Chapter 12

Tariq Al-Farsi stood in the center of their bedroom, staring at his empty palms. The sleek, black card that usually rested in his pocket was gone, claimed by Layla with a firm look that brooked no argument. He let out a helpless pout, his shoulders slumping. As the youngest general Shams had ever seen, he had commanded legions and faced down death without blinking, but under Layla's domestic authority, he was utterly defeated. Layla didn't notice his theatrics. She was busy rifling through her wardrobe, her movements hurried. "Tariq, help me. Get the white V-neck dress from my closet. I have an important banquet to attend tonight." Tariq walked over to the mahogany doors of the walk-in closet. He pulled them open, scanning the rows of high-end fabrics. "Which dress, dearest? There are three white ones here." "The one with the silk trim," she called back, adjusting her hair in the mirror. Tariq's hand hovered over the plunging neckline of the V-neck. He frowned, his protective instincts Narrowing his eyes at the revealing cut. He pulled it aside and grabbed a different hanger—a sophisticated black dress with a high, elegant neck. "The V-neck won't do," Tariq said, stepping out and holding up the black garment. "It's too cold tonight, and this black high-neck one looks much better on you. It suits a chairwoman." Layla paused, looking at the dress. She sighed, a small smile touching her lips at his blatant over-protectiveness, but she took the black dress from him. "Fine. It is more professional." "What's the banquet for anyway?" Tariq asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Nour Sharif is hosting an auction banquet," Layla explained as she began to gather her things. "Since the Sharif Group collapsed, she's trying to consolidate what's left and expand her network. As the chairwoman of Daim Group, I need to be there. Networking is the only way to stabilize our new contracts." Tariq's expression shifted, a cold glint passing through his eyes at the mention of the Sharif name. "Need me to give you a ride? I can have the car ready in two minutes." "No, I'll take a cab," Layla replied, already heading toward the bathroom to change. "You've done enough today, Tariq. Rest. I don't want you getting into more trouble with the Sharifs." Tariq watched her go, the door clicking shut behind her. He waited until he heard the front door of the house close and the sound of a taxi pulling away. He didn't stay long. Offering a vague, hurried excuse to the rest of the Ghazi family about a meeting with an old friend, he slipped out of the house. While Al-Waha whispered about the fall of the Sharifs, the family had not yet vanished. In the Mansour Villa—the last remaining property in their portfolio—the atmosphere was thick with the scent of tobacco and military-grade CLP. Zayd Sharif sat at the head of a heavy oak table. He was a middle-aged man whose face was a map of scars and sun-hardened skin, dressed in the crisp, intimidating olive-drab of a military uniform. As a soldier on the western border and a deputy commander, his return to Al-Waha had been silent but impactful. He had returned to a nightmare. His father, Adnan Sharif, was dead. The family empire was in ruins, bankrupted in a single afternoon. Zayd had spent the last forty-eight hours digging through the ashes of the Sharif Group, and every lead pointed toward the Farsis—the family that was supposed to have burned to death ten years ago. He tapped a file on the table. He had discovered a crucial clue: ten years ago, Layla Ghazi had been disfigured while saving someone from the burning Al-Farsi Villa. "Have you found out who she saved?" Zayd asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "We are still verifying the identity, Commander," a subordinate replied. "But the connection is clear. She has been protected ever since." Nour Sharif, sitting across from him, gripped her wine glass so hard her knuckles turned white. Her usual ageless beauty was masked by a veil of bitter rage. "It doesn't matter who she saved ten years ago, Zayd. What matters is what she did yesterday. Layla Ghazi bankrupted us. She called Sami Haddad personally. She used her influence with the Najm Group to sever our lifelines and humiliate our father's memory." Zayd's eyes turned into chips of ice. He stood up, the medals on his chest clinking softly. "No one gets away with making enemies of us. The Ghazis think they have climbed to the top of Al-Waha because they have the Najm Group's favor? They are mistaken. Tonight, the Ghazis fall." The Al-Waha Hotel was a pillar of light against the evening sky. Luxury cars—Bentleys, Maybachs, and Lamborghinis—lined the entrance. Celebrities and the city's elite moved up the red carpet, though their steps were hesitant. They had heard Zayd Sharif was back. A deputy commander with the backing of the western border was not someone you ignored, even if his family business was in the gutter. Two men in black trench coats approached the hotel entrance, their footsteps rhythmic and heavy. Tariq Al-Farsi looked up at the gold-trimmed facade, his eyes scanning the perimeter. Karim, walking half a step behind him, leaned in close. "Look at the sentries, Boss. Those aren't private security. Those are western soldiers. Zayd Sharif is definitely back. He's a known confidant of the Malik Al-Gharb." Tariq didn't slow his pace. A faint, mocking scoff escaped him. "The Malik Al-Gharb? Even if the Malik Al-Gharb himself were here, I'd make him kneel if he got in my way." Karim remained silent, knowing the weight of that statement. To the world, the Al-Khamsa Al-Qada were the five pillars of Shams' military might—the Black Dragon, the Northern Leader, the Barbarian King, the Capital Sultan, and the King of