Chapter 8

Salma adjusted her posture, her eyes gleaming with a triumphant light as she looked around the lavish banquet hall of the Al-Hilal Hotel. She leaned toward Layla, her voice rising so the surrounding tables of the Mansour clan could hear every word. "My dear daughter, so Karim Al-Farsi was the one that got you The Emerald's Embrace. He's a good man, be sure to appreciate him, my dear." She shot a venomous glance toward Tariq, who sat at the edge of the table quietly consuming his second bowl of rice. "It takes a real man of status to provide such a gift, not some useless mouth who only knows how to eat." Layla felt a prickle of unease. She looked down at the shimmering green heels on her feet, then at the confident smiles of her relatives. "I should thank him properly," she murmured, pulling out her phone. She dialed Karim's number and put it on speaker, wanting to settle the debt of gratitude. The line clicked open. Karim's voice didn't sound like that of a wealthy heir; it was strained, punctuated by the dull roar of traffic. He was sitting on a dusty sidewalk, his world having collapsed hours prior when the Khoury family revoked his funding. "Karim? It's Layla. I wanted to thank you for the heels," she said. There was a long, jagged silence on the other end. "Layla... you're referring to the replica, right?" Karim's voice was hollow, a forced smile audible in his tone. Layla froze. "The replica?" "Didn't I give you a pair of replicas that cost 300,000? That pair is still at my house right now," Karim said, his voice trailing off into a weary mutter. "I never sent the real ones. I couldn't... I've been ruined, Layla. Someone—I was told I offended someone I should not have." The call went dead. The silence at the table was heavy, suffocating. Salma's mouth hung open, her praise curdling in her throat. Layla stared at her feet. If Karim had the 300,000-dollar replicas at his house, then the shoes she was currently wearing—the ones that felt like walking on clouds, the ones with the unmistakable glow of genuine emeralds—were the real 'The Emerald's Embrace'. A memory flickered in her mind, sharp and impossible. She saw Tariq standing in the living room, his face bruised from her mother's hand, declaring with calm certainty that he would buy her the real shoes tonight. She looked at Tariq. He didn't look up from his rice. He moved with a rhythmic, submissive grace, chewing slowly as if the revelation on the phone had nothing to do with him. Layla shook her head, her grip tightening on her napkin. *No. It's impossible.* Tariq was a live-in son-in-law who rode a dented scooter. He had given her five million earlier, but these heels were worth far more than money—they were a masterpiece of global fashion, restricted to the elite of the elite. There was no way a banished son of the Khoury family, even one with a bit of hidden cash, could procure these. She dismissed the thought as a hallucination born of stress. The tension was broken by a sudden commotion near the front of the hall. Hana Al-Mansour walked onto the stage, her jewelry catching the light. She looked extremely cheerful, her face flushed with the success of the evening. She tapped the microphone, her eyes searching the crowd until they landed on Layla. "Quick, Layla Al-Mansour!" Hana called out, her voice impatient yet excited. "Tell us how you negotiated with Al-Khoury Corporation. The entire city is talking about how we secured the partnership so quickly." Layla stood up slowly, her legs feeling heavy. The eyes of the entire Mansour family were on her. She looked at her grandmother, then at the expectant faces of her cousins. "I... I didn't say a thing, Grandmother. Nor did I even meet the president. I arrived at the office, and I was notified that I can sign the contract immediately." A murmur of confusion rippled through the room. Layla felt awkward, exposed. She had prepared a whole presentation, but the doors had simply swung open for her. "Granny!" Omar Al-Mansour suddenly stood up, his hand raised. He adjusted his Brioni suit—a custom piece that had cost him 700,000. He looked at Layla with a patronizing smirk before turning to Hana. "I got escorted out of Al-Khoury Corporation earlier today, but today Layla got in. It's obvious what happened. They must have felt that we are sincere after my visit! I paved the way, showed them our family's resolve, and by the time Layla arrived, they were ready to sign. They decided to partner with us because of the groundwork I laid!" Hana Al-Mansour's expression softened into an approving smile. She nodded vigorously. "Of course. That makes perfect sense. Layla Al-Mansour, the credit for this assignment isn't yours alone; Omar played a part in this as well. It was a team effort of the Mansour bloodline." Layla bit her lip and sat back down. Beside her, Salma looked disgruntled, her eyes darting between Omar and the head