Chapter 11

The gold-leafed ceiling of the Al-Karam Residence private room reflected the soft glow of the chandeliers, casting a shimmering light over Rana Ghazi. Tariq stood at the periphery, watching the way the light caught the curve of her jaw and the elegant line of her neck. She was breathtaking, a fact that drew the hungry, appreciative gazes of every man in the room. Tariq felt a sharp, pulsing ache behind his eyes. It was a familiar headache, born from the weight of those looks and the silent knowledge of the distance between him and the woman who was technically his wife. The heavy oak doors of the suite swung open, and Nour Khalil's face instantly transformed. Her usual sharp features softened into a mask of pure, fawning enthusiasm as she hurried toward the newcomer. "Jawad! You've arrived!" Nour exclaimed, her voice pitched high with excitement. She reached out to take the elegantly wrapped bags from his hands as if they were holy relics. "Look at you, so thoughtful as always. We were just saying how Al-Karam is impossible to get into on such short notice. A minimum annual spending of one million just to keep a membership here! Only someone with your influence could have secured this private room for Khalid's birthday." Jawad Al-Hashemi smoothed the front of his tailored blazer, a modest smile playing on his lips that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. "It was nothing, Auntie Nour. It's Uncle Khalid's birthday, after all. A man of his stature deserves the best Madinat Al-Waha has to offer." Khalid Ghazi, seated at the head of the table, remained silent, but the subtle nod of his head and the softening of his expression spoke volumes. "Look at the difference," a guest whispered loudly enough for the entire table to hear. "Jawad enters and the room brightens. Then you look at that delivery boy standing in the corner." The guest gestured toward Tariq, who remained motionless by the wall. A ripple of mocking laughter traveled around the table. The contrast was stark—Jawad in his designer suit, radiating the quiet confidence of the Hashemi family's wealth, and Tariq in his faded work clothes, smelling faintly of the city's exhaust. Jawad took his seat, leaning back with an air of practiced ease. "It really wasn't much trouble," he said, waving a hand dismissively as the guests leaned in to listen. "My company's earnings were quite favorable this quarter, and when I mentioned the reservation to my father, he simply made a call. The manager of Al-Karam and my father go back a long way. Influence is often more about who you know than what you spend, though the spending certainly helps." "So modest!" an older man from the Ghazi circle chimed in, clapping his hands. "To have such success at your age and still remain so grounded. It's a sign of true character, Jawad. Your family's karma must be exceptional to produce such a son." The compliments flowed like the expensive tea being poured into porcelain cups. Jawad bathed in the adoration, his eyes occasionally darting to Rana to ensure she was witnessing his triumph. The atmosphere shifted as the gaze of the room fell back on Tariq. The respect afforded to Jawad seemed to drain away, replaced by a cold, sharp disdain. "It's a tragedy, really," one of Nour's friends remarked, shaking her head while looking at Rana. "Rana, dear, you are the jewel of the Ghazi family. To think you're tied to… that. If you had married someone like Jawad, you'd be sitting on a throne, not worrying about hospital bills and delivery schedules." Rana's grip tightened on her glass. She didn't look at Tariq, her gaze fixed firmly on the white tablecloth. "Look at him," Farah Ghazi sneered, her voice cutting through the clinking of silverware. "He looks like he just crawled out of a warehouse. Tariq, did you even wash your face before coming to a place like Al-Karam? Or were you too busy counting pennies for Layla's medicine?" The mention of his daughter's illness was a low blow, even for Farah. Tariq's expression didn't flicker, but he saw Rana's shoulders tense. Her face flushed a deep, frustrated red. She looked as if she wanted to scream, her eyes darting between her husband's passive face and her cousin's mocking grin. Jawad held up a hand, feigning a look of paternal concern. "Now, now, Farah. Everyone has their path. Though, Tariq, I've been thinking. It's not right for Rana's husband to be struggling so much. My company is expanding its logistics department. I could find a spot for you. It's steady work—six or seven thousand a month. It's far better than what you're making now, and it would give you some dignity." Tariq looked directly at Jawad. The silence stretched for a moment before he spoke, his voice calm and level. "I appreciate the thought, Jawad. But I'll have to decline." Nour's fork clattered against her plate. "Decline? You're a delivery man, Tariq! You have a sick daughter and a wife you can barely support, and you're turning down a salary like that? The arrogance! You should be on your