Chapter 5

Tariq Mansour adjusted the phone against his ear, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery as the car moved through the city. The silence on the other end of the line was heavy, thick with the desperation of a family that had once cast him out like trash. "Don't try to bargain with me," Tariq said, his voice cutting through the quiet of the car's interior. "You called me because you have no other choice. If I sense even a hint of hesitation or if you try to play games with the terms I've set, I won't just walk away. I will personally ensure that Mansour Corporation is erased from the map. Do you understand?" The response from the other side was a hushed, hurried affirmation. Tariq hung up and looked at the driver, a silent man employed by Omar Mansour. The driver kept his eyes on the road, his posture rigid. They were approaching the gates of Al-Bahr Villa. As the car slowed, the sheer opulence of the neighborhood came into focus. This was not merely a collection of houses for the wealthy; it was a sanctuary of architectural ego. Every villa in the Al-Bahr Villa area had been specifically designed by an internationally famous designer. From the precisely angled ceramic tiles that caught the morning sun to the rare species of trees imported to line the driveways, every detail was a testament to curated luxury. It was the kind of place where a bank account full of millions wasn't enough to secure a deed; one needed a legacy, or in Tariq's case, a secret. The car pulled up to a sprawling estate where Omar Mansour, the current chief of the Mansours, stood waiting. He wasn't the arrogant patriarch Tariq remembered from three years ago. Instead, he stood with a practiced, anxious smile, smoothing the front of his expensive tunic. "Tariq, my boy," Omar said as Tariq stepped out of the car. He stepped forward, his eyes scanning Tariq from head to toe. "You've grown. You have the look of a man who has weathered many storms. Even in those simple clothes, you carry a dignity that can't be hidden." Tariq didn't return the smile. He stood by the car, the breeze from the coast ruffling his hair. "Save the flattery, Uncle Omar. We aren't here for a family reunion. Tell me exactly how deep the hole is and how you expect me to fill it. Get straight to the point." Omar's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine stress. He gestured toward the villa's entrance, but Tariq remained rooted to the spot. Omar sighed, his shoulders sagging. "The situation is dire, Tariq. Beyond dire," Omar admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "The Mansour family is facing a total financial collapse. We made a massive play in the stock market—a move we thought was a sure thing—and the floor dropped out. We lost everything in a matter of days. The creditors are circling, and the reputation of the family name is the only thing keeping the doors open right now." "How much?" Tariq asked. Omar swallowed hard. "We need a billion dollars. Just to stabilize the losses and prevent a total liquidation of our assets." Tariq's eyes twitched. He let out a short, sharp breath and immediately turned back toward the car door. "A billion? You've lost your mind. You didn't call a nephew; you called for a miracle. I'm leaving." "Wait! Tariq, please!" Omar scrambled forward, reaching out as if to grab Tariq's sleeve before thinking better of it. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites mapped with tiny red veins of exhaustion. "You can't just walk away! The family is finished if you do. We know about the offshore account, Tariq. We know it holds a trillion dollars. A billion is a drop in the ocean for you, but for us, it's life or death." Tariq stopped, his hand on the door handle. He turned slowly, his expression hardening into a mask of cold resentment. "The family? You want to talk about the family now? Where was this family three years ago when I was kicked out into the street? Where was the 'Mansour blood' when Samira mocked me in front of the servants, calling me a stain on the name? I've spent three years as a live-in son-in-law, enduring the insults of the Farsis, while you all lived in villas like this and forgot I existed." Omar looked at the ground, unable to meet Tariq's gaze. "We were wrong. I was wrong. The way we treated you... it was a mistake that haunts me every day." "It haunts you because you're broke," Tariq countered. "I will make it right," Omar said, his voice gaining a desperate strength. "I'll do more than just apologize. If you provide the funding to save the corporation, I will step down. I'll appoint you as the CEO of Mansour Corporation immediately. You'll have total control. The family, the assets, the board—everyone will answer to you." Tariq remained silent