Chapter 2

Hala Mansour adjusted her black uniform, her eyes raking over Tariq Murad's worn clothing with practiced disdain. The air in the Murad Group lobby was cool, scented with expensive oud, a stark contrast to the dust clinging to the man standing before her. "I'm not here for a delivery," Tariq said, his voice flat. Hala didn't even blink. "This is not the first time I hear this. Everyone that comes in here says they're not delivery men. Please!" She gestured toward the glass revolving doors, her expression icy. Tariq's jaw tightened. He had spent seven years avoiding this building and everything it represented, but Layla's hospital bill was a weight he couldn't lift alone. "I'm not. I'm here to see Fahd Abbas." The name caused a momentary silence, not of respect, but of sheer absurdity. "What's going on?" Nasser Sharif approached from the elevators, his expression turning ugly the moment he spotted Tariq. He straightened his tie, looking at the delivery man as if he were a stain on the marble floor. "Nasser Sharif, this delivery man is trying to force his way into our office!" Hala reported, her voice rising in a pitch of performative indignation. "I'll get security to chase him out immediately!" Nasser leaned forward slightly, his tone polite but dripping with unfriendliness. "Our company doesn't allow delivery men inside. Please leave..." "Did you hear that?" Hala roared, stepping out from behind the desk. "Get out now!" Tariq looked at the two of them. A bitter thought crossed his mind—this was the Murad Group, the crown jewel of his family's empire, a company he technically owned. Yet here were its employees, treating him like refuse. The irony was a dull ache. "I've already said that I'm not here for a delivery," Tariq said, his voice dropping an octave, turning cold. "I'm here to see Fahd Abbas." Nasser Sharif froze for a second before a bewildered, snorting laugh escaped him. "You're looking for our chairman?" Tariq blinked. The shock was visible on his face. "Fahd Abbas... is your chairman?" Nasser's laugh grew louder, joined by Hala's sharp tittering. "You didn't even know that Fahd Abbas is our chairman, and you say you're looking for him? Do you have an appointment?" Hala leaned toward Nasser with a sarcastic smile. "Mr. Sharif, stop joking. How could trash like him get an appointment?" Nasser shook his head, his patience clearly evaporated. "Alright, alright. Hala, get security to come over." "Understood, Mr. Sharif," Hala replied, her voice turning coquettish as she glanced at the manager. Tariq didn't wait for the security guards. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he hadn't called in nearly a decade. The pick-up was instantaneous. "Fahd Abbas, get down here right now!" Tariq snapped into the receiver. "I'm being held up by your receptionist. If I don't see you in three minutes, I'm leaving." Hala stared at him, then burst into a fresh peal of laughter. While Tariq held the phone, she discreetly pulled out her own device and snapped a photo of him, already imagining the caption for her social media feed about the delusions of the lower class. "You're even putting on an act now!" she mocked. "You deserve to be a delivery man for life!" She grabbed the desk phone and punched in a short extension. "Hello, security department? Come over to the front desk to take care of a piece of human trash." Within seconds, the heavy thud of boots echoed across the lobby. Three security personnel arrived, batons at their belts, moving with aggressive intent toward Tariq. The elevator chimes rang out—a sharp, frantic double-ping. The doors slid open, and a man in a perfectly tailored suit burst out, his face pale and glistening with sweat. Behind him, his secretary struggled to keep pace as he sprinted across the lobby. The three security personnel stopped in their tracks, their hands frozen inches from Tariq's shoulders. They snapped to attention, their voices chorusing in a practiced salute. "Good day, Mr. President!" Fahd Abbas didn't acknowledge them. He skidded to a halt in front of Tariq, his chest heaving. He bowed low, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and terror. "Fahd Abbas, sorry I was late." The lobby fell into a vacuum of silence. Hala's mouth hung open. "Mr. President!" she stammered, her brain failing to process the sight of the most powerful man in the city bowing to a delivery driver. She looked at the guards, her voice turning into an enraged shriek of confusion. "Why are you still here? Three of you, throw him out immediately!" Fahd Abbas whipped around. The humble demeanor he had shown Tariq vanished, replaced by a gaze so cold it seemed to drop the room's temperature. "What are you doing?" Fahd demanded. "This is the young master of our company, the future president! Who allowed you lot to be this disrespectful?!" Hala stepped back, her face drained of color. "Mr. President, are you mistaken? How is he our company's young master?" "I'm not mistaken," Fahd said, his voice cutting through her like a blade. "What kind of tone and attitude is this? Is this how you speak to your chairman?" Hala's knees buckled slightly. She dropped into a deep, trembling bow. "Mr. President, I'm sorry, I..." At that moment, Nasser Sharif returned from a side hallway, unaware of the shift in the room's atmosphere. He spotted Fahd and rushed over with a flattering smile. "Mr. President, why have you come down here?" Then, seeing Tariq still standing there, his face clouded over. He barked at Tariq, "Why are you still here? Didn't I tell you that our company doesn't allow delivery men in here? Get out!" "Shut up!" Fahd roared. Nasser flinched as if he'd