Chapter 3

Layla Al-Mansour emerged from the boardroom of Al-Bahr Corporation, the weight of the company's dwindling cash flow pressing against her temples. As she rounded the corner toward the administrative pool, a burst of shrill laughter cut through the professional hum of the office. A group of female employees was huddled around a single smartphone, their heads knocking together in their eagerness to see the screen. "Look at his face! He's actually cradling that piece of scrap metal like it's a dead relative," one clerk wheezed, tapping the glass. "Wait, wait—listen to the best part," another giggled, turning up the volume. The tinny audio of a viral video filled the hallway. Layla froze as she recognized the voice. It was Tariq. On the screen, her husband stood over the mangled remains of his electric bike, his face twisted in a display of grief that looked pathetic to the thousand viewers who had already shared the clip. *“I'll buy them for her! I'll get her The Emerald's Embrace!”* Tariq's recorded voice shouted. The employees erupted again. "The Emerald's Embrace? Those heels cost more than his entire life is worth! Does he even know they're limited edition? You can't just buy them with pocket change from a delivery job." Layla's face burned. The humiliation was a physical heat, crawling up her neck and staining her cheeks. Her own staff was mocking the man she went home to every night. She didn't shout; she didn't reprimand them. She simply turned on her heel, retreated into her private office, and slammed the door. She leaned against the wood, the click of the lock echoing in the silent room. A stray tear escaped, tracing a cold path down her cheek. She wasn't crying because of the bike or the shoes; she was crying because her life had become a punchline in a city that used to respect the Al-Mansour name. *** Across the city, Tariq Al-Khoury hummed a low tune as he climbed the stairs to the apartment. The memory of the black-clad men from the Khoury family and the black card tucked into his pocket gave his stride a lightness it hadn't possessed in three years. He needed to change. The high school reunion was tonight, and while he didn't care for prestige, he wanted to look presentable for the sake of the memories he still held. He pushed the door open, the greeting dying on his lips. Salma sat cross-legged on the sofa, her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her eyes were chips of ice, tracking his movement with a venom that made the air in the living room feel heavy. "You're back," Salma said, her voice dropping an octave. "I am," Tariq replied, keeping his tone neutral. "I have a reunion tonight, so I—" "Pack your stuff." Salma stood up, her finger pointing toward the door. "You're going to get a divorce tomorrow and move out. I'm done with the embarrassment. I'm done with the videos of you crying over a two-hundred-dollar bike on the internet." Tariq lowered his head, his voice soft but steady. "My love for Layla is sincere, Mother. Three years haven't changed that." "What right do you have to love her?" Salma's voice rose to a shriek, her face flushing a deep red. "Sincerity doesn't pay the bills! Sincerity doesn't save a failing company! Do you know what Karim Al-Farsi offered today? He offered a twenty-million-dollar dowry for Layla. Twenty million! That's the Farsi clan's power. What do you have? A broken bike and a viral video?" Tariq looked at his mother-in-law. He thought of the Khoury Corporation, the empire he now commanded. He thought of the Farsi clan, whose entire business relied on the grace of the Khoury family's supply chain—a grace he intended to revoke within the next twenty-four hours. Karim Al-Farsi wouldn't have twenty million dollars to his name by tomorrow evening; he would be lucky to have a suit to wear to court. "I won't leave," Tariq said, his voice firming, losing the submissive edge he had worn like a mask for years. "I'll agree to the divorce only if Layla says it to me in person. Until then, I am her husband." He turned and walked back out the door before Salma could launch another tirade. Behind him, he heard the muffled thud of her heels stomping against the floor and a string of curses that followed him down the hall. *** Back at Al-Bahr Corporation, the atmosphere had shifted from mockery to stunned silence. Layla had remained in her office for the entire day, refusing calls and skipping lunch. A sharp knock at her door interrupted her staring contest with a stack of unpaid invoices. "Come in," she said, wiping her eyes