Chapter 9

Omar Al-Mansour stared at the bill, his face draining of color until it matched the white linen tablecloth. His hands trembled, the paper rattling between his fingers. "Are you f*cking kidding me?" he roared, slamming the invoice onto the table. "Over 300 of us Mansour family ate an amount of over 30 million bucks? Are the plates made of solid gold? Is the water sourced from the moon?" The waiter remained motionless, his expression a mask of professional indifference. "The total bill is 38.26 million, sir." "Thirty-eight million!" Omar's voice cracked. He looked around the Al-Hilal Hotel's grand dining hall, feeling the weight of three hundred confused Mansour relatives. He had bragged about hosting the most lavish celebration for Layla's new partnership with Al-Khoury Corporation, but this was beyond reason. "Alright, get your manager to see me. Right now! I want an itemized explanation for this robbery." The waiter bowed slightly and stepped back. Within minutes, a middle-aged man in a sharp, tailored suit arrived. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who managed the finest establishment in the city. "I am the manager," the man said, his voice level. "Is there a problem with the service, Mr. Al-Mansour?" "The problem is your pricing!" Omar stood up, pointing a shaky finger at the bill. "Do you intend to continue operating your hotel? An average cost of 100,000 per person? I'm going to report you to the Consumer Rights League. This is price gouging of the highest order!" The manager didn't flinch. He reached out, adjusted the bill on the table, and pointed to a specific line item. "The food and service fees are standard for a banquet of this scale, sir. However, the bulk of your expenses comes from the wine. You specifically requested the best we had in the cellar." "So what?" Omar sneered. "A few bottles of wine cost thirty million?" "The wine you ordered," the manager replied calmly, "was a limited edition Château Lafite Rothschild. As you may be aware, there are only 800 bottles of this vintage manufactured per year internationally. Its market price is 1.63 million per bottle. Your party consumed thirty bottles." The air seemed to vanish from the room. 1.63 million per bottle. Thirty bottles. The math hit Omar like a physical blow. He lunged forward, grabbing the manager's collar with both hands, his eyes bloodshot with rage. "It's a limited edition wine and you guys have over 30 bottles here?! Who the f*ck wants to order this bottle of wine anyway? You're lying! You're scamming us!" The manager's eyes turned cold. He didn't struggle, but his voice hardened. "You said that you wanted the best wine. We provided the best. The wine we provide is certified authentic, and we have the provenance papers to prove it. Please be respectful, Mr. Al-Mansour. This is the Al-Hilal Hotel." As if on cue, the heavy doors at the end of the hall swung open. A man in his early thirties walked in, flanked by four massive security guards. Adnan Bakri, the boss of Al-Hilal Hotel, moved with a predatory grace. His eyes swept the room, landing on the hand gripping his manager's collar. "What is the meaning of this?" Adnan's voice boomed, echoing off the high ceilings. Hana Al-Mansour, the matriarch of the family, turned pale. She knew Adnan Bakri was not someone to be trifled with. He had built an empire from nothing in less than a decade. She hurried forward, pushing through the crowd, and bowed deeply toward Adnan. "Mister Adnan, please," Hana said, her voice shaking. "The Mansour family made a mistake. My grandson is young and reckless, and I apologize on his behalf." She shot a lethal look at Omar, who quickly released the manager's collar and stepped back, sweating. "We will pay the bill immediately. Please, do not take offense." A murmur of unease rippled through the Mansour relatives. Thirty-eight million was a staggering sum, even for a second-class clan. The atmosphere of celebration had evaporated, replaced by a suffocating sense of financial dread. In the back of the room, Tariq Al-Khoury lowered his head. He watched Adnan Bakri with a complicated expression. Seven years ago, Tariq had seen a young, desperate man on the streets—Adnan—and had given him 300,000 bucks to start his first business. Tariq had been only fourteen at the time, using the allowance his family hadn't yet stripped from him. He hadn't seen Adnan since he was banished from the Khoury family three years ago. Tariq began to edge toward the side exit. He didn't want the recognition. He didn't want the questions. Being the "useless" live-in son-in-law was a shield he wasn't ready to drop in front