Chapter 4

Yusuf Haddad grabbed Tariq Al-Khoury's shoulder, his grip tight as he physically hauled him away from where Rana Saab stood. The "class goddess" remained silent, her expression one of frozen, elegant disdain. "Tariq, let it go," Yusuf hissed, his voice hushed but urgent. "Look at her. Look at us. Don't go chasing after someone like Rana. You're just giving them more ammunition to ridicule you. You're already the joke of the year; don't make it the decade." Tariq let himself be led away, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on Rana's back. She didn't turn around. The high school reunion was dissolving into a flurry of goodbyes and the sounds of luxury engines turning over. The air filled with the roar of high-performance exhaust notes, the most prominent being the shrill scream of Rana's Ferrari. "Man, she really is something else," Yusuf sighed, watching the red blur of the Ferrari tear away from the curb. He wiped a hand over his face, a mix of envy and genuine admiration in his eyes. "Next Monday there's another gathering with some of the old crowd. Maybe things will be less tense then. But for today? Just go home, Tariq." Tariq nodded absently. He was thinking about Rana's impending contract. She was about to sign with Al-Khoury Corporation—the very company he had been offered the presidency of just days ago. The irony was a cold weight in his chest. Before he could follow that thread of thought, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. The screen displayed his mother-in-law's name: Salma. "Tariq! Where the hell are you?" Salma's voice exploded through the speaker, shrill and dripping with venom. "Tonight is our clan's annual gathering! Every important member of the Mansour family is going to be there. Get your ass back here immediately! If you're late and make us look even worse than you already do, don't bother coming back at all!" The line went dead before he could utter an apology. Tariq moved toward his battered electric scooter. As he kicked the stand up and twisted the throttle, a peal of high-pitched laughter drifted over from a group of female classmates still standing by the entrance. They were pointing at the cracked plastic of his bike, their mouths curved into mocking arcs. He didn't look back. He leaned into the wind, the low hum of the electric motor a pathetic contrast to the Ferraris and Porsches that had occupied the lot moments before. He had to get to the villa. He had to see Layla. He arrived at the gate of the high-end residential community in Al-Shamal City, the guard barely glancing at him as he rolled past. Parked near the entrance of the villa was a massive, imposing Nissan Patrol, its black paint gleaming under the estate lights. Tariq pulled up and saw Layla standing near the door. She was breathtaking. The light caught the shimmering fabric of her dress, but it was her feet that commanded attention. She was wearing 'The Emerald's Embrace'. The heels sparkled with a deep, hypnotic green, the craftsmanship so exquisite it seemed to radiate its own light. As he approached, her eyes swept over his rumpled, cheap attire. Her face didn't soften. "Today is the Mansour family's annual gathering," she said, her voice like a sheet of ice. "You best keep your mouth shut and not embarrass me. I mean it, Tariq. One word out of line, one stupid comment, and I'm done." Before Tariq could respond, Salma stepped out from the foyer, her eyes instantly locking onto Tariq's outfit. Her face contorted as if she had just smelled something rotting. "Look at you," Salma spat, walking in a circle around him. "Don't you have a suit? How embarrassing is it to wear bargained goods to a family event? You look like you crawled out of a gutter." Tariq adjusted his collar. "It's clean, Mom." "Clean? It's a disgrace!" Salma's voice rose, her finger jabbing toward his chest. "After tonight's gathering, you're going immediately to the marriage registry. I've had enough of this. You're settling the divorce, and you're leaving Layla alone. She deserves a man, not a charity project." She didn't wait for his reaction, turning on her heel to head toward the main hall. Layla followed, her stride stiff, the 30-million-dollar heels clicking sharply against the marble. Tariq followed several paces behind, feeling the weight of the gazes already turning toward him. The Mansour family's villa was a spectacle of excess. Over a hundred cars were parked outside the estate, and without exception, all of them were luxurious models—Mercedes, BMWs, and Bentleys lined the drive like a showroom. Inside, the hall was filled with the scent of expensive perfume and the clink of crystal. "Well, well, well," a loud, mocking voice boomed over the ambient chatter. Omar