Chapter 12

Rana Ghazi felt the air in the private room of Al-Karam Residence grow heavy, pressing against her chest until it was difficult to breathe. On the table, Jawad Al-Hashemi had already displayed his gift: the famous Desert Bloom. The painting was breathtaking, its colors vibrant and its history well-known among the elite circles of collectors. Next to such a masterpiece, any other gift would look like trash. She glanced at Tariq Murad, who sat beside her with a calm, almost detached expression. She knew he carried a painting gifted to him by Omar Al-Rashid, but in her mind, there was no way it could compete. Tariq didn’t have the connections or the wealth to procure anything significant. He had likely wandered into some back-alley shop and bought a random decorative piece, thinking it would suffice for her father’s birthday. The thought of him unfurling some cheap imitation in front of Jawad and her family made her stomach turn. "Tariq," Rana chirped in, her voice tight as she leaned toward him, shooting him a vicious look that signaled him to stay quiet. "His gift is nothing to see, really. It’s just a small gesture. We shouldn't waste everyone’s time with it." She was desperate to prevent a humiliation that would stain her for the rest of the evening. If Tariq stayed in the shadows, they might survive the night with their dignity barely intact. "Oh, come now, Rana," Farah Ghazi giggled, her eyes glinting with a predatory sharpness. She had been waiting for this moment. "We can’t just ignore Tariq’s regards. He’s family, after all. He must have put so much thought into this." Before Rana could protest, Farah’s hand darted under the table. She snatched the long gift box Tariq had brought, pulling it into the light with a triumphant flourish. Rana reached for it, but Farah was faster, pulling it out of reach. "Look at this box," Farah said, her voice deliberately dragged out to draw the attention of every guest in the room. "It’s so long. It must be a painting." The crowd shifted, their gazes landing on Tariq. Some glanced at him oddly, while others already had the faint glint of laughter in their eyes. They knew Tariq’s status—or lack thereof. A "son-in-law" who lived off the Ghazi family wasn't expected to bring anything of value. Farah shook the gift box, the contents rattling slightly. "Tariq, tell us. You didn’t just buy this from a two-dollar shop, did you? I mean, this is Father’s big day." Tariq remained quiet for a heartbeat, his face unreadable. "I bought it from an antique market," he said simply. The admission hung in the air like a bad smell. Farah let out a loud, mocking "Hahaha!" that echoed against the ornate walls of the restaurant. "An antique market? Oh, Tariq, that’s just amusing! You’re being so disrespectful to Uncle Khalid. Don't you know that goods from those markets are almost always counterfeits?" She leaned in closer to the guests, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "I’ve heard that those places are full of 'dirty' goods. Smuggled, faked, or just plain filth." Khalid Ghazi, who had been sitting at the head of the table, initially felt a small spark of hope. He was a collector at heart, and for a moment, he thought Tariq might have actually paid attention to his hobbies. He had relaxed slightly, leaning back in his chair. But at the mention of the "dirty" market, his expression fell dark. In the inner circles of high-end collecting, "dirty" meant more than just fake; it meant a lack of class and a disregard for the sanctity of the craft. Khalid snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive. Any positive view he had briefly held for Tariq vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, simmering resentment. "Don't look at it, Farah! Give it back!" Rana stood up quickly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor as she reached for the box. "No, no, we have to look at it!" Farah turned around hastily, avoiding Rana’s grasp. "If it’s a masterpiece from the 'antique market,' we all deserve to be enlightened." Farah’s curiosity was fueled by malice. She wanted to see exactly how pathetic the gift was. She flipped the latch on the box and pulled out a silk-wrapped painting scroll. With a swift motion, she unreeled the scroll across the table. The room went silent. The crowd’s gaze alternated rapidly between Tariq’s gift and the Desert Bloom that Jawad had presented earlier. As the scroll unfurled completely, the guests found themselves captivated. The brushwork was exquisite, the ink aged to a perfect patina, and the composition was hauntingly beautiful. It was a