Chapter 4

Tariq Mansour stepped between Khalid Saab and the entrance to the Al-Farsi Marketing Agency, his eyes fixed on the man who had just tried to buy his wife's attention with a ruined bouquet. The air between them hummed with the friction of three years of suppressed resentment finally finding an outlet. "Stay away from my wife, Khalid," Tariq said. His voice was no longer the hushed, apologetic tone of a live-in son-in-law. It was cold, cutting through the humid air of the parking lot with a directness that made the security guard nearby shift his weight. "You have no business here, and you certainly have no business with Layla." Khalid Saab didn't flinch. Instead, he smoothed the lapel of his tailored suit, a faint, mocking smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Business? I am the only person here with actual business, Tariq. You're just the help that forgot his place." Tariq ignored the jab, his gaze shifting briefly to Layla, who stood paralyzed by the escalating tension. "You think these wilted things are a gift?" Tariq gestured to the scattered petals on the pavement. "I will buy Layla roses from Al-Quds. Real roses, designed and carved by the masters. Not the trash you bring to her door." Khalid broke into a sharp, barking laugh that echoed against the glass facade of the agency. "Al-Quds roses? Do you even know what you're saying, you pathetic loser? A single rose from the Al-Quds gardens costs more than a thousand dollars. A single stem! You can't even afford the battery in that toy bike of yours without Layla's charity, and you're talking about importing flowers from the most exclusive floral designers in the world?" He stepped closer to Tariq, his voice dropping to a sneer. "You're a dreamer, Tariq. But dreams don't pay the bills. Reality does." Khalid turned away from Tariq as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture, directing his full attention to Layla. His demeanor shifted instantly to one of professional, calculated grace. "Layla, let's be practical. Your company is on the brink. The Al-Farsi Marketing Agency needs five million dollars to survive the quarter. I have that capital ready. All I ask is that you join me for a meal so we can discuss the terms of the investment. Five million dollars for a few hours of your time. It's a small price to save your legacy, wouldn't you agree?" Layla looked from Khalid's confident, waiting expression to the struggling office building behind her. Her hands were clenched at her sides, her knuckles white. The weight of the agency's debt had been a suffocating shroud for months. Five million dollars was the difference between survival and total collapse. "Five million..." she whispered, her voice hesitant but heavy with the gravity of the choice. She looked at Tariq, then back to Khalid. "If you are serious about the funding, Khalid... then I accept. I'll go to the meal with you." "Layla, no!" Tariq stepped forward, reaching out to catch her arm, but she recoiled. "Don't do this. You don't have to go anywhere with him. I told you, I have the money. I can give you the five million dollars. I can give you ten! Just stay away from him." Layla stopped, closing her eyes for a moment as a long, weary sigh escaped her lips. When she opened them, they were filled with a profound sense of disappointment. "Tariq, please. Stop it. It's embarrassing." "I'm not lying, Layla!" "Enough!" she snapped, her voice trembling with frustration. "You've spent three years in my house, eating our food, living on what my family provides. Where would you get five million dollars? From your scooter? Stop daydreaming and face the world we actually live in. I'm trying to save my business, and your pride is only making it harder." She turned her back on him, walking toward Khalid's gleaming car. Khalid didn't follow her immediately. He lingered, looking Tariq up and down with an expression of mock pity. "You know, Tariq, I actually feel a bit sorry for you. You're clearly struggling to find your footing in this world. Tell you what—I'm a project manager at Mansour Corporation, and we're looking to expand our maintenance staff. I can offer you a job as a cleaner." Khalid adjusted his watch, leaning in. "Two hundred dollars a month. And because I'm a generous man, I'll throw in a fifty-dollar monthly subsidy for your transportation. It's better than wandering around in the sun pretending to be a millionaire, don't you think?" Tariq's face was a mask of cold fury. "I don't need your charity, Khalid. And I certainly don't need a job from a man who won't be holding his own position for much longer." Khalid let out a short, dismissive snort. "Suit yourself. Stay hungry, stay proud. It seems to be working so well for you." He walked to his car and opened the passenger door for Layla. Before sliding into the driver's seat, he looked back at Tariq, who was standing alone in the middle of the lot, framed by the dust and the midday heat. "Look at her, Tariq," Khalid called out, gesturing to Layla through the window. "She's leaving with me because I have the power to change her life. You're just a ghost in her house. Watch us drive away, and remember that no matter how loud you yell, you're still nothing." The engine roared to life, a deep, expensive growl that seemed to vibrate in Tariq's chest. He watched the taillights of Khalid's car disappear around the corner, taking his wife to a meeting that was nothing less than a ransom for her company's future. The rage that had been simmering for three years finally boiled over. It wasn't the hot, impulsive rage of a child, but the cold, calculated fury of a man who had finally been pushed past his limit of endurance. Tariq reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn't hesitate. He dialed the number he had ignored for years, the number that linked him back to the family that had cast him out into the dirt of the Al-Farsi household. The call was picked up on the first ring. "Tariq? Is that you?" The voice on the other end was frantic, hopeful. "It's me," Tariq said, his voice like grinding stone. "I'm done playing this game. You told me the Mansour Corporation needs me. You told me the gold mine has matured. Fine." He looked at the empty spot where Khalid's car had been. "I want control. From this moment forward, Mansour Corporation belongs to me. Total authority. Total access." "Of course, Tariq! Whatever you want, the family—" "I'm not finished," Tariq interrupted, his tone brookng no argument. "I want the best roses from Al-Quds. Not a bouquet. I want a sea of them. I want them designed, carved, and delivered to the Al-Farsi Marketing Agency immediately. I want everyone in this city to know who they belong to." "It will be done," the voice replied, hushed with awe. "Anything else?" Tariq stared at the agency building, his eyes narrowing. "Wait for my next command. And tell Omar Mansour to prepare the accounts. I have a five-million-dollar debt to settle, and a man named Khalid Saab to remove from my sight." He ended the call and looked at his phone. The black card in his wallet felt heavy, a dormant weapon finally unsheathed. He looked at the battery on his bike, then at the road where Layla had disappeared. The three years of silence were over. The son-in-law they had mocked was gone, and the heir to the Mansour fortune had returned to claim what was his. ════════════════════════════════════════