Chapter 17

The Al-Mansour Manor hummed with the high-pitched energy of the elite, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the smug satisfaction of the wealthy. Hana Al-Mansour sat at the head of the hall, her eyes gleaming as she surveyed the mountain of luxury gifts piled before her. The atmosphere was one of triumph—until Omar Al-Mansour's gaze drifted toward the edge of the room. Omar's lip curled. He pointed a finger, drawing the attention of every guest toward Tariq Al-Khoury, who stood awkwardly with a weathered, unassuming gift box in his hands. "Look at that expression!" Omar shouted, his voice carrying over the music. "Tariq, why are you standing there looking like someone just stole your last loaf of bread? Don't tell me that's your gift in that pathetic box. Come on, reveal it! This is your last chance to show a shred of dignity before Karim takes Layla off your hands for good." A wave of snickering rippled through the guests. Layla Al-Mansour flinched, her face flushing with a mix of shame and pity. She reached out, her fingers catching Tariq's sleeve, and pulled him softly toward a chair. "Tariq, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Just sit down. Stop standing there. Don't make this any worse than it already is." Salma, standing nearby, didn't share her daughter's restraint. She marched over, her heels clicking aggressively on the marble floor. "Didn't I tell you?" Salma hissed, her eyes darting toward the other guests to gauge their judgment. "Layla told you to prepare something decent, and you bring this? Take that piece of garbage and put it by the door. Do not embarrass us further in front of the Al-Farsi family. You are a disgrace!" Tariq remained silent, his grip tightening slightly on the box. He didn't move to sit, nor did he move to the door. Omar saw his opening. With a predatory grin, he stepped forward and snatched the box right out of Tariq's hands. "If you won't show us, I'll do the honors. Let's see what the great son-in-law of the Mansours has brought to the table!" Omar tore the lid off with a flourish. Inside lay an antique hand fan. As he pulled it out, the crowd leaned in. The fan was old, but as it unfurled, it revealed a delicately painted landscape accompanied by a poem written in bold, masterful calligraphy. Scattered across the paper were more than a dozen red ink stamps. At the very end, the royal sign-off was unmistakable: *Hongli*. The room went deathly quiet for three seconds. The sight of the Qianlong Emperor's seal was enough to give anyone pause. Then, the silence shattered. "A fake! It's a fake!" someone from the back of the crowd roared, doubling over in laughter. The tension broke into a cacophony of mockery. Omar held the fan up, shaking it so the paper rattled. "A poem and a seal? And not just any seal, but the Emperor's? Tariq, you really have no shame! Did you pick this up at a street stall for ten bucks? Look at this wood—it looks like it was carved from a discarded shipping crate!" Omar turned the fan over, his face red from suppressed laughter. He had seen Tariq holding that broken, dusty box earlier and knew it couldn't possibly contain anything of value. "Where did you get this, Tariq? Did you find a 'special' antique dealer in the slums?" Tariq looked Omar straight in the eye, his voice flat and blunt. "A friend helped me buy it." Omar clutched his stomach, his shoulders shaking. "A friend? And how much did this 'friend' charge you for this masterpiece of forgery? Did you spend your entire monthly allowance on it?" "He didn't want money," Tariq said. The room fell slightly quieter as he continued, his tone devoid of any irony. "He only asked for rice noodle soup. My initial intention was to gift the Wang Xizhi's Al-Aman Charm, but since that was a personal gift to me, I asked Maya Al-Hale to choose something appropriate for the occasion. This is what she provided." The mention of Maya Al-Hale caused a brief flicker of confusion, but it was quickly drowned out by Omar's explosive laughter. "Rice noodle soup!" Omar screamed, tears beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes. "He traded a bowl of noodles for an 'Imperial' fan! Did you hear that? Maya Al-Hale, the owner of Layali Fashions, is picking out garbage for you in exchange for street food? You're not just a loser, Tariq, you're a comedian!" The guests joined in, the sound of their derision filling the hall. Layla lowered her head, her hair veiling her face, unable to look at her husband. At the head of the table, Hana Al-Mansour's face had turned a deep, mottled purple. She felt the insult to her dignity like a physical blow. To have such a blatant, cheap fake presented on her birthday was an affront to the entire Mansour lineage. "Enough!" Hana barked, her voice sharp enough to cut through the laughter. She looked at Tariq with pure, unadulterated disgust. "Layla was truly unlucky the day she married you. You are a blight on this family." She gestured dismissively toward two servants standing by the gift table. "Take that trash out of my sight. Throw it away. I won't have the air in this room fouled by such a pathetic lie." The servants stepped forward immediately. One snatched the fan from Omar's hand while the other grabbed the tattered wooden box. Without a second thought, they walked to the side entrance and tossed the items into a bin near the door, the wood clattering against the metal rim. Hana took a deep breath, smoothing her silk dress as she regained her composure. She looked out at the assembly of wealthy donors, business partners, and socialites, her expression shifting into a practiced, welcoming smile. "Please, friends, let us not let one man's ignorance ruin this beautiful evening," Hana announced, waving her hand toward the dining area. She stood up and clapped her hands twice. "I thank you all for coming and for the magnificent gifts you have bestowed upon me. We shall discuss the matters of marriage proposals and future alliances later tonight. For now, let the banquet begin!" Dozens of waiters in crisp white uniforms emerged from the kitchens, carrying silver platters. The air was suddenly filled with the aroma of saffron, slow-roasted lamb, and rare seafood. Each table was set with a spread so lavish that the estimated cost per table was no less than one hundred thousand. As the guests began to move toward their seats, a commotion started at the main entrance. "Lina Jamal has arrived!" a voice announced loudly. The name caused an immediate stir. The Jamal family had been the undisputed authority on antiques for generations, and Lina was known to have a sharper eye than even her father. Hana Al-Mansour's eyes lit up. "Lina is here? Quickly, go and welcome her! Don't let her stand at the door!" The servants rushed to the entrance as Lina Jamal stepped into the hall. She was dressed elegantly but simply, carrying herself with the quiet confidence of someone who dealt in history and truth. "I am so sorry for the delay, Grandmother Hana," Lina said, offering a polite, apologetic smile as she navigated the crowd. "The traffic coming across the city was much worse than I anticipated. I hope I haven't missed the highlights of the evening." "Not at all, dear, not at all!" Hana beamed. "You are just in time for the feast." Lina nodded, but as she walked past the side entrance toward the head table, her pace slowed. Her eyes, trained by years of examining the world's most hidden treasures, caught a glimpse of something in the discard bin. She stopped in her tracks, her gaze locking onto the tattered wooden box and the edge of a paper fan peeking out from the trash. Her polite smile vanished, replaced by an expression of intense, focused curiosity. Layla watched from her seat, silent and frozen, as the expert leaned closer to the "garbage" her family had just thrown away. ════════════════════════════════════════