Chapter 10

Faisal Sharif's phone slipped from his numb fingers, clattering onto the marble floor of the Ghazi villa. His knees followed a second later. The arrogance that had defined his posture moments ago vanished, replaced by a hollow, wide-eyed stare. "Father?" Faisal whispered, though the line was already dead. Hamza Sharif's voice had been a jagged edge of panic over the speaker. "It's over! Najm Group didn't just break the contract—they've blacklisted us! Every subsidiary, every line of credit! Faisal, what did you do?" Inside the executive suite of the Sharif Group headquarters, Hamza Sharif was surrounded by chaos. He didn't have time to wait for his son's answer. The heavy oak door to his office swung open so hard it hit the wall. "Sir! Najm Group has filed a lawsuit in the capital!" a frantic assistant shouted, clutching a tablet. "They're suing for three billion dollars for breach of exclusivity and damages. The courts have already frozen our primary accounts!" Hamza grabbed the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white. Before he could speak, his head of finance rushed in. "The banks, sir! They've called in every outstanding loan. They're demanding full repayment by the end of business today. We don't have the liquidity!" "The Al-Hamra factory has ceased operations!" another voice cried from the hallway. "The workers have walked out because the payroll accounts are locked. Total shutdown!" Hamza looked at the monitors on the wall. The Sharif Group ticker was a vertical red line. "Our share price..." "It's plummeted sixty percent in twenty minutes, sir. We've lost hundreds of millions in market cap. It's a bloodbath." The first assistant looked up from the tablet, his face pale. "Sir... the filing is official. Sharif Group is entering involuntary bankruptcy." Hamza Sharif slumped into his leather chair, the phone still clutched in his hand, emitting a low, rhythmic beep. Back at the Ghazi residence, Faisal Sharif lunged forward on his knees, reaching for the hem of Layla Ghazi's dress. He was sobbing now, the tears carving streaks through the expensive powder on his face. "Layla, please! I was wrong! I'm a dog, a fool!" Faisal wailed, his voice cracking. "Call him back. Call Sami Haddad back! You're the only one he listens to. Tell him it was a mistake. If the bankruptcy goes through, my family is finished. We'll be on the streets! Please, Layla, have mercy!" Layla stepped back, her expression a mix of shock and pity, but she didn't reach for her phone. She looked at Tariq, who stood like an immovable statue behind her, his eyes cold and indifferent to the man crawling at his feet. Khalid Ghazi watched the scene with the calculated precision of a hawk. The moment the word 'bankruptcy' had left Faisal's lips, the boy ceased to be a potential grandson-in-law and became a liability. "Security!" Khalid barked, his voice echoing through the hall. Two burly guards in black suits appeared instantly. "Get this man out of my sight," Khalid ordered, pointing a trembling finger at Faisal. "The Ghazi family has no business with failures and beggars. Throw him out of the gates." "No! Khalid, please! We've been allies for years!" Faisal screamed as the guards hoisted him up by his armpits. His designer shoes dragged across the floor as they hauled him toward the exit. "Layla! Help me!" The heavy doors slammed shut, cutting off his cries. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Khalid Ghazi's sudden, forced chuckle. He turned to Layla, his face transforming into a mask of grandfatherly affection. He gestured to the seat beside him—the seat of honor. "Come, Layla. Sit, don't stand," Khalid said, his voice warm and inviting. "You've done a great service for the family. A hundred-million-dollar contract... truly, you are the shining star of the Ghazis." Layla moved hesitantly, sitting on the edge of the chair. "Grandfather? Does this mean... the marriage?" "From this moment on," Khalid declared, raising his voice so the entire room could hear, "Layla Ghazi is appointed the Executive Chairman of Daim Group. You will have full authority over the Najm contract." He paused, glancing briefly at Tariq Al-Farsi. "And your monthly salary will be set at three hundred thousand dollars." Layla's breath hitched. "Three hundred thousand? And... Tariq?" Khalid sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Since you are so insistent, he may stay. A woman of your new status can afford to keep a househusband. As long as he doesn't cause trouble, he is permitted to remain in the Ghazi household." Layla turned to Tariq, her eyes shimmering with tears of pure relief. She grabbed his hand, her fingers trembling. "Tariq, did you hear? You can stay! We don't have to leave. Everything is going to be okay!" Tariq offered a small, almost imperceptible nod. He didn't care about the salary or the title, but the light in Layla's eyes made the charade worth it. By the next