Chapter 6

Zahra Murad stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement as she moved between the stunned group and Tariq Al-Khoury. She looked directly at Farah Rizk, her expression taut with professional urgency. "This is our company's new president, Mister Al-Khoury," she announced, her voice carrying a weight that silenced the lingering echoes of Khalid's shouting. Rana Saab's hand flew to her mouth, her teeth biting into her lower lip until the skin turned white. She looked from the mud-splattered scooter to the man she had just finished mocking. "You have to be mistaken?" she stammered, her voice thin and reedy. "This guy is Tariq Al-Khoury. He was my classmate. We all know him. How could he possibly be the president?" Zahra didn't waste words. she pulled her smartphone from her blazer pocket and tapped the screen, turning it toward Rana. "Look closely," Zahra said, her tone brook no argument. "The patriarch of the Khoury family personally informed me that the name of the new president is Tariq Al-Khoury. This is the photo he sent for identification." Rana leaned in, her eyes scanning the high-resolution image on the screen. It was him. There was no mistaking the jawline or the steady, calm eyes that now seemed to be judging her from both the screen and the physical man standing before her. The world seemed to tilt. Rana's mind went blank, the sharp insults she had prepared dissolving into a cold, hollow vacuum. Her knees buckled slightly, and she had to reach out to a nearby pillar to keep from collapsing under the sudden weight of her own shame. Beside her, Farah Rizk felt the blood drain from her face. The thirty-year-old deputy manager, usually poised at her 165cm height, seemed to shrink. She had just threatened to have the most powerful man in the building arrested. She had called him a beggar and a delusional fool. The realization hit her like a physical blow, leaving her skin a ghastly pallor. "Mister Tariq Al-Khoury," Farah began, her voice barely a whisper as she lowered her head. "I was wrong... I truly know that I did wrong. Please, I was only trying to protect the company's image, I didn't realize—" Tariq didn't look at her. He turned his gaze toward Khalid, the head of security who still held his baton tight. "You're fired," Tariq said. The words were flat, devoid of heat or malice, which made them feel all the more final. Khalid opened his mouth to protest, but the look in Zahra's eyes told him that his career at Al-Khoury Corporation ended the moment those syllables left the president's mouth. Tariq finally turned to Farah, a small, knowing chuckle escaping his lips. "I don't think that's the right address," he said, adjusting his collar. "Rana was my classmate, and you're her aunt. I don't think it's fitting for you to call me 'mister' after everything you just said." Farah flinched as if he had struck her. Tariq didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked toward the revolving glass doors of the skyscraper. As he entered the lobby, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Rows of employees, from receptionists to senior analysts, straightened their backs. As he passed, they bowed in unison, a wave of "Good morning, President" following him toward the elevators. The elevator climbed smoothly to the 11th floor. Tariq stepped out into a sprawling executive suite that smelled of expensive leather and polished wood. He walked into the president's office and sank into the heavy, ergonomic chair behind the massive desk, looking out over the city skyline. The door creaked open. Rana and Farah followed him in, their movements hesitant, like prey entering a lion's den. Farah stepped forward first, her hands trembling as she clasped them in front of her. "Mister Tariq Al-Khoury," she pleaded softly, her lip trembling. "Will Rana still be able to sign her contract? This is her career... please. I'll do anything you ask. Anything." Tariq leaned back, spinning a silver pen between his fingers. He didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch until the air in the room felt thick enough to choke on. A soft knock interrupted the tension. Zahra Murad entered, holding a tablet. She ignored the two women trembling in the corner and focused entirely on Tariq. "Mister Al-Khoury, Omar of the Mansour family is downstairs. He says he is here to talk business regarding a potential supply partnership." Tariq's mind flashed to Omar's face—the sneering, arrogant cousin-in-law who had spent the last three years treating him like a footstool. He remembered every "trash" and "beggar" Omar had hurled his way during family dinners. A dry chuckle escaped Tariq's throat. "Tell him to piss off," he said. Zahra nodded without a flicker of hesitation. "Understood, President." *** At the Mansour family villa, the atmosphere was the opposite of the quiet power of the Al-Khoury executive suite. Hana Al-Mansour had called an