Chapter 2

The phone in Tariq's pocket vibrated with a persistence that demanded attention. He pulled it out, his thumb hovering over the screen. A new message sat in his inbox, the sender listed as the Mansour Family—the most influential clan in Wadi Al-Noor, and the very people who had cast him out like trash three years ago. "Tariq, we are in desperate need. The company is facing a catastrophic funding shortage. We beg you to return and provide financial assistance." Tariq's grip tightened on the cheap plastic casing of his phone. Three years ago, these same people had accused him of embezzling company funds to cover their own tracks. They had stripped him of his position and sent his parents abroad, effectively holding them in exile. Back then, he had invested tens of millions of dollars into a speculative gold mine stock, a move they had mocked as the height of idiocy. Now, the text revealed the punchline: the gold mine had become unimaginably valuable. The stocks he purchased three years ago had increased tremendously in price. The family that had disowned him was now begging the "embezzler" for a lifeline. He looked down at his other hand. It held exactly twenty dollars—his entire net worth in physical cash. Confused but feeling a spark of something he hadn't felt in years, Tariq reached into the hidden compartment of his worn-out wallet. He pulled out a black bank card, its surface matte and cold. It had been abandoned for three years, a relic of a life he thought was buried under the weight of his role as a live-in son-in-law. He dialed the private number on the back of the card. "Welcome to the Diamond Tier priority service," a sweet female voice answered. "How may I assist you today, sir?" "I'd like to check the balance on my account," Tariq said. His voice was direct, though a hint of curiosity bled through. There was a long silence on the other end, followed by the sound of rapid typing. Then, a sharp intake of breath. "Sir..." the woman's voice was no longer just professional; it was audibly shocked, trembling slightly. "I... I'm afraid I cannot provide you with a balance over the phone. Your account balance is too tremendous to be displayed or checked through this system. For safety purposes, the account has been locked to all standard inquiries." Tariq blinked. "Locked? I can't even know how much is in there?" "The security protocol for an offshore account of this magnitude requires physical verification, sir," the representative explained, her tone now profoundly polite. "If you wish, we can send a dedicated armored courier or a regional executive to the headquarters of your choosing to facilitate a balance check and unlock the funds." "I'll... I'll think about it," Tariq muttered, his mind reeling. "Maybe later." He hung up and began the long walk back to the Farsi residence. He moved at a leisurely pace, his thoughts a whirlwind of gold mines and locked accounts. By the time he reached the villa, Layla Al-Farsi had long since driven home. As he entered the living room, the scent of expensive perfume hit him. Layla was sitting on the sofa, her face buried in her hands. Beside her were her two best friends: Hala Ghazi, who wore a silk dress that hugged her curves, and Rana Sharif, who was adjusting her hair in a compact mirror. The atmosphere was thick with tension. "Five million dollars," Layla whispered, her voice cracking. "If I don't find five million dollars in funding by the end of the week, the company is finished. The creditors won't wait any longer." Hala sighed, leaning back. "Layla, darling, it's a huge sum. Even with our connections, pulling five million out of thin air is nearly impossible on such short notice." Tariq stepped further into the room. Layla looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. The sight of him—dusty from his walk and looking every bit the stagnant husband—seemed to trigger a wave of frustration in her. "Where have you been?" Layla snapped, standing up. "I'm dealing with a crisis that could destroy our future, and you're out wandering the streets? Go do the laundry. Now! The baskets are overflowing in the utility room." Tariq didn't move toward the laundry. He looked at Layla, his expression serious. "Layla, I heard you. You need five million dollars?" Rana Sharif let out a peal of laughter, snapping her compact shut. "Oh, listen to him! Is the son-in-law going to check his piggy bank? Maybe he found a few extra coins under the sofa cushions." Hala Ghazi smiled faintly, her eyes mocking as they swept over Tariq's cheap clothes. "Layla, you really should keep a tighter leash on his imagination. It's charming, in a pathetic sort of way." Layla turned to her friends, her face flushing with embarrassment. "Don't mind him. He's probably referring to that 'offshore account' he rambles about sometimes. He once convinced himself he had money hidden away from some old investment. It's just a misunderstanding of how banks work." "An offshore account?" Rana laughed harder. "On a hundred dollars a day pocket money? Layla, you're too generous. You give him a hundred dollars a day to buy groceries and he thinks he's a financier." Tariq ignored the women's laughter. He stepped closer to Layla, his eyes locked on hers. "I'm not daydreaming, Layla. I can help you. I can get you the five million dollars. I can resolve the funding issues tonight." The room went silent for a heartbeat before Hala Ghazi scoffed loudly. She stood up, walking toward Tariq until she was inches away, the scent of her perfume overpowering. "Five million dollars?" she challenged, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tariq, do you even know how many zeros are in that number? You can't even afford a new scooter after yours was stolen. If you can actually produce five million dollars, I'll kneel down and call you 'Master' in front of the whole city." Tariq didn't flinch. He looked at Hala with a sudden, sharp confidence that made her blink. "Is that a promise? Because I can do it. Easily." Layla stepped between them, her hands trembling as she pushed Tariq back. "Stop it! Both of you! Tariq, go to the study. Just go. Stop embarrassing me with these delusions. I have real problems to solve, and your 'help' is just making me a laughingstock." She waved him away, her face tight with a mix of exhaustion and shame. Tariq saw the hopelessness in her eyes—the genuine fear that her life's work was about to vanish. He wanted to reach out, to show her the black card, but the weight of three years of humiliation held his tongue for just a moment longer. "Fine," Tariq said softly. He turned and retreated to the small, cramped study room where he spent his nights. He didn't sleep well. He lay on the narrow cot, listening to the muffled sounds of Layla sobbing in the other room and her friends offering empty comforts. He thought about the Mansours, the gold mine, and the locked account. The power was there, beneath his fingertips, waiting to be unleashed. The next morning, Tariq woke early. He felt a strange restlessness in his bones. He walked out to the courtyard to check on his electric bike. He expected to find it as he left it, but as he reached the gate, he stopped. The bike had a brand-new battery. The casing was polished, and the power indicator showed a full charge. He knew Layla had done it. Despite her anger, despite her mocking friends and her mounting debt, she had made sure he had a way to get around. It was a silent, subtle act of care that she would never admit to. He touched the handlebars, a cold resolve settling in his chest. "Tariq!" A sharp, imperious voice cut through the morning air. He turned to see Yasmin Al-Farsi, Layla's younger sister. She was a high school senior, known for her unruly temper and her deep-seated disdain for her brother-in-law. She stood on the porch, her arms crossed, staring at him with cold, narrowed eyes. "Where do you think you're going on that pathetic toy?" Yasmin demanded. Tariq straightened his back. "Good morning, Yasmin. I was just heading out to run some errands." "Errands? You mean loitering?" Yasmin stepped down the stairs, her face contorting into a look of fury. "You're a useless weight on this family, Tariq. My sister is losing sleep, losing her company, and you're standing here admiring a battery." She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick, sealed envelope. She marched over and shoved it violently against his chest. "Take this," she hissed. "It's a critical document Layla forgot this morning. It needs to be at her office immediately. If you lose this, or if you're late because you decided to take a nap under a bridge, don't bother coming back to this house. Do you understand me, you loser? Move!" Tariq took the document. He looked at the frantic handwriting on the envelope, then back at the sneering young girl in front of him. He didn't argue. He didn't defend himself. He climbed onto the electric bike, the new battery humming with life. "I'll deliver it," Tariq said quietly. He twisted the throttle, leaving Yasmin shouting insults at his back as he sped toward the city center, the black card heavy in his pocket. ════════════════════════════════════════