knees thanking Jawad for his charity!" Tariq didn't respond to the scolding, his silence only infuriating Nour further. She turned away from him as if he were a stain on the carpet and leaned toward Jawad again, her face brightening instantly. "Jawad, forget about him. Tell us—did you have any luck with that matter we discussed? Khalid's heart has been set on opening that collection gallery for his artifacts." Jawad smiled, a slow, triumphant expression. "It's all handled, Auntie. I spoke to the zoning board and the curators this morning. The permits are being processed as we speak. The gallery is a certainty." Khalid Ghazi finally spoke, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "Jawad, I don't know what to say. That gallery has been my dream for a decade. Thank you. Truly." Jawad nodded, then cast a sideways glance at Tariq. The smugness in his eyes was unmistakable. He then shifted his gaze to Rana, his eyes lingering on her with a predatory longing. He wanted her to see the power he wielded—the power to make her father's dreams come true, a power Tariq Murad could never hope to possess. Nour began whispering urgently in Rana's ear, praising Jawad's connections and his bright future, her words a constant stream of comparison. Nearby, Khalid's friends were huddled together, their voices thick with envy as they discussed the prestige a private gallery would bring to the Ghazi name. Khalid listened to them, his chest swelling with pride, which only served to deepen the cold look of disdain he cast toward his son-in-law. To Khalid, Tariq was the only anchor dragging down the family's rising tide. "Actually," Jawad said, standing up and reaching for a long, rectangular box he had set aside. "I have something else for the occasion. Uncle Khalid, I know your passion for the classics." He opened the box and carefully unfurled a scroll onto the side table. "This is 'The Desert Bloom', a masterpiece by Bassam Al-Brooks. I spent months tracking down a genuine piece from his middle period." Khalid gasped, half-rising from his chair. "Bassam Al-Brooks? One of the four great talents? Jawad, this is too much. I cannot possibly accept a gift of this magnitude." Even as he spoke, his hands were trembling with the urge to touch the silk backing of the painting. "Please, Uncle," Jawad insisted, his voice loud enough for the entire room to hear. "For you, it is only right." Tariq leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the brushwork and the specific hue of the ink. A strange sensation washed over him. He knew this painting. He knew the weight of the paper and the specific scent of the mountain-pine soot used in the ink. It was identical to the painting Omar Al-Rashid had given him just days ago. Tariq looked down at the simple tube he held in his hand, tucked partially behind his leg. He quietly adjusted his stance, sliding his own gift further into the shadow of the heavy velvet curtains. Showing it now would only invite a storm he wasn't ready to navigate. The guests crowded around the table, their heads bobbing as they inspected the work. "The brushwork is divine," one man remarked, adjusting his glasses. "Look at the tension in the desert shrubs. This has to be worth three to four hundred thousand dollars at least." "More," another added. "A piece of Al-Brooks's calligraphy went for seven hundred thousand at auction last year. This is a complete landscape. Jawad, you've outdone yourself. This is the centerpiece of a world-class collection." Khalid was ecstatic, his eyes shining as he traced the air above the painting. "Authentic. Absolutely authentic. The spirit of the brush is unmistakable." Farah, who had been watching the scene with a smirk, suddenly turned her head toward Tariq. "So, Tariq," she said, her voice ringing out with deliberate, piercing clarity. "We've seen what a real man brings to a birthday. Where is your gift? Surely the son-in-law of the Ghazi family didn't come empty-handed to the Al-Karam Residence?" Every eye in the room pivoted to Tariq. The silence was heavy, expectant. Tariq shifted slightly, his hand tightening on the tube. "It's nothing special," he said, his voice low and awkward. "Just a small token." "Oh, don't be shy!" Farah laughed, stepping toward him and gesturing for the others to join in. "A small token? From a delivery man? What is it, a coupon for a free ride? Or maybe some leftover takeout?" "Show us, Tariq," Jawad added, crossing his arms and leaning against the table, a cheeky, superior grin on his face. "Don't be embarrassed. We all know you can't compete with 'The Desert Bloom', but we'd love to see what you consider a gift." "I'd rather not," Tariq said, his voice regaining its calm, flat tone. "I insist!" Farah cried, her eyes dancing with malice. "Everyone wants to see! Come on, show us the masterpiece you brought!" The crowd took up the cry, their voices a cacophony of mocking encouragement, drawing closer to Tariq as he stood backed against the curtains. ════════════════════════════════════════