Chapter 19

Hana Al-Mansour smoothed the front of her celebratory gown, her eyes shifting from the discarded gifts back to the family gathered in the hall. She fixed her gaze on Layla. "Layla, the Al-Khoury Corporation has made it clear. They will only discuss the partnership for Rana Saab's styling task with you. It is a massive contract, one that will bring prestige and wealth to the Mansour name. Can you agree to go and negotiate this for us?" Layla stood frozen, the weight of the family's expectations pressing down on her. She instinctively glanced toward Tariq. He stood off to the side, his expression unreadable, but as their eyes met, he gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head. "I… I don't know, Grandmother," Layla stammered, her voice thin. Salma stepped forward immediately, clapping her hands together. "Of course she can! Mother, don't listen to her hesitation. Layla is a daughter of the Mansours. She will handle the negotiation and live up to every bit of your expectations. It's as good as done." Tariq took a step into the center of the room. The silence he had maintained throughout the birthday insults finally broke. "She won't be going." The room went cold. Hana Al-Mansour's head snapped toward him, her neck tendons straining. "What did you say?" "I said she won't accept this task," Tariq repeated, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He looked Hana directly in the eye, ignoring the gasps from the relatives. "This family is fundamentally unfair. When there was work to be done and contracts to be signed, Layla did everything. She poured her sweat into the Al-Khoury Corporation deal, only for you to let Omar step in and steal every bit of the credit. You pushed her aside the moment the path was cleared." He gestured vaguely toward the bruised ego of the family. "Now that Omar has proven himself completely ineffective—now that the Corporation won't even let him through the front door—you suddenly remember Layla? You only seek her help when you've run out of options. Layla is not a tool for you to pick up and drop at your whim. She won't accept it." Hana's face turned a mottled shade of purple. She pointed a trembling finger at Tariq's chest. "You… you dare? You are a live-in son-in-law, a nobody we took in out of pity! How dare you speak of fairness in my house? Explain yourself!" "There is nothing to explain," Tariq said coldly. "The facts speak for themselves." Omar, who had been nursing his pride since his fake pearl was exposed, exploded. "You piece of crap! Who do you think you are?" He lunged forward, his face distorted with rage. "You come here with your shitty gift, a piece of garbage fan, and now you think you can sabotage our family business? You're just a parasite looking for trouble!" Omar pulled his fist back, his knuckles white. "I'll teach you to keep your mouth shut!" "Tariq, run!" Layla's scream was sharp and desperate, echoing off the high ceilings. Omar swung a heavy, powerful punch aimed directly at Tariq's jaw. He put his entire weight behind it, intending to shatter the smaller man's teeth. Tariq didn't flinch. He didn't even move his feet. As the fist closed in, his left arm blurred. With a technique honed years ago—one year of grueling Wing Chun training under Jamal Brooks, a twenty-third generation practitioner—Tariq deflected the force and clamped his hand onto Omar's forearm. The impact of the block sounded like two pieces of seasoned timber striking together. Omar's momentum stopped dead. A second later, a sickening *crack* echoed. "Argh! My arm!" Omar howled, his knees buckling. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his limb as he rolled in agony. Tariq looked down at him with a faint, chilling smirk. "Is that it? For someone who talks so much, your fighting ability is pathetic." The Mansour family stood in stunned silence. The "trash" son-in-law had just dropped the family's golden boy with a single movement. Omar hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes watering from the pain. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone. "You're dead… you're a dead man, Tariq! You think you're tough? You're nothing!" He hit a speed dial and screamed into the receiver. "Bro! Get here now! I'm at the villa! Bring everyone—I need two cars of men right now! I want this bastard dead!" He glared at Tariq while still on the floor. "I will kill you today! I swear it!" Tariq ignored the threat. He turned back to Hana Al-Mansour, his posture rigid. "I'll say it one last time. Layla will not be taking the task for the Al-Khoury Corporation. As her husband, I am making that decision." "Your right?" Hana laughed, a shrill, hysterical sound. "You think you have a right to decide her future? You are a stain on this family! You have no standing here!" "I am her husband," Tariq said, his voice flat and direct. "That is my standing." Hana turned her fury on Layla. "Layla! Look at this man! Look at the trouble he causes, the shame he brings! I am giving you one choice right now. Disavow him. Tell me he is not your husband and that he means nothing to you. If you acknowledge him, if you stand by this trash, I will disown you this second. You will be stripped of the Mansour name and cast out with nothing!" Layla opened her mouth, her eyes darting between her grandmother's trembling rage and Tariq's calm defiance. Before she could speak, a shadow blurred across Tariq's vision. *Slap!* The sound was explosive. Salma had lunged forward, her palm connecting with Tariq's cheek with such force that his head snapped to the side. "You animal!" Salma shrieked, her face inches from his. "Who gave you the right to interfere in our lives? You've lived off us for years, eating our food, sleeping under our roof, and you haven't contributed a single cent! You haven't even held my daughter's hand, and you think you can act like her protector? Get out! Get out of this house before I have you dragged out!" Tariq didn't stumble. He slowly turned his head back to face her. A red welt was blooming on his cheek, but instead of the expected apology or a look of shame, he began to grin. It wasn't a happy smile; it was the look of a man who had finally been set free. He glared at Salma, his eyes so intense she actually recoiled a step. "Fine," Tariq said, his voice echoing with a newfound firmness. "In the years I've been here, I have worked like a dog. I have cooked, cleaned, and endured every insult you threw at me without a single word of complaint. I did it for Layla. But this slap? This settles the score. We are even now." He adjusted his collar, looking at the entire Mansour clan. "You've wanted me gone since the day I arrived. Well, you finally got your wish. I'm leaving." Tariq turned and began to walk toward the exit of the villa. "You aren't going anywhere!" Omar yelled, scrambling to his feet while holding his injured arm. He raced toward the door, blocking the path. "You think you can just hit me and walk away? You're going to pay for this in blood!" The roar of engines cut through the night air. Two large black vans screeched to a halt at the entrance of the villa grounds, their tires kicking up gravel. The doors slid open simultaneously, and more than twenty burly men poured out. They were armed with baseball bats and heavy steel pipes, their faces grim. At the head of the group stood Wael Khalil, swinging a machete casually by his side. "There they are!" Omar pointed a shaking finger at Tariq. "Wael! This is the one! This is the bastard who bullied me! Hit him! Break his legs! Make him kneel and beg for his life!" Wael stepped forward, the heavy thud of his boots rhythmic and menacing. He looked at Omar, then followed the finger to the man standing calmly in the doorway. "Which one? This guy?" "Yes! Him!" Omar's voice was a frantic, joyous cackle. "Tariq, get out of there! Run!" Layla shouted from the hall, her voice cracking with terror as she saw the sheer number of armed men surrounding her husband. Tariq didn't run. He stood his ground as Wael Khalil and the twenty men closed the distance, the steel pipes glinting under the villa's outdoor lights. ════════════════════════════════════════