table. They both knew Omar was stealing the limelight, but in the Mansour family, Hana's word was law. Omar wasn't finished. He remained standing, basking in the attention. "Granny, as a son of the Mansour family, I'm willing to sacrifice for our future! I've heard rumors that there's a new celebrity under Al-Khoury Corporation who goes by the name of Rana Saab. If the styling and branding task for her was granted to our clan, we would surely earn a lot of money! Tomorrow, I'm willing to represent the Mansour family to negotiate this deal personally!" Hana's eyes brightened. "Great! Granny did not love you for naught, Omar. You have the vision this family needs." Omar's chest puffed out. He was already imagining the contract in his hands, the prestige it would bring. He was certain his negotiation tomorrow would be a flawless success. He felt the weight of his Al-Mas Bank platinum card in his pocket—a card he had received only yesterday, a symbol of his 11 million bucks in savings. "Waiter!" Omar roared, his voice full of energy. "Bring a bottle of your most expensive wine to every table! Tonight is on me!" He turned to the crowd, raising an empty glass in a grand gesture. "Today we will drink until we drop! Cheers to all of you, to the Mansour family, and to our future!" A huge smile dominated his face as the staff began scurrying to fulfill the order. Omar glanced over at Lina Jamal, the young mistress of the Jamal family. She was watching him with a look of genuine interest. Seeking to seal the impression, Omar pulled out his wallet and let the platinum card slide out just enough for her to see the distinct metallic sheen. "Is that... an Al-Mas platinum card?" Lina asked, her voice soft and polite. "It is," Omar said, his voice dropping to a boastful hum. "Requires a minimum of ten million in liquid savings just to hold it. I keep my pocket change there." Lina's eyes widened slightly. Her own family was wealthy, but her personal bank balance was well below ten million. "That's very impressive, Omar." Omar felt a surge of adrenaline. He looked at the tables again, his gaze landing on Tariq, who was still focused on his meal, seemingly oblivious to the grandiosity around him. The fact that Tariq hadn't offered Lina his seat earlier still rankled in Omar's mind. "Waiter!" Omar called out again, pointing a finger toward Tariq's table. "Today I'll be paying for every table, except for this one!" The room went quiet. Omar stepped toward Tariq, looking down at him. "Do you know why I'm not footing the bill for you? It's because you didn't offer Lina Jamal your seat! A man with no manners doesn't deserve to eat on my dime. You can pay for your own scraps." Tariq finally looked up, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips, but he said nothing. Omar turned back to Lina, his tone shifting to one of oily confidence. "Lina Jamal, don't you worry about shoes like the ones Layla is wearing. You like The Emerald's Embrace, right? I have lots of friends in the high-end import business. I'll have them make inquiries and purchase the heels for you! Consider it a gift from me." Lina smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Those are very hard to find, Omar. But thank you." "For me? Nothing is hard," Omar declared. As the feast progressed, the expensive wine flowed. The atmosphere was one of chaotic celebration until two waiters approached Omar's table. They weren't carrying wine; their faces were pale, and they moved with a frantic, hesitant gait. "Sir?" one of the waiters whispered, leaning in close to Omar. "What is it? Can't you see I'm talking?" Omar snapped. "We're sorry, sir," the waiter said hastily, holding out Omar's platinum card with a trembling hand. "It would seem that your card has insufficient funds." Omar froze. The wine in his glass sloshed over the rim. He stood up so quickly his chair screeched against the floor. "You've gotta be f*cking kidding me? I have 11 million in my card and you're telling me that I have insufficient funds?" His voice carried across the silent room. Panicked, he grabbed the card and shoved it back at the waiter. "Run it again! It's a platinum card! Do you even know how to use your machine?" The second waiter stepped forward, his expression neutral but firm. "We have tried three times, sir. The system is functioning correctly. We're sorry, sir, but the total bill for the feast is 38.26 million." Omar's face went from flushed red to a deathly, waxen white. "Thirty-eight... point two six?" He stammered, the number echoing in the sudden, terrifying silence of the hall. "How... how can it be thirty-eight million?" The waiters remained silent, holding the bill out like a death warrant. Across the table, Tariq Al-Khoury set his chopsticks down and finally wiped his mouth with a napkin, watching as the color drained completely from Omar's face. ════════════════════════════════════════