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She couldn't wait for Hana Al-Mansour's birthday banquet; the family needed a win, and she needed to see someone else suffer to balance the scales of her pride. The Al-Mansour Manor was a hive of activity, draped in silk banners and smelling of expensive catering to celebrate Hana Al-Mansour's seventieth birthday. Luxury sedans and sleek sports cars lined the driveway, including several high-end vehicles belonging to the juniors of the Reyes family. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and the hum of high-society gossip. Then, a high-pitched, rhythmic rattling broke the atmosphere. Tariq Al-Khoury pulled up to the main gate on a battered electric bike. The plastic casing of the battery pack was scratched, and the motor groaned as he braked. He hopped off, adjusting his modest jacket, looking entirely out of place amidst the rows of German engineering and Italian leather. Layla, standing near the entrance in a stunning dress that highlighted her regal but cold demeanor, felt the blood rush to her face. Salma, standing beside her, looked as though she might have a stroke. "Tariq!" Layla hissed, rushing over before more guests could turn their heads. She grabbed his arm, her voice low and strained. "What are you doing? Why did you bring that... that thing here today?" "It's my transportation, Layla," Tariq said simply. "Park it farther away," she commanded, her eyes darting to a group of socialites whispering nearby. "In the back alley, behind the bins. Anywhere but here. Do you have any idea how this looks? It's Grandma's seventieth birthday, and you show up like a delivery boy." Tariq shrugged, but he wheeled the bike toward the edge of the property as requested. When he returned to the steps, Layla was still waiting, her foot tapping rhythmically against the stone. "Did you at least remember to bring Grandma a present?" she asked, her tone suggesting she already knew the answer would disappoint her. Tariq reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, weathered wooden box. It looked like something found in a dusty attic, the grain of the wood dull and the hinges slightly tarnished. He gave a small, succinct chuckle. "I have it right here." Layla stared at the box. She didn't take it; she just glared at it. "That? That's the gift? Tariq, I told you this was important. This looks like junk! You're going to walk into a room full of the city's elite and hand a piece of scrap wood to the matriarch of this family?" She stomped her heel, the sharp crack against the pavement punctuating her fury. "You are intentionally trying to humiliate me. After everything that's happened with the corporation, you bring a box that isn't even worth the wood it's carved from. Keep it in your pocket. Don't you dare bring that out until I tell you." Inside the manor's grand hall, the gift-giving ceremony had begun. The atmosphere shifted from tense to celebratory as Anas Darwish, the President of Al-Hilal Holdings, stepped forward. He was flanked by a polished female secretary who carried a long, silk-lined case. "Madam Hana," Anas said, his voice booming with a formal, practiced warmth. He laughed as he gestured for his secretary to open the case. "To the pillar of the Mansour family, I wish you a blessed birthday and a life that stretches as long as the mountains." He revealed a Naqsh Artistry vase, its enamel gleaming with the intricate, vibrant patterns characteristic of the Qianlong period. The guests gasped. "This is a genuine piece from the Qing Dynasty," Anas continued. "Valued at no less than one million." Hana Al-Mansour leaned forward, her eyes lighting up with genuine greed and delight. She reached out, her fingers hovering near the cool surface of the vase. "Oh, President Darwish, you shouldn't have! It's magnificent." She nodded repeatedly, her smile widening. "Truly, a gift worthy of the occasion. You have such a refined eye." Omar Al-Mansour, standing nearby, watched the exchange with a smug grin. He knew he had to top it. He stepped forward, signaling to the host to dim the lights. "Grandmother," Omar said, bowing low with an exaggerated flourish. "President Darwish's gift is indeed fine, but for your seventieth, I wanted something that reflects the light you bring to this family. I wish you a long and prosperous life, unmatched by any other." He held up a jade box and slowly flipped the lid. As the hall lights dipped, a soft, ethereal glow emanated from within. "Don't panic, everyone," Omar assured the crowd, his voice dripping with confidence. "This gift requires the darkness to truly show its soul." Inside the box sat a night-shining pearl the size of a pigeon's egg. It pulsed with a greenish hue that illuminated Omar's face. The guests murmured in awe. "A night-shining pearl!" one guest exclaimed. "It must be worth a fortune," another whispered. "This piece," Omar announced, looking directly at Hana, "was sourced through exclusive channels. It is worth over two million." Hana Al-Mansour let out a joyful laugh, her approval radiating through the room. "Omar, my boy! You truly know your grandmother's heart. This is exquisite. Simply exquisite!" In the corner of the room, standing behind Layla, Tariq Al-Khoury couldn't help himself. He saw the way the light refracted—too uniform, too oily. The glow wasn't the deep, internal luminescence of a natural mineral; it was the unmistakable shimmer of phosphor-coated synthetic resin. He let out a short, amused chuckle. *Two million?* he thought to himself. *He's trying to be a comedian. That's a ten-thousand buck fake from a souvenir shop.* The chuckle wasn't loud, but in the momentary silence of the darkened room, it carried. Omar's head snapped toward the sound. He signaled for the lights to be turned back up, his face contorted with sudden fury. "Who's laughing?" Omar yelled, his eyes locking onto Tariq. "You! Tariq! What the hell is so funny?" Tariq covered his mouth for a second, trying to suppress the lingering grin, but his eyes remained bright with mockery. "I'm sorry, Omar. It's just... I didn't realize you were a fan of stage props." "What did you say?" Omar stepped toward him, his face flushing a deep, angry red. "I'm saying," Tariq said, his voice calm and succinct, "that the pearl is fake. It's a synthetic imitation. It's worth maybe ten thousand bucks if you find a very gullible tourist." "You're talking nonsense!" Omar shouted, his voice cracking. "You're a penniless loser who probably hasn't seen ten thousand bucks in his entire life! How dare you insult my gift to Grandmother?" Layla felt the eyes of every guest in the room boring into them. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She reached out, nudging Tariq sharply in the ribs, her voice a frantic, soft whisper. "Tariq, shut up. Stop this nonsense right now. You're making it worse." Omar saw Layla's discomfort and pressed his advantage. He sneered, stepping into Tariq's personal space. "Look at you. You're a parasite. You live off the Mansour family, you get a daily pocket money of two hundred bucks from your mother-in-law, and you have the audacity to judge a two-million-buck treasure? Where is your gift, Tariq? Let's see what the great critic brought." Salma stepped forward then, her teeth gritted so hard her jaw muscles pulsed. She looked at Tariq with pure, unadulterated loathing. "If you don't stop laughing and get out of this hall right now, I will personally throw you into the street. You have embarrassed my daughter enough for one lifetime. Either show a gift that isn't a joke, or get out!" Tariq looked at the angry faces surrounding him—Omar's arrogance, Salma's vitriol, and Layla's desperate shame. He reached into his pocket and felt the rough texture of the small wooden box, the Al-Aman Charm resting inside. He didn't move to leave. Instead, his fingers brushed the lid, ready to reveal exactly what a real treasure looked like. ════════════════════════════════════════