Chapter 8

Tariq Mansour leaned toward Zahra, his voice dropping to a level intended only for her ears. The atmosphere in the private room had shifted from celebratory to predatory, and the weight of the unopened bottles on the side table felt like a trap. "Zahra, we should leave now," Tariq said. His eyes scanned the room, noting the flush of arrogance on Karim's face and the way the waitstaff lingered near the door. "This isn't going to end well." Zahra froze, her fork hovering halfway to her plate. She looked at Tariq, then at the laughing crowd of former classmates. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she remained silent, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. She didn't move, her hesitation anchoring her to the velvet-cushioned chair. Karim Darwish's laughter cut off abruptly. He slammed his glass onto the table, the wine sloshing over the rim, and fixed a dark-faced stare on Tariq. The room fell into a jagged silence as the other classmates turned their heads, sensing a kill. "You're still here, Tariq?" Karim's voice was a low growl. "I thought I told you to get lost after you finished making your excuses for being a pathetic live-in son-in-law. You've spent three years eating the Farsi family's leftovers and scrubbing floors. Do you think you belong at this table?" "He's probably just waiting for the doggy bags," one of the men near the end of the table chimed in, sparking a wave of snickers. "Look at him," another mocked, pointing at Tariq's borrowed suit. "He probably rented that just to keep from being kicked out at the door. Tariq, a man who lives off his wife's charity shouldn't be giving advice on when to leave. If you're so uncomfortable, go back to your scooter and wait for your master to call you home." Karim leaned back, a sneer twisting his features. "Actually, I've changed my mind. I'm not letting you off that easily. You've sat here, you've breathed our air, and you've looked at the menu." He snapped his fingers, summoning the waiter who had been standing by the sideboard. "Waiter! Bring the bill. Since Tariq is such a man of principle, we're going to split it. I want to see exactly how much a professional son-in-law can afford." Karim pulled a silver card from his wallet and flicked it onto the table with a sharp *clack*. "This card has more than a million dollars in assets. I'll pay for everyone else, but I want Tariq's share calculated separately. Let's see him sweat." The waiter picked up the card with a practiced bow and retreated. The classmates leaned in, their eyes darting between the silver card and Tariq's calm expression. They waited for the pleading, for the stuttered explanation that he didn't have the money, but Tariq simply watched Karim with an unreadable gaze. Minutes passed before the waiter returned, but he wasn't alone. A man in a sharp black suit—the floor manager—accompanied him. The waiter's face was pale, and he held Karim's silver card with two fingers as if it were a hot coal. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Darwish," the waiter said, his voice direct but laden with a forced politeness. "The card has been declined. There is an insufficient balance to cover the total." Karim's face went from smug to a sickly shade of grey in a heartbeat. "Declined? That's impossible! Check it again. There's over a million in that account! Are you trying to scam me?" The manager stepped forward, his expression solemn. "Sir, the total bill for this evening is 1.8 million dollars. Even after deducting a single share for Mr. Mansour, the remaining balance is 1.7 million dollars. Your card simply does not have the capacity." The room erupted. The classmates who had been mocking Tariq seconds ago were now staring at the bill as if it were a death warrant. 1.8 million dollars for a single dinner? Karim jumped to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor. He pointed a shaking finger at the manager. "1.8 million? You're joking! You're definitely joking! What did we eat? Gold? You're running a black shop! I'll have this place shut down by tomorrow morning! Call your owner! I want to see the person in charge of this robbery!" The manager didn't flinch. He remained perfectly still, his eyes cold. "The cost is primarily due to the two bottles of Burj Al-Noor wine you ordered and insisted on having opened, sir. As a French original royal wine, it retails at eight hundred eighty thousand dollars per bottle. Two bottles alone account for 1.76 million dollars. The rest is for the appetizers and the private room fee." Karim's knees buckled, and he sank back into his chair. 1.76 million for two bottles of wine? He had ordered them to show off, thinking they were perhaps a few thousand dollars each. He hadn't even looked at the price list on the vintage reserve page. "I... I didn't know," Karim stammered, his bravado vanishing. "You should have warned me." "The prices are clearly marked, Mr. Darwish," the manager replied. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the private room swung open. A group of brawny men in tactical black suits stepped in, flanking a young man with a sharp buzzcut and a wicked, daunting smile. He walked with the slow, measured stride of someone who owned the very air he breathed. "I heard someone was calling my hotel a black shop," the man said. His voice was soft, but it carried a predatory edge that made the air in the room turn cold. The manager bowed deeply. "Mr. Saleh." Yusuf Saleh, the owner of Al-Mass Hotel and one of the most feared individuals in Al-Safwa, stopped at the head of the table. He leaned down, placing his hands on the mahogany surface, and stared directly at Karim. "So," Yusuf said, his smile widening. "You think I'm a thief? You think I need to trick a little manager like you to make a profit?" One of the bodyguards stepped forward, looming over Karim. The physical threat was immediate. Karim looked up at the brawny men, then at Yusuf's cold eyes, and his face broke into a sweat. "No! No, Mr. Saleh, I didn't mean it!" Karim pleaded, his voice cracking. "It was a misunderstanding! I'll pay! I'll find a way to pay! Please, tell your men to step back." Yusuf Saleh straightened up, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He glanced around the table, his eyes lingering on the women. Sana Khoury shrank back, her breath hitching, while Zahra remained frozen, her head bowed. "1.8 million is a lot of money for a project manager," Yusuf said, his tone conversational. "It would take you decades to pay that back, and I'm not a patient man. However, I'm a reasonable businessman. I'm feeling generous tonight." He leaned in closer to Karim, his eyes gleaming with a wicked intent. "I'll waive the entire bill. Every cent. But on one condition." Karim looked up, a spark of hope in his eyes. "Anything! What is it?" Yusuf pointed a finger toward the center of the table. "These two beauties—Sana Khoury and Zahra. They stay behind. They accompany me for the rest of the night, and you walk out of here with a clean slate. What do you say, Mr. Darwish? Is their company worth 1.8 million dollars to you?" The room went silent. Sana's face drained of all color, her hands trembling as she looked at Karim, begging him with her eyes to refuse. Zahra's head snapped up, horror etched into her features. Karim didn't even hesitate. He didn't look at Sana, and he didn't look at Zahra. He looked only at the bodyguards and the crushing weight of a debt he couldn't pay. "Deal," Karim said, his voice quick and desperate. "They're yours. Just let me go." Yusuf Saleh laughed, a dry, harsh sound that echoed off the walls. He looked at the two women, then his gaze shifted, landing unexpectedly on Tariq Mansour, who had remained seated, his expression turning cold. ════════════════════════════════════════