been struck. "He is the young master of our company!" Fahd's voice echoed off the high ceilings. "Both of you are fired!" Tariq stood silently, shaking his head. He watched the security team, who were now looking at Nasser and Hala with the same cold indifference the duo had shown him moments before. The snobbery of the world was a cycle that never seemed to end. Fahd turned back to Tariq, bowing slightly and gesturing toward the executive elevators. "Young Master, this way please." As they began to move, Nasser Sharif and Hala Mansour broke. They rushed forward, their pride dissolving into desperate pleas. "Young Master, I was too blind to recognize you for who you were," Nasser begged, his voice cracking. "Please forgive me this time." "Young Master, I was wrong," Hala sobbed, her eyes red. "I won't ever do it again." Tariq didn't say a word. He gave Fahd a brief, pointed glance. Fahd understood immediately. He turned to the security team, his voice hard. "What are you standing there for? Throw these two out! From today on, don't let them take even one step into our premise!" The guards moved in, hoisting the screaming former employees toward the exit. *** The president's office was an expanse of glass and rare woods. Tariq walked across the plush carpet and sank into a massive leather chair. "Fahd Abbas, you're living a pretty luxurious life," he remarked, running a hand over the armrest. "This ostrich skin sofa, what great taste!" Fahd stood respectfully at the side of the desk, his hands clasped in front of him. His secretary stood by the door, silent and motionless. "Young Master, stop joking with this old man," Fahd said humbly. He reached into his desk and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents. "If you would sign your name in this document, everything here is yours to take." Tariq's expression shifted to one of disdain. "It's not like you don't know that I refuse to inherit my dad's wealth. I'm here today to ask you to loan me a hundred thousand dollars." Fahd sighed, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I refuse." Tariq stood up abruptly, his eyes flashing with anger. "Say that again, old man!" "I refuse," Fahd repeated neutrally. He leaned forward, his eyes bright. "Young Master, as long as you sign this, forget a hundred thousand, even a hundred million or billions are all yours." "Forget it then!" Tariq shouted, his rage boiling over. "If I sign this document, my name isn't Tariq Murad!" Fahd didn't flinch. He simply waited. He knew the desperation that had brought Tariq here. He knew about Layla. Tariq stared at the documents. He thought of the hospital, of the cold look in Rana's eyes, and the way his daughter's breath sounded through the oxygen mask. His hand trembled. Slowly, he reached for the pen. He scribbled his name across the bottom of the final page. Fahd's face bloomed into a radiant smile. "Congratulations, Young Master, you have officially inherited all Murad family's wealth and businesses." He signaled to his secretary, who stepped forward and placed a heavy briefcase on the table. "Here is your hundred thousand." Tariq looked at the briefcase. "Fahd, old man, you're too lavish. This briefcase looks like it's carrying a hundred million instead." "Take care, Young Master," Fahd said, bowing deeply. "Do you need me to get a car ready for you?" "That's okay," Tariq said, picking up the cash—now transferred into a simple, unassuming plastic bag. "I came on my scooter." Tariq walked out of the office, the weight of the bag in his hand feeling both like a lifeline and a shackle. As soon as the door closed, Fahd Abbas's demeanor shifted to one of intense focus. He sat at his desk and keyed into a high-security terminal. A screen flickered to life, showing an old man in a wheelchair on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic. "It is done," Fahd said. He initiated a global video conference, a signal that would hit the top management of every Murad-owned entity simultaneously. From the Murad Group to the smallest subsidiaries hidden within the Global 500 Fortunes, an email was dispatched: *The Heir has returned.* *** Tariq arrived back at Al-Wadi Public Hospital, the plastic bag tucked under his arm. As he approached the ward, he saw two figures standing near the nurses' station. Rana Ghazi was there, her face weary. Beside her stood Karim Haddad, dressed in a sharp Italian suit, leaning against the wall with an air of casual ownership. They were chatting, and for a moment, Rana actually looked relieved as Karim spoke. Tariq's brow furrowed. He felt a sharp pang of irritation as he walked toward them. Rana spotted him first. Her relief vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp gaze. "Tariq Murad, where have you been?" Karim Haddad let out a snorting laugh, looking Tariq up and down. "Tariq, were you away trying to borrow money? It's okay, I can foot the medical bills. I'm Layla's uncle, after all." Tariq stopped a few feet away, his expression turning icy. "I don't need you to worry about my daughter's medical expenses; I can pay up." Rana's eyes widened in frustration. "Tariq Murad, how can you behave this way toward Karim Haddad! Apologize to him!" Karim stepped closer to Rana, putting a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of mock comfort. "Rana, don't get angry. Tariq must be feeling upset because he didn't manage to borrow any money." He looked at Tariq with a smirk. "It's hard for a delivery man to find a hundred thousand on short notice, isn't it?" Tariq didn't look at Rana. He kept his eyes locked on Karim, his hand tightening on the plastic bag. ════════════════════════════════════════