of the entire Mansour clan. But Adnan's eyes were sharp. They scanned the crowd, looking for the source of the disturbance, and then they stopped. They locked onto a familiar silhouette trying to vanish into the shadows. "Hey there friend, hang on!" Adnan exclaimed, his voice filled with a sudden, sharp intensity. The Mansour family froze. They followed Adnan's gaze, seeing Tariq halfway to the door. "Tariq!" Salma hissed, her face contorting with shame. "You useless trash! Are you trying to run away and leave us with the bill?" Omar, seeing an opportunity to deflect Adnan's anger, stepped forward quickly. "Mister Adnan, please don't be mad. This guy is our clan's live-in son-in-law, he's always been a useless piece of trash. Him wanting to escape is none of our clan's business! We'll pay the bill right now, just ignore him..." "F*ck off!" Adnan roared, shoving Omar aside with such force the younger man stumbled over a chair. Adnan ignored the gasps of the crowd. He strode toward Tariq, his eyes glistening. To the absolute horror and bewilderment of the Mansour family, the powerful boss of the Al-Hilal Hotel dropped to his knees on the marble floor. "I've finally found you!" Adnan cried, tears streaming down his face. "I've been looking for you for three whole years! I'm eternally grateful for your benevolence! Without you, I would be nothing!" The silence in the hall was absolute. Layla stared at her husband, her mouth slightly open. Hana Al-Mansour looked like she was having a stroke. The "trash" son-in-law was being knelt to by a man who could buy and sell the Mansour family ten times over. Tariq felt a headache forming. He caught Adnan's eye and gave a sharp, frantic wink, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. He reached down, grabbing Adnan's elbows and hauling him up with surprising strength. "Mister Adnan, what's going on?" Tariq said loudly, his voice tinged with fake confusion. "Did you fall? Are you alright?" Adnan paused, seeing the desperate signal in Tariq's eyes. He looked at the surrounding Mansour family—their greedy, shocked faces—and realized instantly that Tariq was hiding. The benefactor who had given him 300,000 bucks as a teenager was playing a part. Adnan cleared his throat, smoothing his suit as he stood up. He wiped his eyes and forced a laugh, though his heart was still racing. "Ah... I wasn't standing properly. My old leg injury flared up. I'm sorry, I must've mistaken you for someone else... you look exactly like a very dear old friend from my youth." A collective sigh of relief swept through the room. Omar let out a jagged breath, his face turning from white to a deep, embarrassed red. "I knew it! For a second there, I thought the world had gone mad. As if Adnan Bakri would know a loser like Tariq." Adnan shot Omar a look of pure, unadulterated loathing, but he kept his mouth shut for Tariq's sake. He turned back to the crowd, his professional mask sliding back into place. "The bill stands. 38.26 million." Hana Al-Mansour stepped forward, her jaw set. She looked around at her children and grandchildren, her gaze cold. "This meal was for the benefit of the entire family. This meal will cost an average of 100,000 bucks per person. All of you shall use your own money for it. No exceptions." The relatives began to grumble, but most reached for their wallets. For the Mansours, 100,000 bucks was a painful hit, but it wouldn't break them. They were a second-class clan; most had that much in their personal accounts for emergencies. However, near the center table, Layla Al-Mansour felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. She looked at her mother, Salma, who was frantically checking her banking app. "Mom," Layla whispered, her voice trembling. "Our savings... the company's recent losses... I don't have it." Salma's face was ashen. "I spent the last of our liquid cash on those designer bags last week, Layla. I thought the Al-Farsi dowry was coming. I only have a few thousand left." Omar, who had been watching them with a predatory grin, strolled over. He had 11 million in his card—enough to pay his share and then some, though the loss stung. He leaned in toward Layla, his voice dripping with malice. "Layla, you don't look so good. Don't tell me you don't even have enough money to split the bill? The great General Manager of the Mansour assets, broke?" Layla's face turned a deep shade of crimson. She looked at the floor, the "Emerald's Embrace" heels on her feet suddenly feeling like lead weights. "I... I didn't bring my bank card," she stammered, the lie tasting like ash in her mouth. ════════════════════════════════════════