emergency meeting, and the main hall was packed with hundreds of family members, the air buzzing with anxiety and hushed whispers. The heavy front doors swung open, and Omar Al-Mansour stormed in, his face a bright, mottled red. He marched toward the center of the room, his chest heaving. "This Al-Khoury Corporation is too ridiculous!" Omar shouted, his voice cracking with humiliation as he looked toward Hana. "They didn't even let me past the lobby! They told me to piss off! Me! A representative of the Mansour family!" Hana Al-Mansour leaned on her cane, her brow furrowed. The insult stung the entire clan, but she knew the reality of their situation. The Mansour family needed this connection to survive the coming quarter. "Regardless of their arrogance," Hana said, her voice firm despite the chaos, "we cannot let this opportunity slide. A partnership with the Al-Khoury Corporation would secure our standing for a decade. Who else is willing to go? Who can handle this?" The room went silent. If Omar, the favored grandson, had been told to "piss off," the rest of them stood no chance. Omar's eyes darted around the room until they landed on a corner where Layla sat, her expression weary. A cruel glint entered his eyes. "How about we let Layla try?" he suggested, a sneer curling his lip. Layla's head snapped up, her teeth biting her lip tightly. "Omar, you!" she gasped, her voice thick with indignation. "You were rejected and now you want to throw me into that fire?" "What's wrong?" Omar shot back, stepping toward her. "You're a member of the Mansour family, aren't you? Your own company is failing—it lacks five million bucks to stay afloat. Aren't you willing to help your clan? Or are you just going to sit there and watch us all suffer while you do nothing?" Hana Al-Mansour's gaze turned toward Layla, cold and expectant. "Layla Al-Mansour, this matter is placed in your hands," the matriarch declared. "The survival of the family comes before your personal feelings. Go to Al-Khoury Corporation on time tomorrow and negotiate a partnership. Do not come back without a signature." Layla felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. The task was impossible. If the Al-Khoury Corporation was being this hostile, she was being sent out to be publicly shamed. She left the villa in a daze, the pressure of the five-million-dollar deficit and the impossible negotiation pressing down on her. Seeking an escape, she called her best friends, Yasmin and Hala. By the time she reached her home, the two women were already there, waiting with a bottle of wine. As the wine began to flow, Layla's ecstatic mood—driven by the temporary distraction—masked the underlying dread. Yasmin sat on the sofa, gently sipping her wine, her eyes scanning the room. "Where's that piece of trash?" she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. Layla laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Tariq? He left after making breakfast. He hasn't been back yet. Probably wandering the streets with that broken bike of his." Yasmin shook her head, her expression turning cold. "Layla, I don't know how you stand it. Your company is lacking funds; a capable husband could provide millions, but Tariq Al-Khoury can't even provide thirty thousand. He's a weight around your neck, dragging you down while you try to save the Mansour name." The front door opened. Tariq Al-Khoury walked in, and the conversation stopped dead. He was a mess. His clothes were soaked from the rain, covered in streaks of dirt and grime from his earlier encounter at the corporation gates. He was carrying a heavy, nondescript black sack that clinked slightly as he set it down. Salma, Layla's mother, came marching out of the kitchen, her face contorting in rage the moment she saw him. "You still dare to show your face around here?" she shrieked. "You're behaving more and more improper every day! Don't you know that you're leaving your footprints everywhere in the house by wearing those filthy shoes inside? Get out! Look at this mess!" Tariq didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Salma. He wiped a smudge of mud from his forehead and walked toward Layla, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his tired face. "Honey," Tariq said, ignoring the glares of the three women on the sofa. "Your company is in dire need of five million bucks, right? I have here..." Yasmin erupted into a peal of mocking laughter, nearly spilling her wine. "This guy is truly shameless beyond redemption," she sneered, looking at Tariq with pure disgust. "Nevermind the fact that you're useless and look like you just crawled out of a gutter, yet you still want to remind people of their problems? You have what? Five million? You don't even have five riyals to your name, you pathetic loser." Tariq's smile didn't fade; it only sharpened as he looked at the black sack by his feet. ════════════════════════════════════════