the West. But Tariq was the Al Asad Al-Aswad. He was the Al-Shafi. He was the one who sat above the ladder they were still trying to climb. "Our priority is getting the 'Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal' back," Tariq said, his voice dropping into a decisive, cold tone. "My grandfather's painting is in that building. We are here for the heirloom. Deaths are secondary." "Understood," Karim replied. "We'll enter when the event starts," Tariq added, stepping into the shadows of a stone pillar near the entrance. "Let them build their stage first." On the top floor of the hotel, the grand ballroom was a sea of silk and diamonds. However, the air was stifling. Soldiers stood at every exit, their faces expressionless, their hands never far from their sidearms. The guests spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting toward the cordoned-off area where auction items were being prepared. Layla Ghazi moved through the crowd, her black high-neck dress making her look regal yet unapproachable. She clutched a glass of sparkling water, trying to find a familiar face to start a conversation. She needed to secure the Daim Group's reputation tonight. Near the center of the room, two workers were struggling with a large, heavy crate. It was draped in velvet, but the weight seemed off-balance. As Layla walked past, looking toward a group of potential investors, one of the workers stumbled. "Watch out!" someone yelled. The crate tipped. Layla spun around, her eyes widening as the massive frame tilted toward her. She instinctively threw her hands up to shield herself, but she didn't touch it. The crate hit the floor with a sickening, crystalline crash. The protective glass shattered, sending shards flying across the polished marble. Silence fell over the ballroom like a shroud. "Why did you bump into me?" the first worker screamed, clutching his shoulder and pointing a shaking finger at Layla. Layla's face went pale. "I... I didn't! I was a foot away!" "You bumped my arms!" the worker roared, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "You lunged right into us! Look at it! You've ruined the 'Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal'! This painting is valued at one-point-eight billion dollars!" The second worker joined in, his face red with simulated fury. "She just walked straight into us! She wasn't even looking! Layla Ghazi, do you have any idea what you've done?" The crowd surged forward, gasping as they saw the canvas. The ancient ink was smeared where the broken glass had dragged across it, a jagged tear ripping through the mountain peak depicted in the silk. "What's with all the yelling?" The crowd parted instantly. Zayd Sharif walked forward, his military boots clicking rhythmically against the floor. His presence was suffocating. He looked at the wreckage on the floor, then up at the workers. "Commander," the worker said, dropping to a knee. "Layla Ghazi knocked over and ruined the 'Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal'. We couldn't hold it when she slammed into us." Zayd knelt by the painting. He touched the edge of the torn silk, his expression unreadable. "One-point-eight billion dollars," he murmured, loud enough for the entire room to hear. "The crown jewel of this auction. Ruined." "I didn't touch them!" Layla cried, her voice trembling. "I swear, I was just walking past. I didn't feel any impact!" "You expect me to believe my men are lying?" Zayd stood up, his eyes locking onto hers. "I am a soldier of Shams. I do not falsely accuse anyone. We will review the surveillance footage right now to know the truth." He gestured to a technician at a nearby console. A large screen on the wall flickered to life. The footage was grainy but clear enough. It showed Layla walking past the workers. As she drew level with them, her shoulder appeared to jerk toward the worker's arm. The crate immediately toppled. To anyone watching, it looked like a deliberate shove. Layla's breath hitched. "No... that's not... that's not what happened. The footage... it looks wrong!" Zayd turned to her, his face a mask of cold stone. "The camera does not lie, Layla Ghazi. You have destroyed a national treasure. You owe one-point-eight billion dollars." "I don't have that kind of money!" Layla gasped. "The Daim Group... the Ghazis... we don't have nearly enough!" "Then you will pay in other ways," Zayd said. He turned to the soldiers standing guard. "Take Layla away. Hold her in the back. Then, send a detachment to the Ghazi Villa. Get the money from the Ghazis, or bring them all here. If they cannot pay, they will answer for this with their lives." "No! Please!" Layla screamed as two soldiers grabbed her by the upper arms. She struggled, her heels skidding on the marble, but the men were like iron statues. The guests watched in frozen horror. Some felt a pang of pity for the "prettiest chairwoman" of Al-Waha, but most looked away. The Ghazis were finished. Even the Najm Group couldn't save someone from a 1.8-billion-dollar debt to a deputy commander. "Take her to the back room," Zayd commanded, his voice echoing. "The auction will proceed. We have other items to settle." Layla was dragged toward the service doors, her protests turning into desperate sobs that faded as the heavy doors swung shut. Nour Sharif stepped onto the podium, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen," Nour announced, her voice smooth and cold. "The auction will now begin." Outside, in the shadow of the hotel entrance, Tariq Al-Farsi looked at his watch. He didn't need to see the footage to know the trap had been sprung. He adjusted his trench coat, his eyes turning toward the top floor. "It's time," Tariq said. ════════════════════════════════════════