Al-Mansour stepped forward, a champagne flute in one hand. He was dressed in a dark, sharp suit that he wore with an air of immense self-importance. He looked Tariq up and down, making sure the people nearby were watching. "Aren't you the Mansour family's good little son-in-law, Tariq Al-Khoury?" Omar announced, his voice carrying across the room. The hall began to quiet as heads turned. "I might have seen the clothes you're wearing at the bargain bin. What are they, ten bucks each? Or did you find a buy-one-get-one-free deal at the gas station?" A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. Tariq felt Layla stiffen beside him. "Mind your words," Tariq said, his voice low, his head slightly bowed. "This cost me 19 bucks." The laughter intensified, sharper and more cruel this time. "Nineteen bucks!" Omar roared, nearly spilling his drink. "Hear that? A high-stakes fashion mogul we have here!" "Just shut your mouth," Layla hissed at Tariq, her face burning a deep crimson. She looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Omar turned his attention to Layla, his eyes raking over her dress. "And you, cousin? That dress can't cost more than 1,200? It's a bit basic for a night like this, don't you think? You should take a page out of my book." He puffed out his chest, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. "This tailor-made Brioni suit costs 700,000. Real quality isn't cheap, but then again, some people wouldn't know quality if it hit them in the face." Tariq stepped closer to Omar. The movement was slow, deliberate. He didn't look angry; he looked curious. He reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric of Omar's sleeve before Omar could pull away. "Are you mad?!" Omar shrieked, recoiling as if Tariq's hand were covered in acid. "You have no right touching this suit! You'll stain it with your poverty!" Tariq smiled. It was a thin, knowing smile that didn't reach his eyes. "This suit is a crude 200-dollar replica of a Francesco Martin design," Tariq said, his voice clear and steady, cutting through the murmurs of the room. "The stitching on the inner lining is nylon, not silk. And the pattern—look at the pinstripes. They're slightly off-kilter. In the original design, those are called 'The Lean.' But in a fake like this, the crooked stripes symbolize distorted reality after bankruptcy. Tell me, Omar, are you hoping for the Mansour family to go bankrupt? Is that why you're wearing a bad omen to the annual gathering?" The room went silent. Omar's face turned a sickly shade of grey, then a furious purple. He looked down at his sleeves, his hands trembling. Tariq didn't stop. He turned slightly, gesturing toward his wife. "And while you're busy boasting about your two-hundred-dollar knockoff, perhaps you should look at what real value looks like. My wife is wearing 'The Emerald's Embrace'." The name hit the room like a physical shock. 'The Emerald's Embrace'—the legendary 30-million-dollar masterpiece. The crowd surged forward, the focus shifting instantly from Omar's suit to Layla's feet. The women in the room gasped, leaning in to see the intricate green gems and the impossible curve of the heel. The light reflecting off the shoes cast shimmering green fractals across the floor. The mockery was gone, replaced by a suffocating envy. Layla stood frozen. She felt a sudden, strange surge of pride. For three years, Tariq had been a shadow, a source of nothing but shame. But in this moment, he had dismantled Omar with a few sentences and placed her on a pedestal. For the first time, she looked at him and didn't see a loser. Then, the cold logic of her life reasserted itself. *He probably just looked up the information online,* she thought, her heart slowing. *He saw the news about the shoes being sold and memorized some facts about suits to sound smart. It's just a trick.* "You're talking nonsense!" Omar screamed, his voice cracking. He looked around at the relatives who were now whispering about his 'replica' suit. "You're a liar! A penniless, pathetic liar!" "Tariq Al-Khoury, what are you babbling about?" Salma marched forward, her face a mask of cold fury. She didn't look at the shoes or the suit; she saw only the disruption of the hierarchy she maintained. "Apologize to Omar right now! How dare you insult your betters with these fairy tales?" Tariq opened his mouth to speak, but Salma's hand moved in a blurred arc. *Slap!* The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged hall. Tariq's head snapped to the side, a bright red mark blooming across his cheek. He stood still, the stinging heat of the blow radiating through his jaw, as the eyes of the entire Mansour clan watched his humiliation. ════════════════════════════════════════