morning, the social landscape of Al-Waha had been permanently scarred. The news was a wildfire: Adnan Sharif, the patriarch who had ruled the city's shadow economy for decades, was dead. The Sharif Group, a titan of industry, had collapsed into ash in less than twenty-four hours. Amidst the mourning of the Sharifs, the Ghazis were the talk of the city, rising from a second-tier family to the partners of the mighty Najm Group. Layla Ghazi was the woman of the hour, while Tariq Al-Farsi remained a footnote—the lucky orphan who had married into a fortune. At the Mansour Villa, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the Ghazis' celebration. White funeral banners hung from the gates. Inside, Faisal Sharif sat huddled in a corner, his clothes disheveled. Zayd Sharif, dressed in his crisp military uniform, stood by the window, his back to the room. The air around him was suffocatingly cold. "It was her," Faisal hissed, his voice raw from crying. "It was Layla Ghazi. She made a call, and everything disappeared. She's the reason Grandfather is dead and the company is gone. She destroyed us, Uncle Zayd!" Zayd turned slowly. His eyes were dark, swirling with a murderous intent that made Faisal flinch. "Layla Ghazi," Zayd repeated the name like a curse. "And Sami Haddad. They think they can topple a mountain like the Sharifs and walk away? They have forgotten who guards the borders. I will personally see to it that the Ghazi family pays back every cent with a drop of blood." Nour Sharif, sitting on a velvet sofa, looked up at Zayd. Her face was pale but composed. "The accounts are frozen, Zayd. The creditors are circling. What are our next steps? We need liquid capital if we are to fight back." Zayd adjusted his gloves, his expression returning to a terrifying calm. "Do not worry, Aunt Nour. I have a plan. We still have assets they cannot touch. We proceed as we discussed." Two weeks passed in a blur of domesticity. For the people of Al-Waha, it was a time of intense corporate restructuring. For Tariq Al-Farsi, it was the most peaceful time he had known in a decade. He settled into the rhythm of a househusband with a discipline that bordered on the absurd. He woke before dawn to prepare Layla's breakfast, swept the floors of their living quarters until they gleamed, and ensured the trash was taken out precisely at eight. In the afternoons, he would drive the modest multi-purpose vehicle to the Daim Group headquarters to wait for Layla. One such afternoon, Tariq squatted by the roadside outside the Daim Group office, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the pavement. Karim, wearing his usual black tank and cap, leaned against a nearby lamp post. He looked at the man who had once commanded the Janub Plains now checking his watch for a office closing time. "Sir, don't you find this life... boring?" Karim asked, his voice low. "You've traded a throne for a broom. You're the Al Qaid Al-Azam. You should be presiding over the fate of nations, not waiting for a mid-level executive to finish her meetings." Tariq took a slow drag of his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of gray smoke. "I've spent ten years surrounded by the smell of blood and the sound of artillery, Karim. This peace is something most men in my position never get to taste. To cook a meal for the woman who saved my life... that is enough for me. I've had enough of violence." Karim remained silent for a moment, then shifted his weight. "There is something you need to know, sir. Nour Sharif is organizing an auction for tonight." Tariq didn't move. "An auction?" "She's raising funds to support Zayd's operations," Karim explained. "They are selling off the 'private collection'—items the Sharifs 'acquired' over the last decade. My sources confirmed the catalog. One of the primary pieces is the 'Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal'." The cigarette in Tariq's hand snapped. The 'Moonlight Over the Mountain'—the Farsi family's ancestral painting. It was the piece his father had cherished above all others, a symbol of their heritage that had been looted the night the Farsis were burned alive. Tariq stood up slowly. The casual, relaxed posture of a househusband vanished. The temperature on the roadside seemed to plummet ten degrees in an instant. The air grew heavy, vibrating with a suppressed power that made the nearby streetlights flicker. His eyes, which had been soft when thinking of Layla, were now twin voids of cold, dark iron. "Tonight?" Tariq asked, his voice a low, guttural vibration. "Tonight, sir," Karim replied, his own posture straightening in response to the killing intent radiating from his commander. Tariq looked toward the Daim Group entrance where Layla was just walking out, a smile on her face. He forced the coldness back down, but the fire in his veins remained. "Prepare the car," Tariq said. "We're going to an auction." ════════════════════════════════════════