Chapter 21

The heavy doors of the Al-Mansour villa swung open, and the silence that followed was thick with expectation. Adnan Bakri, the boss of the Al-Hilal Hotel, stepped into the hall with a booming presence that demanded immediate attention. Behind him followed over ten men, their movements disciplined and sharp, cutting through the stagnant air of the birthday celebration. Adnan scanned the room, his eyes skipping over the lavish decorations and the stunned faces of the guests. He didn't look at Hana Al-Mansour, nor did he acknowledge the confused posture of Omar. "Is Mister Al-Khoury here?" Adnan's voice was polite but persistent, carrying the weight of a man who was used to getting answers. Hana Al-Mansour remained silent, her brow furrowed as she exchanged glances with Malik Al-Mansour. Malik stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape. Omar, usually the first to boast or interject, felt a strange coldness seep into his chest; he said nothing, his gaze darting between Adnan and the formidable men standing in the foyer. Adnan repeated his question, his tone tightening as the silence stretched. "I am looking for Mister Al-Khoury. Is he present?" The guests looked at one another, whispering names and checking lineages, but no one stepped forward. The name Al-Khoury carried a weight in the city that few dared to claim lightly, and in this room of Mansours and their associates, it seemed out of place. Seeing that no one spoke, Adnan's expression shifted to one of slight bewilderment. He sighed, adjusting his cuffs. "Since Mister Al-Khoury isn't here, I shall depart," Adnan announced to the room at large. He gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward holding a small, exquisitely crafted velvet box. "This is a birthday gift. I'll leave it here. Please see that it reaches the appropriate hands." He placed the box on a central mahogany table and, without another word, turned on his heel. The ten men followed him out in a synchronized motion, leaving the Mansour family staring at the small, unassuming container. "What is that?" someone whispered from the back of the crowd. Malik Al-Mansour broke the paralysis first. He stepped toward the table, his curiosity overriding his caution. "Quick, close the curtains! Turn off the lights!" The servants scrambled to obey the urgent command. The heavy drapes were pulled shut, plunging the grand hall into a sudden, artificial midnight. Malik reached out and flipped the latch on the velvet box. As the lid creaked open, a brilliant, milky radiance erupted from within. It wasn't the dull, flickering glow of a common trinket. This was a night-shining pearl of immense size and terrifying purity. The light it cast was so intense that it illuminated the faces of everyone in the first three rows, turning the darkened hall into a sea of pale, ghost-like expressions. Beside it, the pearl Omar had gifted earlier—the one he claimed cost millions—suddenly looked like a piece of dead limestone. Against the blinding luster of the new gift, Omar's pearl didn't just look inferior; it looked fraudulent. The contrast was undeniable. The "treasure" Omar had presented was exposed as a cheap imitation, a fake that couldn't hold a candle to the genuine article sitting in the box. Hana Al-Mansour's expression soured instantly. She stared at the radiant pearl, then turned a sharp, piercing gaze toward Omar. The disappointment in her eyes was like a physical blow. Omar remained silent, his face flushing a deep, humiliated red in the dark. He looked down at his feet, unable to find a single word to defend the thirty million bucks he had allegedly spent on a lie. The guests began to murmur. The realization rippled through the room like a wave: Tariq Al-Khoury had been right. He had called out the fake earlier, and everyone had mocked him for it. Now, the proof was blinding them all. Before the lights could be turned back on, the sound of heavy engines rumbled from the driveway outside. A fleet of black Lincoln limousines pulled up in a perfect line, their polished surfaces reflecting the moonlight. Men dressed in black suits stepped out, clearing a path for a man whose reputation preceded his arrival. Zayd Al-Mansoori, the president of Al-Buraq Properties, walked into the villa with a stride that shook the floorboards. He didn't wait for a greeting. His voice was strong and booming, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Is Mister Al-Khoury here?" Hana Al-Mansour felt a headache brewing behind her eyes. First the boss of the Al-Hilal Hotel, and now the most prominent real estate developer in Al-Fajr City. Both were asking for a man she didn't think existed in her social circle. She looked at Malik, who remained silent. She looked at Omar, who was still reeling from the exposure of his fake gift. Neither offered an answer. "Zayd Al-Mansoori," Hana said, her voice strained as she stepped forward into the dim light. "To what do we owe this honor? We are in the middle of a celebration, but I'm afraid I don't follow. Who is this Mister Al-Khoury you seek?" Zayd didn't answer her directly. He scanned the thousand or so guests, his eyes sharp and expectant. Hana's frustration finally boiled over. She turned to the entire assembly, her voice rising in an exasperated, commanding shout. "Dare I ask whoever is Mister Al-Khoury, please step forward! My hospitality was poor, please show yourself, and I would personally offer you a few drinks!" The hall went deathly quiet. A thousand people looked at one another, searching for a face that didn't belong or a man who suddenly looked like he owned the world. No one moved. No one spoke. Zayd Al-Mansoori stood by the entrance, his arms crossed, waiting with a patience that made the Mansours feel small in their own home. Malik Al-Mansour let out a short, nervous bark of a laugh, trying to break the suffocating tension. He looked toward the corner where the "piece of trash" son-in-law usually hovered. "Only Tariq Al-Khoury's family name is Khoury clan…" Malik said, his voice dripping with jesting sarcasm as he looked around at the prestigious guests. "Can't be him, right? Our Tariq, the one who cleans the floors and gets the groceries? Is he the 'Mister Al-Khoury' these giants are looking for?" The suggestion was so absurd that a wave of laughter broke out among the guests. The idea of the submissive, apologetic Tariq being the target of such high-level respect was the best joke of the night. "Imagine that!" someone shouted. "The live-in son-in-law, a secret tycoon!" "He'd have to learn how to tie his own shoes first!" another mocked. Even as the laughter filled the room, Zayd Al-Mansoori didn't smile. He didn't join in the joke. His gaze remained fixed on the crowd, cold and searching, as if he were waiting for a lion to emerge from among the sheep. Tariq Al-Khoury stood in the shadows, his face unreadable, watching the chaos he had set in motion. The laughter continued to ring out, but the weight of the gifts on the table and the men at the door suggested that the joke was about to end. ════════════════════════════════════════