for a long moment, weighing the offer. The CEO position wasn't just about money; it was the ultimate leverage. It was the platform he needed to finally stand tall in front of Layla and silence the Farsi family forever. "Fine," Tariq said. "I accept. But I want the documents ready by tomorrow. I'll sign, the funds will be transferred, and the transition of power will be absolute." Omar exhaled a massive breath of relief, his body visibly relaxing. "Done. It will be exactly as you say. Tomorrow, everything changes. And Tariq... about the roses you mentioned for Layla? I'll have the arrangements made. The finest roses from Al-Quds, the ones carved like the 'Qalb Dubai.' They will be delivered whenever you wish." Tariq nodded, his mind already shifting to the evening ahead. "I have a college gathering tonight. A reunion of sorts. I can't exactly go looking like this." He gestured to his worn clothes and the slippers he had been wearing since he left his house. "And I don't have time to go shopping." Tariq's eyes narrowed as he looked at Omar. "You have a new Al-Majid Couture suit in the villa, don't you? The one you bought for the gala?" Omar didn't hesitate. "It's yours. A gift. Consider it a small down payment on the gratitude I owe you. It's in the master dressing room, still in the garment bag. Sana Khoury and the rest of your old classmates won't even recognize you." Tariq didn't thank him. He simply walked past Omar and into the villa. An hour later, Tariq emerged from the Al-Bahr Villa area. The transition was jarring. He was draped in the razor-sharp silhouette of an Al-Majid Couture suit, the fabric shimmering with a subtle, expensive sheen. Yet, beneath the hem of the trousers, his old, battered slippers were still visible—a stubborn remnant of his past three years. He didn't care. He whistled a low tune, hopped onto his old electric bike, and began the trek toward the Al-Mass Hotel. The wind whipped against the fine wool of his jacket as he hummed, the absurdity of a man in a multi-thousand-dollar suit riding a creaky scooter not lost on him. He hadn't gone far when a familiar car pulled up alongside him, forcing him to slow down near the edge of the neighborhood. The window rolled down to reveal the cold, striking face of Lina Haddad. His mother-in-law stared at him, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of the suit. She signaled for him to pull over, and Tariq complied, stopping his bike at the curb. Lina stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement. She approached him like a predator inspecting a strange new species. "Where did you get that?" she demanded, her voice dripping with suspicion. She reached out and felt the sleeve of the jacket, her eyes narrowing. "This is Al-Majid Couture. This suit costs more than you've earned in your entire life. Did you steal this, Tariq? Or did you spend Layla's hard-earned money to play dress-up for your little school friends?" "I borrowed it, Mother-in-law," Tariq said softly, his voice immediate and calm. "An acquaintance lent it to me for the gathering tonight. I wouldn't waste Layla's money." Lina scoffed, a cold, mocking sound. "Borrowing suits. How pathetic. You look like a beggar trying to pass for a prince, but those slippers give you away. You can put a silk ribbon on a dog, but it's still a dog." She stepped closer, her expression shifting from mockery to a calculated, icy smile. "Actually, it's good I ran into you. It saves me the trouble of looking for you later. I've had enough of this charade, Tariq. Look at yourself. You're a parasite. Layla is drowning because of her company's debts, and you're out here borrowing suits and riding a toy bike." Tariq remained silent, watching her. "Khalid Saab has offered a solution," Lina continued, her voice filled with a sharp edge of triumph. "He is willing to provide a million-dollar wedding gift to the family the moment Layla is free. A million dollars, Tariq. That money would solve everything for us. It would give Layla the life she deserves, away from a loser like you." She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a folded document, thrusting it toward his chest. "I want you to divorce Layla. Now. Sign the papers and I'll even ensure you get a small alimony—enough to buy your own suit for once. Khalid is a man of substance. He has the power and the wealth to protect her. What do you have?" She let out a short, harsh laugh. "A million dollars, Tariq. Can you even imagine what that looks like? That is the price of your exit. Don't be a fool and stay where you aren't wanted." Tariq looked down at the divorce papers in her hand, then up at the villa towers in the distance, and finally back at Lina's expectant, cold face. ════════════════════════════════════════