Chapter 18

Lina Jamal looked down at the floor, her gaze fixed on the tattered wooden box that lay in the dust. It was the same item the servants had just discarded with such visible contempt. She stepped forward, her silk dress rustling as she crouched slightly to get a better look at the grain of the wood. "Lina, don't mind that," Hana Al-Mansour said, her voice smooth and dismissive. She wore a practiced smile, waving a hand toward the trash as if to clear the air of an unpleasant smell. "It's just some garbage a relative brought. A piece of old wood and a broken fan. Don't let it ruin your mood at my banquet." Lina didn't move. She traced the faint, shimmering lines beneath the grime on the box. "Garbage?" she whispered, her voice carrying a soft but sharp edge. "Grandmother Hana, this box is carved from Golden-thread Nanmu. It's an imperial item from the Qing Dynasty. A box like this, even empty, is worth hundreds of thousands." The hall fell into a sudden, vacuum-like silence. Omar Al-Mansour, who had been leaning against a pillar with a smug grin, stiffened. His mouth thinned into a hard line, but he remained silent, his eyes darting between Lina and the discarded box. "Actually," Lina continued, her fingers hovering just inches from the wood, "given the craftsmanship and the preservation of the golden threads... this box alone could fetch one million at auction." Hana's smile flickered and died. The guests began to murmur, their eyes shifting from the "garbage" on the floor to Tariq, who stood off to the side with an expression of total indifference. Lina reached out, her breath hitching, and picked up the box. She wanted to take a picture of it immediately; her father, whose life revolved around the antique trade, would be overjoyed—perhaps even moved to tears—to see such a specimen. Omar finally broke his silence, stepping forward with a scoff. "Lina, you're being too kind. You've been looking at treasures so long you're starting to see them everywhere. This is just a prop from a street stall." He reached out as if to grab the box and throw it back into the waste bin. "Let me get rid of this fake for you. The Mansour family has a reputation to uphold; we can't have people thinking we accept such cheap, counterfeit trash." Lina pulled the box back, shielding it from him. She raised an eyebrow, her expression turning cool. "A fake, Omar? I've been immersed in the antique business since I was seven years old. I have more than a decade of experience identifying authentic pieces." She didn't wait for his response. With trembling hands, she flipped the latch and opened the lid. Inside lay the fan. As the silk and bamboo were revealed, Lina's eyes widened so far they began to ache. She recognized the calligraphy, the way the ink seemed to vibrate with a life of its own, and the specific seal of the imperial collection. It was the Cosmos Scroll. The legendary hand fan of the Qianlong Emperor. Lina bit her lip so hard she nearly drew blood. The metallic tang of copper filled her mouth, grounding her as she stared at the artifact. It was a piece that historians spoke of in hushed tones, a treasure that was supposed to have been lost to the fires of time. "You've all got it wrong," Lina said, her voice trembling but audible to every corner of the room. She looked up at the gathered guests, her face pale. "This hand fan... it isn't just valuable. It is a national treasure." "It belongs to me," a calm, flat voice interrupted. Tariq Al-Khoury stepped forward. He didn't look like a man who had just presented a fortune; he looked like a man who had grown tired of a tedious game. He reached out and took the fan from Lina's hands with a casualness that made her heart skip a beat. Omar's face turned a mottled shade of purple. "It belongs to you? Of course it does! Because you're the one who bought this fake to try and scam your way into Grandmother's favor!" He turned to Lina, shouting to be heard over the rising whispers. "Lina, don't let him fool you! This loser doesn't have a penny to his name. He probably found this in a dumpster!" Tariq didn't look at Omar. He closed the fan with a sharp *clack* and looked at Hana Al-Mansour. "If the Mansour family cannot tell chalk from cheese, then there is no point in me giving this gift. I'll be taking it back." He then turned his gaze toward Omar, his eyes turning ice-cold. "As for fakes... you should worry more about that night-shining pearl you presented. A piece of cheap resin injected with fluorescent powder shouldn't be held so high." "You... you bastard!" Omar flew into a rage, his fists clenching at his sides. The veins in his neck bulged as he stepped into Tariq's personal space. "You dare insult my gift? I'll kill you! I'll break your neck right here for lying about me!" "Enough!" Hana Al-Mansour's voice cracked like a whip across the hall. Omar froze, his hand halfway to Tariq's collar. He turned, panting, to see his grandmother standing tall, her face a mask of rigid discipline. "I have something to say," Hana stated, her eyes lingering on the fan in Tariq's hand for a fraction of a second before she regained her composure. "We are at a banquet, not a street brawl. Omar, sit down. Tariq, be silent." The tension in the room remained thick enough to choke on. As the servants began to rearrange the seating for the next course, Lina Jamal moved with a sudden, purposeful grace. She walked toward the table where Layla's family was seated. "Excuse me," Lina said, approaching Salma. "May I sit here?" Salma's eyes lit up. Having the daughter of the Jamal family choose their table was a massive boost to her social standing. She beamed, immediately gesturing to the seat next to her. "Of course, Miss Jamal! We would be honored. Tariq, move aside! Give Miss Jamal your seat and go find a stool in the corner where you belong." Lina's smile was light, but firm. "Actually, Mrs. Mansour, you misunderstand. I would like to sit here—next to Tariq." The table went silent. Salma's jaw dropped, and she looked at Tariq as if he had suddenly grown a second head. Layla, who had been sitting in stony silence, felt a sharp, inexplicable pang of discomfort. She looked at Lina—beautiful, cultured, and clearly fascinated—and then at Tariq, who didn't even look up as Lina took the chair beside him. Layla tightened her grip on her napkin. Tariq was a loser, a man who had spent years living off her family's charity. Why was someone like Lina Jamal looking at him with such intensity? It was an irritation she couldn't quite name, a friction in her chest that made her want to turn away. Lina leaned in toward Tariq, her shoulder almost brushing his. "Mr. Al-Khoury," she began, her voice soft and inviting, "about the fan... the brushwork on the scroll, is it truly the original ink of the emperor? I've read that the secondary seals were added later, but—" Tariq didn't turn his head. He picked up his chopsticks and began to eat, his movements methodical and detached. He acted as if Lina Jamal, the most sought-after woman in the room, was nothing more than a ghost. Lina stopped mid-sentence. She swallowed her remaining words, her face flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and rising anger. No one ignored her. No one. She had humbled herself to sit next to him, and he wouldn't even grant her a glance. Across the table, Salma watched the interaction with narrowed eyes, while Hana Al-Mansour cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the room back to the head of the table. "Layla," Hana said, her voice echoing with a new, calculated weight. "I have a task for you regarding the Al-Khoury Corporation." ════════════════════════════════════════