Chapter 5

Tariq Al-Khoury turned away from the stinging heat of the slap, the sound of Salma's hand against his cheek still echoing in the tense air of the villa. He didn't reach up to touch the mark. Instead, he felt a strange, light sensation in his chest. "Mom, what are you doing?" Layla Al-Mansour's voice cut through the silence. She stepped forward, her hand reaching out to physically hold her mother back from delivering a second strike. Tariq looked at his wife. For three years, she had watched him endure every insult and every shove with a mask of cold indifference. Now, she stood between him and her mother's fury. It wasn't love, Tariq knew, but it was a shield. He didn't wait for the argument to escalate further. A small, knowing smile played on his lips as he turned on his heel. He left the Mansour family behind, their voices fading into a muffled backdrop as he walked out into the cool night air. Inside the villa, the sudden silence was broken by the rhythmic tapping of a cane. Hana Al-Mansour walked onto the stage at the front of the hall, her presence demanding immediate attention. The family members who had been whispering about the slap instantly straightened their posture. "What's with all the commotion?" Hana asked, her aged voice carrying a weight that settled the room. She didn't look toward the door where Tariq had exited; her focus was on the future of the Mansour estate. "We have more pressing matters to attend to than domestic squabbles," Hana continued, her pace of speech slow and deliberate. "Al-Khoury Corporation will have a new President tomorrow." A ripple of excitement moved through the crowd. The Al-Khoury Corporation was a titan in Al-Fajr City, a gateway to the kind of wealth the Mansours had only tasted in small portions. A change in leadership was a crack in the armor—an opportunity. "This is our chance to secure the partnership we need," Hana said, her eyes scanning the faces of her children and grandchildren. "Who's willing to go discuss the partnership?" "I'll go!" Omar Al-Mansour shouted before anyone else could breathe. He stepped forward with a wide-eyed smile, his chest puffed out with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Hana nodded slowly, her expression softening with pride. "Good. Omar, don't fail us. If we secure the Al-Khoury contract, the Mansour family rises to a new level." *** Tariq didn't think about the Mansours as he flagged down a cab. He went home to the small, cramped apartment he shared with Layla, ignored the emptiness of the rooms, and slept with a heavy, dreamless exhaustion. The next morning, he woke early. He moved through the familiar routine of preparing breakfast—something he had done every day for three years—and left it on the table. He didn't wait for Layla or Salma to wake up and find a reason to scream at him. He headed out to the garage and pulled out his scooter. The frame was still scratched and the engine rattled, a humble contrast to the gleaming skyscrapers of the central business district he was heading toward. Al-Khoury Corporation was situated in the heart of Al-Fajr City, a glass-and-steel monolith that reflected the rising sun. Tariq pulled into the main driveway, his mind on the message he had received: Zahra Murad, the secretary, would be waiting for him. As he steered his scooter toward the entrance, a roar of an engine drowned out his rattling exhaust. A white Lamborghini Urus veered sharply into his lane, its massive tires screeching. Tariq swerved, but the sheer size of the SUV gave him no room. The front fender of the Lamborghini clipped his scooter, sending Tariq skidding across the pavement. The scooter landed with a sickening crunch of plastic and metal. The door of the Lamborghini swung open. A woman stepped out, her heels clicking sharply against the asphalt. She was stunning, dressed in high-end fashion that screamed wealth, but her face was twisted in a mask of irritation. "Do you know how to drive?" Rana Saab demanded, not even looking at the dent in her own bumper before she began shouting at the man on the ground. Tariq pushed himself up, dusting off his knees. He looked at the woman and blinked. The features were familiar—the same sharp eyes and haughty tilt of the chin from his high school days. "Rana?" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with genuine surprise. Rana froze, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized the man in the dusty clothes. Recognition hit her like a foul smell. "You? Tariq Al-Khoury? What are you doing here?" She didn't wait for an answer, her voice rising in a spike of spite. "Are you blind? Do you even know how to drive? You nearly ruined my new car with that piece of junk!" Tariq looked at the position of the vehicles. "But you're the one that knocked into me... you turned without signaling. Why are you blaming me for it?" He spoke helplessly, gesturing to his dented scooter. "Because you shouldn't even be on this road!" Rana snapped. "Look at you. You look like a beggar. My car costs more than your life, and you're worried about a plastic bike?" The shouting drew immediate attention. A man in a crisp uniform, his chest adorned with the insignia of the Al-Khoury Corporation security team, marched toward them. Khalid, the head of security, didn't even look at the scene of the accident. He only saw a beautiful woman in a Lamborghini and a man on a broken scooter. "What do you think you're doing?" Khalid shouted at Tariq, his voice authoritative and booming. "Don't you know that Al-Khoury Corporation bans the entry of scooters into the premises?" Tariq straightened his back, his eyes turning cold. "There's such a rule? Who made it?" "I made it!" Khalid stepped forward, looming over Tariq. "I don't need a written decree to know that trash doesn't belong at the front door of this corporation. Apologize to this lady immediately!" Rana watched the exchange, a slow smirk spreading across her face. She crossed her arms, leaning back against the hood of her Urus. "He must be the new security guard? Khalid, you really need to vet your hires better. This one is particularly dim-witted." Khalid's face reddened with embarrassment. "He's not one of mine, Miss Saab. If he were, he'd be in the unemployment line already." Rana laughed, a sharp, melodic sound that lacked any warmth. "Well, he's certainly acting like he belongs in a uniform. Maybe my aunt can help clarify things." She pulled out her phone and dialed a number. "Auntie? Yes, it's Rana. I'm at the front gate. Some low-life just crashed into my car and he's being difficult." A few minutes later, a woman in a sharp business suit emerged from the glass revolving doors of the lobby. Farah Rizk, the deputy manager of the corporation, walked with a stride that signaled her high rank. She took one look at Rana and then turned a freezing gaze on Tariq. "Apologize to Rana," Farah ordered. There was no request for a statement, no inquiry into the facts. It was a command from a superior to an inferior. Tariq looked at Farah, then back at Rana. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his throat. "Why do I have to apologize? Who are you to tell me what to do?" Farah's eyes went cold. She was the deputy manager; her word was law within these walls. "I am the one who decides who stays on this property and who leaves in handcuffs. You're fired—or if you don't work here, you're banned. Get on your scooter and get lost before I have Khalid drag you out." Rana stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "See? Auntie doesn't play around. I won't even ask you for compensation for the scratch, Tariq. Consider it a mercy. Get out of my sight immediately." Tariq didn't move. He stood by his dented scooter, watching the three of them—the deputy manager, the head of security, and the "class goddess"—as they looked down on him. The sound of a heavy, high-end engine purred in the background. A black Rolls-Royce pulled into the VIP lane, its polished chrome reflecting the sunlight. The car came to a smooth halt just a few feet from the group. Khalid immediately straightened his uniform, and Farah smoothed her suit, both of them assuming a posture of deep respect. The rear door opened, and a young woman stepped out. Zahra Murad, dressed in a flawless professional outfit, didn't look at the Lamborghini or the deputy manager. Her eyes searched the area until they landed on Tariq. She hurried forward, her footsteps frantic. To the absolute shock of everyone standing in the driveway, Zahra stopped in front of Tariq and performed a deep, 90-degree bow. "President," Zahra said, her voice trembling slightly with urgency. "I am so sorry I'm late." ════════════════════════════════════════