Chapter 13

Jamal Hale bowed deeply to the silent room, his movements fluid and practiced. "The delivery is complete. I shall take my leave now. Please, enjoy the gifts and the evening." He didn't wait for a reply, turning on his heel and exiting the private room of Al-Karam Residence with a swiftness that left the air vibrating behind him. The door clicked shut, leaving the Ghazi family staring at the sudden wealth deposited in their midst. Khalid Ghazi stepped toward the table, his fingers trembling as he hovered over the edge of the genuine Desert Bloom painting. He looked around the room, his voice thick with confusion. "Who is this Tariq Murad? To send such a treasure... to have the owner of Al-Karam Residence personally deliver it... Who could have such power in Madinat Al-Waha?" A snicker broke the tension. One of the younger cousins gestured toward the corner where Tariq stood in his dusty delivery uniform. "Maybe it's our Tariq! Maybe he's been a secret billionaire this whole time, hiding his fortune under that helmet!" The room erupted. Farah Ghazi doubled over, her laughter sharp and jagged. "Him? Look at him! He probably doesn't even know how to spell 'Murad.' The only thing Tariq delivers is cold takeout and disappointment. It's just a coincidence of the name. Some high-level tycoon shares the name with our local loser." Rana Ghazi's face flushed a deep, angry crimson. She stepped forward, her eyes flashing as she scanned the mocking faces of her relatives. "That's enough! All of you! You're standing in a room paid for by someone else, staring at gifts that cost more than your houses, and all you can do is insult my husband? Have some dignity." The laughter died down into uncomfortable murmurs, but the smirks remained. Rana turned to her father, her posture stiff. "Father, the celebration is over for me. Layla is still in the hospital. I shouldn't have stayed this long. I'm leaving." Khalid didn't even look up from the painting. He was too busy tracing the brushwork of the masterpiece. Jawad Al-Hashemi stepped into the light, a smooth, calculating smile on his face. He adjusted his cufflinks, sensing the opportunity to reclaim the room's attention. "Uncle Khalid, don't worry about the mystery. I've heard rumors of a 'Tariq Murad' who recently took over a major art consortium. He's a recluse, a man of immense influence. This must be him." Khalid finally looked up, his eyes bright. "A consortium boss? That would explain the Desert Bloom. Jawad, do you think you could... reach out? A man like that is someone the Ghazi family needs to know." "I have a few contacts in the art world," Jawad said, his tone dripping with false modesty. "I'm sure I can pull some strings and arrange a meeting for you. It's the least I can do for your birthday." "Magnificent," Khalid beamed, clapping Jawad on the shoulder. "Now that is a man with real connections." Farah walked past Rana, leaning in close so her voice would carry. "See that, Rana? That's what a real man looks like. Someone who can actually talk to the elite. You should be careful—if you stay with your delivery boy too long, people might start forgetting you're a Ghazi." Rana's fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. She didn't offer a rebuttal. She grabbed her coat and walked out of the room without a single backward glance, the heavy silence of the hallway swallowing the sounds of the party. Tariq followed her out at a distance, his expression unreadable. Once he was clear of the Al-Karam Residence and standing in the cool night air of the parking lot, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a text from Jamal Hale: *Young Master, I hope the delivery met your expectations. Your father-in-law seemed ecstatic. I have ensured that no one suspects your involvement, as per your instructions. Please, I beg you, do not let anyone know I was the one to facilitate this if you choose to remain hidden. I await your further commands.* Tariq's thumbs moved quickly over the screen. *You did well. Keep your mouth shut. If my identity is exposed through your staff, there will be no second chances.* He tucked the phone away and headed for the hospital. The ward was quiet when he arrived. The rhythmic hum of the monitors was the only sound in the private room. Tariq pulled a chair close to the bed where Layla lay. In the soft glow of the nightlight, she looked like a porcelain doll—pale, fragile, but impossibly beautiful. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently stroking the back of her small hand. Every beat of her heart was a reminder of why he endured the insults of people like Farah and the condescension of the Ghazis. He sat there for a long time, a silent sentinel in the dark. The door creaked open. Rana entered, her silhouette framed by the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. She looked exhausted. The "frosty" mask she wore in public hadn't melted; if anything, it had hardened into a layer of visible distress. She didn't look at Tariq as she crossed the room, dropping her bag into a chair and sitting on the opposite side of the bed. She stared at Layla, her eyes glassy. The weight of the evening—the humiliation, the mystery of the gifts, the pressure of her failing project—seemed to be crushing her. Tariq leaned forward slightly, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "Rana, you look like you're about to collapse. I've got her. Go to the lounge or use the cot in the corner. Get some sleep." Rana didn't move. She didn't even acknowledge he had spoken. She simply continued to stare at their daughter, her silence more cutting than any of the insults shouted at the Al-Karam Residence. She was a woman drowning in a sea of problems he wasn't supposed to be able to solve, and the gap between them felt wider than it ever had before. Tariq watched her, the secret of his name burning in his throat, but he remained silent as the hospital clock ticked toward midnight. ════════════════════════════════════════