scene of a desert landscape, rendered with such skill that it felt as if the heat was radiating off the paper. But then, the confusion set in. "Wait," a young lad near the end of the table exclaimed, his eyes going wide as he pointed. "Tariq’s painting... it’s the exact same as Jawad’s!" The realization rippled through the room. Side by side, the two paintings were identical in every detail—the placement of the dunes, the stroke of the sun, the signature of the artist, Bassam Al-Brooks. Jawad Al-Hashemi was stunned for a mere second before a cold, arrogant laugh escaped his lips. He looked at Tariq as if he were a bug beneath his boot. In his mind, the heavens were on his side. Tariq hadn't just brought a fake; he had brought a fake of the very masterpiece Jawad had just presented. It was a death sentence for Tariq's reputation. "You’re done for," Jawad thought, his eyes narrowing with icy satisfaction. "It’s the same!" Farah shrieked loudly, her voice reaching a piercing register. "Tariq, your painting is the same as Jawad’s! That means yours must be a fake! How dare you bring a counterfeit to this table?" Tariq’s voice suddenly rang out, calm and steady amidst the chaos. "How do you know it's fake?" Farah immediately laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Are you serious? Are you actually saying your painting is the authentic one and Jawad’s is the fake? Jawad is a man of status! You’re... you’re a nobody!" The crowd was stunned, staring at Tariq with pure incredulity. The sheer gall it took to suggest such a thing was beyond their comprehension. Rana, her face burning with shame, nervously kicked Tariq under the table. She caught his eye, frantically signaling him to stop saying such nonsense before things got even worse. She had told him to tolerate the insults before they even arrived, but he was throwing everything away. Ignoring the pinch Rana gave his arm, Tariq added, "Maybe my painting is authentic. It wouldn’t be the first time a 'collector' was fooled by a high-priced replica." The crowd erupted into laughter. They shook their heads helplessly, the pity in their eyes turning into deep-seated scorn. They looked down on Tariq more than ever; he wasn't just poor, he was delusional. Khalid Ghazi snorted coldly, his face a mask of disgust. He had completely given up on his son-in-law. "Uncle Ghazi," Jawad said, looking very pleased with himself. He gestured toward the two scrolls. "Why don't we settle this? We should get you and the other uncles to look at the paintings. You’re the experts here." Jawad was radiating confidence. He had spent around two million dollars on his painting at a high-end auction. He knew its pedigree. Meanwhile, Tariq’s piece probably cost about ten bucks in some dusty stall. "Please, Father, take a look," Farah said, immediately taking Tariq’s painting and laying it out before the elder collectors. Khalid took the painting unwillingly, his fingers touching the paper as if it were contaminated. However, after just a few glances, his eyes widened. He leaned in closer. His friends, seasoned collectors themselves, pulled magnifying glasses from their pockets. They exchanged silent, bewildered glances as they studied the brushwork. The room held its breath. The quality of Tariq’s painting was terrifyingly good. For a moment, the experts were silent, their brows furrowed in deep concentration. Jawad started to panic, his confident facade flickering as he watched the old men whisper. Rana’s heart leaped to her throat. Could it be? Was there a chance? Tariq sat quietly, looking perfectly calm, watching the scene unfold with an odd, knowing expression. Khalid and his friends were, in truth, not entirely sure. The "fake" in front of them had a soul to it—a depth of ink that was hard to replicate. But they looked at Jawad, the wealthy suitor who had spent two million, and then they looked at Tariq, the man who had nothing. Impulsively, their logic leaned toward the money. "It's well made," Khalid finally said through narrowed eyes, his voice tight. "But it's a counterfeit. A very high-quality one, but a counterfeit nonetheless." "Yes, well made," the other friends chimed in, nodding quickly. "A clever imitation, but no match for the real thing." The crowd exhaled, the tension breaking into a new wave of mockery. Jawad’s panic vanished, replaced by a smug grin. Tariq frowned, his expression looking odd. He realized what was happening. The old men had noticed the paintings were too similar—perhaps even that his was the superior one—but they had leaned toward Jawad’s piece because of his wealth. The social