Chapter 18

Tariq turned his gaze toward the side door of the lobby, where the air seemed to stiffen. Jawad Al-Hashemi stood there, his sharp features twisted into a mask of pure bewilderment. He remained frozen for a moment, his eyes darting between Tariq's unassuming clothes and the polished marble of the Al-Badr Gallery. "What are you doing here?" Jawad's voice cut through the quiet of the hall. He stepped forward, his leather shoes clicking sharply. "How did a person like you even get past the front gates?" Tariq offered a thin, effortless smile. He didn't shift his stance or show the slightest hint of being flustered. "I'm just looking around," he said. "It's a public space, isn't it?" Jawad's face darkened, a vein pulsing at his temple. The confusion in his eyes quickly curdled into a familiar, sharp-edged hate. He looked at Tariq as if he were a stain on an expensive rug. "Looking around? This is Al-Badr Gallery, not a roadside stall. You think you can just wander in here and breathe the same air as the exhibits? Look at you. You're a delivery man, Tariq. You're dirt." He took another step, closing the distance until he was towering over Tariq, or trying to. "Get out. Right now. You're tainting the entire atmosphere of this place. If the board of directors saw a cockroach like you scuttling through the lobby, they'd fire the entire security detail. Don't make me call them myself and have you dragged out into the street where you belong." Tariq didn't blink. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, looking past Jawad toward Lina Quinn, who stood with her hands folded, her expression unreadable. "Manager Quinn," Tariq said, his voice cutting through Jawad's bluster. "I was under the impression this was a place of culture. Is there a specific rule written down somewhere about who is allowed to enter the gallery? Does the policy state that only certain people are permitted to walk through these doors?" The suddenness of the question caught Jawad off guard. He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound, and turned to Lina. He reached out his hand, intending to shake hers as if they were old allies dealing with a nuisance. "Manager Quinn, please excuse this fool. He doesn't understand how the world works. I'll make sure he leaves so we can get back to discussing my exhibition." Lina Quinn looked at Jawad's extended hand with a flicker of visible disdain. She didn't move to take it. Instead, she turned her full attention to Tariq, her posture straightening with a chill that seemed to drop the room's temperature. "There is no such rule," Lina stated firmly. Her voice carried a weight that made Jawad's hand drop awkwardly to his side. Jawad's mouth fell open. He looked at Lina, then back at Tariq, his mind struggling to process the rejection. "What? Manager Quinn, what are you saying? You know the prestige of this gallery. We've always had a standard. Since when does Al-Badr allow... this?" He gestured vaguely at Tariq's attire. Lina stepped forward, her eyes locked onto Jawad's. "The rule you are referring to—the one that discriminates based on status or appearance—is non-existent. If it ever did exist in the minds of the previous management, it has been thoroughly abolished." "Abolished?" Jawad stammered. He felt a bead of sweat prickle at his hairline. "But the exhibition... my family's reputation... you can't be serious. This man is a nobody. He's a delivery driver!" "I don't care if he is a king or a beggar," Lina replied coldly. "The doors of Al-Badr are open to those who respect the space. They are not, however, open to those who use it as a platform for their own arrogance." Jawad's face went from pale to a deep, embarrassed red. He turned his fury back onto Tariq, pointing a trembling finger at him. "You did this! I don't know what kind of lie you told her, but you're leaving. Manager Quinn is just being professional, but I'm telling you to get out! You're a disgrace to the Ghazi family and an eyesore to me!" Lina Quinn's eyes flashed with genuine annoyance. She glanced at Tariq, seeing his calm, almost bored expression. He didn't want a scene; he wanted a resolution. She took a deep breath and stepped between the two men, her back to Tariq. "Mr. Al-Hashemi," Lina said, her voice rising to a sharp, authoritative tone. "I have heard enough. Al-Badr Gallery has recently undergone a shift in philosophy. We have decided that we will not rent our space, nor will we provide a stage, for individuals who spend their time looking down on others. Your attitude is a direct violation of the image we wish to project." She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "As of this moment, Al-Badr Gallery is rescinding its offer to host your exhibition. We are no longer interested in your business. Please leave the premises immediately." The silence that followed was heavy. Jawad felt as though the floor had vanished beneath him. The exhibition was supposed to be his crowning achievement, the moment he solidified his standing in Madinat Al-Waha and won over Rana Ghazi once and for all. If it was cancelled now, he would be the laughingstock of the city. "Wait... Manager Quinn, please," Jawad's voice cracked, the arrogance replaced by a frantic, high-pitched anxiety. "You can't do this. The invitations have been sent. My father has already told everyone. There must be a misunderstanding. I was just... I was just looking out for the gallery's reputation! Please, we can talk about this. Don't cancel the exhibition." Lina tilted her head, appearing to consider his plea. She looked at the ceiling, then slowly brought her gaze back down to Jawad, her expression softening into something that looked like mercy but felt like a trap. "You seem very desperate, Mr. Al-Hashemi," Lina said, her tone dripping with feigned consideration. "I suppose everyone deserves a chance to correct their mistakes. Culture is, after all, about growth." Jawad nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with hope. "Yes, exactly! Growth! I'll do anything. Just tell me what I need to do to keep the exhibition on schedule." Lina smiled then, a small, cunning curve of the lips that didn't reach her eyes. She stepped aside, revealing Tariq once more. "The condition is simple," Lina said. "If you wish to proceed with your exhibition at Al-Badr Gallery, you will stand right there and offer a sincere, humble apology to Mr. Murad. You will apologize for your insults, your arrogance, and your behavior." Jawad's jaw dropped. The blood rushed to his head so quickly he felt dizzy. He looked at Tariq—the man he had spent months mocking, the man he considered a servant, the man he wanted to erase from Rana's life. "Apologize?" Jawad shrieked, the sound echoing off the high gallery walls. "To him? To a delivery man? You want me, a member of the Al-Hashemi family, to bow my head to this trash? Never! I would rather burn my paintings than utter a single word of apology to Tariq Murad!" ════════════════════════════════════════