Chapter 6

Tariq Mansour stood in the driveway of the Farsi family residence, his hands tucked into the pockets of the Al-Majid Couture suit he had borrowed. The fabric felt foreign against his skin, a stark contrast to the worn clothes he had inhabited for three years as a live-in son-in-law. Opposite him, Lina Haddad's face was a mask of aristocratic disdain, her eyes narrowed as she waited for him to surrender to her ultimatum. "I won't be signing any divorce papers, Mother-in-law," Tariq said. He let out a short, sharp laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "My marriage to Layla isn't a business transaction you can liquidate. Whether I stay or go is between her and me. I have every right to decide the affairs of my own household." Lina's jaw tightened. Her silence was more oppressive than a scream. She didn't argue; she didn't need to. To her, Tariq was a bug that had somehow learned to mimic the speech of men. She turned on her heel, the heels of her designer shoes clicking sharply against the pavement as she marched toward her car. The engine of the luxury sedan roared to life with a predatory growl. Instead of reversing, Lina shifted into drive, the car surging forward toward Tariq. He didn't move. He watched the chrome grille accelerate, the distance closing until the heat of the engine bay radiated against his legs. At the last possible second, Lina slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a halt, inches from his knees. Through the windshield, he saw her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her chest heaving with suppressed fury. She threw the car into reverse, tires screeching as she peeled out of the driveway and vanished onto the main road of Al-Safwa. Across town, at the headquarters of Layla Al-Farsi's company, the atmosphere was thick with the stagnant air of after-hours gossip. Layla walked toward the front desk, her steps heavy. She had spent the afternoon staring at balance sheets that refused to add up, the five million dollar deficit looming over her like a death sentence. "Did you hear him?" one of the receptionists whispered to her colleague, unaware of Layla's approach. "The beggar husband actually told Mr. Saab he'd buy her roses from Al-Quds. From Al-Quds! Does he even know how much a single stem costs to fly in?" "He probably thinks Al-Quds is a flower shop down the street," the second girl giggled, leaning over the counter. "Poor Layla. Imagine having a husband who makes you the laughingstock of the entire business district. It's embarrassing just being in the same building as his reputation." Layla stopped. The words felt like physical blows, stripping away the last of her professional composure. The mockery of the employees she worked tirelessly to keep employed stung worse than her mother's blunt insults. "Shut up!" Layla yelled, her voice cracking. The two girls jumped, their faces turning pale as they looked up at her. Layla's hands were trembling at her sides, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. "Get back to your stations and shut up!" The lobby fell into an uncomfortable, suffocating silence. The girls lowered their heads, busying themselves with stacks of paper, but the damage was done. Layla felt the weight of a thousand invisible eyes judging her, pitying her for the man she had married. A shadow fell across the glass entrance doors. An employee ran toward Layla, looking breathless. "Ms. Al-Farsi! There's... there's a logistics convoy outside. They say they have a delivery for you. A massive one." Layla frowned, wiping her eyes quickly. "A delivery? I didn't order anything." She walked toward the glass doors, followed by a trailing crowd of curious employees. Pulled up to the curb was a climate-controlled transport truck, its engine idling quietly. Standing beside it was a man who looked more like a corporate executive than a delivery driver—handsome, dressed in a sharp, elite-style uniform that screamed premium service. "Ms. Layla Al-Farsi?" the man asked, his voice respectful and direct. "I am," Layla said, her voice still shaky. The man signaled to a few porters waiting by the rear of the truck. They threw open the doors, and a wave of fragrance hit the street—the deep, heady scent of Al-Quds roses, fresh and heavy with dew. The truck was packed floor to ceiling with thousands of exquisite blooms, each one worth more than a thousand dollars. The vibrant reds and deep velvety purples glowed under the streetlights. "These are from Al-Quds, as requested," the delivery lead said. He reached into the cab of the truck and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. Inside sat a brooch shaped like a small rose, intricately carved from a rare gemstone. "And this is the 'Qalb Dubai.' It was designed and carved specifically for this shipment." The employees gasped. The two girls who had been mocking Tariq moments ago stood with their mouths hanging open, their eyes darting between the mountain of flowers and the shimmering brooch. "Who... who sent these?" Layla whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "The client requested to remain anonymous for the delivery, ma'am," the man replied, though his eyes held a knowing glint. "Where would you like them placed?" "It has to be Khalid Saab," one of the managers whispered loudly enough for the lobby to hear. "Who else has that kind of money? He said he'd take care of her. This is a statement." Layla didn't answer. She looked at the roses—thousands of them—and then at the 'Qalb Dubai' brooch. Khalid had brought her a bouquet earlier, but this? This was a king's ransom in flora. Yet, a memory flickered in her mind—Tariq's voice, firm and quiet, promising her roses from Al-Quds. She shook the thought away. It was impossible. Tariq couldn't even afford to replace his stolen scooter. Leaving the chaos of the delivery behind, the scene shifted toward the Al-Mass Hotel. The venue was a landmark of entertainment in Al-Safwa, a place where the city's middle-to-upper class gathered to flaunt their successes. Tariq arrived at the gate, humming a quiet tune to himself. He was riding his electric bike, the one with the freshly installed battery. It looked pathetically out of place among the rows of Audis and Mercedes. He pulled into a narrow gap near the entrance and began to kick down the stand. Behind him, the roar of a performance engine cut through the evening air. An Al-Buraq, sleek and aggressive, swung into the lot. The driver didn't slow down, aiming for the same spot Tariq was occupying. There was a sickening crunch of plastic and metal as the car's bumper clipped the back of the electric bike, sending it toppling over. "Hey!" Tariq turned, looking at his fallen bike. The door of a nearby Al-Waha A4 swung open, and Karim Darwish stepped out. He was dressed in a suit that looked expensive but fit him poorly, his face already twisted in a sneer. "What the hell are you doing parking that piece of junk in the middle of the way?" Karim yelled, pointing a finger at Tariq. "This is the Al-Mass, not a scrapyard! Move that trash before I have the security guards toss it in the bin." Tariq looked up, blinking. "Karim? Karim Darwish?" Karim froze, squinting at Tariq. He looked at the borrowed Al-Majid suit, then at the cheap electric bike, and finally at Tariq's face. A slow, mocking grin spread across his lips. "Tariq Mansour? Our old class monitor?" Karim let out a barking laugh, turning to look at the Al-Buraq that had hit the bike. "Look at this, everyone! The great Mansour heir has returned, and he's arrived on a battery-powered toy!" Tariq remained silent, looking at his scuffed bike and then back at his former classmate. Karim's eyes were full of a cruel, practiced superiority. "Don't just stand there like an idiot," Karim spat, stepping closer to Tariq. "I heard you became a live-in son-in-law. I guess the Farsi family doesn't even give you an allowance for a real car. Get that eyesore out of my sight. We have a reunion to get to, and I don't want the smell of poverty clinging to me when I walk through those doors." Karim didn't wait for a response. He adjusted his tie, threw a final disparaging look at the fallen electric bike, and marched toward the gilded entrance of the Al-Mass Hotel. Tariq stood by his bike, the hum of the hotel's fountain the only sound in the sudden quiet of the parking lot. He reached down and slowly righted the bike, his expression unreadable as he looked toward the hotel doors where the rest of his former classmates were waiting. ════════════════════════════════════════