Chapter 17

In the chairman's office of the Najm building, the morning sun cut across Sami Haddad's desk. His secretary stood before him, hands clasped, reciting the fallout of the previous night's auction at the Sharifs' estate. Sami's hand froze over a document. "Zayd Sharif kidnapped Layla and her family?" He looked up, his face losing its color. "Did Zayd die?" "Yes, sir," the secretary replied, her voice steady and factual. "Zayd was killed by the ghost-masked man. The same one identified as Adnan Sharif's murderer." Sami exhaled, leaning back into his leather chair. He waved his hand, dismissing the woman. Once the door clicked shut, he stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs. Zayd Sharif had been a deputy commander of the Western border, a man with steel at his back, yet he had been snuffed out like a candle. To touch Layla Ghazi was to invite a catastrophe that no rank could shield against. Zayd had been a fool; he had tried to hunt a woman protected by the Al Asad Al-Aswad. Across the city, the atmosphere was far grimmer. Mustashfa Al-Sha'ab sat on the edge of Shari' Al-Afa'i, the air inside thick with the smell of antiseptic and old dust. Layla's eyes fluttered open. The first sensation was a searing, white-hot heat radiating from her cheeks. The memory of the blade and the salt returned in a rush. She arched her back against the thin mattress and let out a raw, jagged scream. Tariq Al-Farsi jerked upright. He had been slumped in a plastic chair, his fingers locked around Layla's hand even in sleep. He leaned over her, his eyes bloodshot and frantic. "Darling, you're awake? Layla?" She blinked, her vision blurred by tears and the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. Her voice was a cracked whisper. "Tariq... Tariq Al-Farsi, where am I?" "You're at Mustashfa Al-Sha'ab," he said, his voice trembling as he brushed a stray hair from her forehead, careful not to touch the bandages. "I brought you here after finding you outside Al-Waha Hotel. You're safe now." Tariq looked down at her battered form, the guilt twisting in his gut like a physical blade. He had promised to protect her, yet he had allowed her to be dragged into that den of wolves. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his head bowing. "It's my fault. I should have been there." The events of the previous night flooded Layla's mind—the jeeps, the soldiers, the cold steel of the knife, and the humiliation of being paraded before the Sharifs. She began to sob, the movement causing fresh waves of pain to ripple across her face. "Why?" she choked out. "Why did this happen to me? What did I do?" "I'm sorry, Layla. I'm so sorry," Tariq repeated. He reached out to hold her, but he was terrified of hurting her further. "I shouldn't have let you go alone. I should have followed you." Layla's sobbing eventually slowed as exhaustion took hold. The trauma had drained her of everything. Her eyelids grew heavy, and within minutes, she drifted back into a fitful, shallow sleep. Tariq remained still until her breathing leveled out. He gently released her hand and stood up. The warmth he had shown Layla vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory stillness. He turned and walked out of the ward, his footsteps silent on the linoleum. Outside the hospital entrance, Karim was waiting by a black SUV. The morning air was cool, but it did nothing to dampen the tension radiating from Tariq. Karim pulled a pack from his pocket and offered Tariq a cigarette. Tariq took it, the flame of the lighter reflecting in his dark eyes. "All Western border soldiers are dealt with," Karim reported, his tone clinical. "The rest of the Sharifs are untouched for now. As for the painting, the 'Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal' we recovered from the scene... it's a fake." Tariq exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "A fake?" "The real painting disappeared ten years ago," Karim continued. "Our intelligence suggests only Zayd knew its exact location. With him dead, the trail has gone cold." Tariq's jaw tightened. The painting was the Farsi family's most sacred heirloom, a piece of his grandfather's soul worth nearly two billion dollars. "Retrieve it," he said quietly. "But not today. Layla's recovery is the priority. Nothing moves until she is stable." Karim nodded, then shifted his stance, glancing at a digital tablet. "There is more news from the capital. The five military regions are merging. Malik Al-Gharb of the Gharb Border has been appointed as the commander-in-chief of the five armies." Tariq didn't even turn his head. He flicked ash onto the pavement. "None of my business." Karim stepped forward, his voice rising with a hint of indignation. "Sir, with all due respect, that role belongs to you. Not the Malik Al-Gharb. You are the one who should be leading the five regions. This appointment is an insult to everything you've done." Tariq turned his gaze toward Karim, the sheer weight of his presence forcing the subordinate to lower his head. "That's enough," Tariq said, his voice firm and final. "Forget about it. Titles and borders have nothing to do with me anymore. I have a wife to care for." He took one last pull of the cigarette and crushed the butt under his boot. Karim remained silent, watching as Tariq looked back toward the hospital windows, his mind clearly elsewhere. ════════════════════════════════════════