hastily. The front desk receptionist entered, carrying a package wrapped in heavy, gilded paper. Her eyes were wide, her hands trembling slightly as she set the box on Layla's desk. "This just arrived, Ma'am. It was delivered by a private courier in a suit." Layla frowned, reaching for the gold ribbon. As the lid came off, the office lights caught the shimmer of a thousand precision-cut crystals. Resting on a bed of white silk were 'The Emerald's Embrace' heels. The deep green stones pulsed with a light that seemed impossible, the craftsmanship so fine it made the air in the room feel expensive. The employees who had been mocking Tariq earlier were now crowded in the doorway, their jaws dropped. "Is... is that the real pair?" one whispered. "The ones from the flagship vault?" Layla touched the cool leather of the heel. Her mind raced. Tariq had mentioned them, but he was a man who couldn't afford a new tire for his bike. It had to be Karim. Karim Al-Farsi must have sent them to prove his twenty-million-dollar boast. A sense of unease settled in her stomach, even as she looked at the beautiful things. *** The neon lights of Layali KTV splashed across the pavement of Al-Fajr City. It was the premier destination for the city's elite to waste money, a place Tariq hadn't stepped foot in since his banishment. He pulled up to the entrance on a brand-new electric bike—a top-of-the-line model he'd picked up on the way, though it still looked like a toy compared to the luxury sedans lining the curb. As he maneuvered into a parking spot, a sharp, hurried whistling pierced the air. A sleek Mercedes E-Class surged forward, its headlights blinding him. "Can you move?!" the driver shouted, leaning out the window. "You're only riding a shabby bike, and you want to occupy an entire spot? Get that piece of junk out of the way before I crush it!" Tariq hopped off the bike, squinting against the glare. The driver stepped out, adjusting a designer blazer. "Sami Ghazi!?" Tariq blurted out, recognizing the sharp features of his former class monitor. Sami stopped, his hand pausing on his lapel. He looked Tariq up and down, taking in the faded shirt and the modest bike. A cold, mocking laugh escaped his lips. "Tariq Al-Khoury? Is that actually you?" Sami's disdain was palpable. "What happened to you, man? I heard you married into the Mansour family, but looking at you... I guess the rumors about you being a servant were true. Move the bike, Tariq. Some of us actually have reputations to maintain." Tariq didn't argue. He moved the bike to a corner and followed Sami inside. The private KTV room was filled with the scent of expensive tobacco and imported cologne. A dozen former classmates were already there, gathered around Sami like moths to a flame. They spoke of market shares, real estate flips, and luxury vacations. When Tariq entered, the conversation didn't even falter. He was a ghost in a room full of rising stars. In the center of the room sat Rana Saab. She was the "class goddess," a woman whose beauty had only sharpened with age. She sat with a regal posture, sipping a cocktail while the others showered her with praise. "And I heard the Al-Khoury Corporation reached out to you, Rana?" one of the girls asked, leaning in. Rana nodded, a small, triumphant smile on her lips. "The contract is practically drafted. I'll be signing with them soon. It's a multi-million dollar partnership. Once that's done, my family's firm will be in a different league." Tariq watched her from the periphery. He found it ironic—the woman he had once admired was now clamoring to sign a deal with the company he now owned. The room was crowded, and the only vacant spot was on the plush velvet sofa right next to Rana. Tariq walked over, his movements slow and deliberate. "Can you not sit here?" Rana said before he could even bend his knees. Her brow furrowed in a deep, permanent frown of irritation. Tariq paused, his hand on the back of the sofa. "Is someone sitting here?" "I just don't want to sit beside you," Rana snapped, her voice cutting through the music. She looked at his clothes—mass-produced, unbranded, and clearly bargained for at a street market. "You're attending our high school reunion, Tariq. Can't you at least put on some decent clothes? You smell like the street, and frankly, you're an eyesore." The room went silent. Sami Ghazi smirked from across the table, swirling his drink. Tariq looked at Rana, then at the rest of his classmates, his expression unreadable as he remained standing. ════════════════════════════════════════