cost of declaring Jawad’s two-million-dollar purchase a fake was too high for them to pay. Tariq shook his head helplessly. He realized the bias was insurmountable. He gave up on trying to convince them; pearls before swine. "He’s trying to cheat with a counterfeit!" Farah laughed out loud, pointing a finger at Tariq. She turned to Rana, mocking her cousin openly. "And your husband actually thought he got the real thing! How embarrassing, Rana. To think you’d let him bring this trash here." Rana was trembling, her head bowed. The shame was a physical weight. "That's enough," Khalid said, finally speaking up. He sounded tired rather than angry now. "Tariq can't be blamed. He was only buying a gift, and he clearly didn't know how to check for authenticity. He doesn't have the eye for it." The group did not continue the verbal assault, but the damage was done. They began distancing themselves from Tariq even more, shifting their chairs slightly as if his failure was contagious. The atmosphere in the room made it clear: it was shameful to even dine at the same table as him. Rana couldn't take another bite. The food tasted like ash. She stood up abruptly, her face pale, and pulled Tariq away from the table. "You humiliated me," she hissed once they were in the hallway, her voice thick with fury. "I told you to just be quiet, but you had to bring a fake painting and then lie about it!" "I'm sorry," Tariq said, lowering his head. He knew there was no point in explaining the truth of the painting now. "You're so frustrating!" Rana bellowed, her teeth gritted as she fought back tears of frustration. "Just go. Go to the hospital and take care of Layla. I can't even look at you right now!" She watched him for a moment, her annoyance growing the longer he stood there. Finally, she turned and marched back into the private room, leaving him alone in the corridor. Tariq stared after her silhouette, his heart heavy. He let out a soundless sigh and turned toward the exit of Al-Karam Residence. Back inside, the meal continued, though the mood remained awkward. Everyone noticed that Tariq did not follow Rana back in. "Where is Tariq Murad?" Nour asked, looking at her daughter. Rana forced out a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Layla is still in the hospital, and she's feeling a bit restless. He went back to take care of her." The lie was thin, but the family accepted it, happy to be rid of the "counterfeit" son-in-law. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the private room were pushed open. The chatter died down as Jamal Hale, the owner of Al-Karam Residence himself, walked in. He wasn't alone; behind him was a line of waitresses carrying silver trays loaded with delicacies and rare bottles of wine. The crowd was too shocked to speak. Jamal Hale was a man of immense influence in the city, rarely seen attending to guests personally. "Is this Mr. Ghazi?" Jamal asked, walking over to Khalid politely. "I... yes, I am," Khalid said, stunned. "Who are you?" "I am Jamal Hale, the owner of this establishment," he said with a respectful smile. "I heard it was your birthday, and I wanted to personally bring some special dishes and rare wines to celebrate the occasion." He signaled to the waitresses. "We have brought eight bottles of Al-Nujoom Reserve for your table." A gasp went around the room. Al-Nujoom Reserve was a legendary vintage, nearly impossible to find. "And," Jamal continued, "two bottles of Golden Phoenix Elixir." The room fell into a deathly silence. Even Jawad Al-Hashemi looked pale. One bottle of Golden Phoenix Elixir could go for up to two million dollars at auction, if you could even find someone willing to sell. Jamal then reached into his jacket and took out a shimmering platinum membership card. He ceremoniously handed it to Khalid. "This offers a specially reserved room here at all times and a five percent discount on all services." Khalid reached his hand out shakily, his fingers trembling as they touched the card. The value of the gifts on the table exceeded anything he had ever received. "Who... who sent you?" Khalid asked, his voice cracking. "Who provided all of this?" Jamal Hale stopped and scanned the room, his eyes searching every face. He looked puzzled for a moment. "Is Mr. Murad not here?" Jamal asked. Khalid was stunned. He looked around the table, but no one in the room had 'Murad' as a last name. The guests looked at each other, confused. No one even thought of Tariq Murad. Rana Ghazi’s heart stopped. Her mind flashed to Tariq’s silhouette in the hallway, and the name echoed in her head. Mr. Murad.