Chapter 20

Tariq Murad stepped into the lobby of Al-Badr Gallery, the heavy glass doors sealing out the noise of the city behind him. The interior had been transformed for the upcoming exhibition. Gilded frames caught the light of recessed spotlights, and the scent of expensive floor wax and fresh lilies hung heavy in the air. Ornate pedestals were positioned strategically across the marble floor, awaiting the final pieces of the collection. It was a far cry from the cramped, dusty offices he usually frequented during his shifts. Sara Jaber, smoothed her uniform and stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the polished stone. She wore the professional, neutral expression required of the gallery staff, but her eyes scanned Tariq with a hint of confusion. He didn't look like the usual patrons who frequented the Al-Badr. "Welcome to Al-Badr Gallery, sir," Sara said, her voice polite and practiced. "Are you here for the preview? May I offer you some assistance?" Tariq stopped, looking at the young woman. "I'm looking for Khalid Ghazi. I was told he'd be here setting up." Sara's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Mr. Khalid Ghazi? Yes, he is currently in the secondary hall supervising the installation." She paused, her gaze lingering on Tariq's casual attire. "May I ask for your name, sir? I can lead you to him." "Tariq Murad," he replied. "Mr. Murad. Of course," Sara said, bowing her head slightly. Lina Quinn had been very clear in her briefing that morning: every guest, regardless of appearance, was to be treated with absolute respect. "Please, follow me. It's just through this corridor." They hadn't moved ten paces when the main doors swung open with a forceful thud. A group of young men in tailored suits marched in, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. At the center of the group was Jawad Al-Hashemi, his silk tie shimmering under the lights. His smile vanished the moment he spotted Tariq's back. "Tariq? What are you doing here?" Jawad's voice boomed, cutting through the quiet atmosphere of the gallery. He quickened his pace, his friends trailing behind him like a pack of hyenas. "I thought I smelled something foul the moment I walked in. You're a disgrace, showing up in a place like this." Tariq turned slowly, his expression flat. "I have business here, Jawad." "Business? You?" Jawad let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. He stepped into Tariq's personal space, his eyes narrowing. "This is Al-Badr Gallery, not a street corner. Look at you. You're an eyesore. I'm ordering you to stand still right there and then turn around. Leave the gallery before you stain the floors." Tariq didn't move. He began to step around Jawad, heading toward the hall where Khalid was working. "I don't have time for this." Jawad's face flushed a deep crimson. He reached out, his hand slamming against Tariq's shoulder to shove him back. "Did you not hear me? I told you to get out! You think because you showed up at the birthday dinner with that pathetic fake painting that you belong in the art world?" One of Jawad's friends, a tall man with a sneering lip, stepped forward. "Oh, is this the one? The one who tried to pass off a counterfeit Desert Bloom? I heard about that. Bold move for a man who probably can't afford the frame, let alone the canvas." "Look at his shoes," another friend chimed in, pointing and snickering. "He's broke. He probably walked here because he couldn't afford the bus fare. He looks like he crawled out of a dumpster." The group moved closer, surrounding Tariq. The tall friend shook his head in mock sadness. "I honestly feel sorry for Rana Ghazi. Imagine being a woman of her status and having to wake up to... this. It's a tragedy, really. She's tied to a loser who brings nothing but shame to the Ghazi name." Tariq's jaw tightened, a dark shadow flickering in his eyes. He looked at Jawad, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "I am here to help my father-in-law with the exhibition. Move out of my way." Jawad doubled over, clutching his stomach as he laughed. "Help? You're going to help? What, are you going to carry the crates? Are you going to sweep the dust? You're a delivery man, Tariq. That's all you are. You're a glorified errand boy who spends his day weaving through traffic on a cheap bike." The friends gasped in unison, their mockery reaching a fever pitch. "A delivery man? Seriously?" one cried out. "No wonder he smells like exhaust and cheap sweat. I thought it was just him, but it's his whole profession." "He probably has grease under his fingernails," the other added, feigning a gagging reflex. "Manager! You need to chase this man out. He's a health hazard. We're here to see art, not to look at the help." Tariq stood his ground, his gaze icy and firm. "Occupations are not divided by class, Jawad. Making deliveries is honest work. It isn't dirty. The only thing 'dirty' in this room is the arrogance you're spitting." Internally, Tariq's mind raced. He thought of his delivery fleet—the men who worked tirelessly while being looked down upon by people like Jawad. He made a silent vow. He would change this. He would upgrade the company vehicles to Al Hurriya Sportster 883 Customs—bikes worth two hundred thousand each. He would make it so that no one could ever call a delivery man 'broke' again. Jawad's eyes turned cold, the laughter dying in his throat. "You're trash, Tariq. You're unpresentable and you're an insult to every person in this building." He turned sharply to Sara, who was standing nearby, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "You! Staff! Why are you just standing there? I am a guest of importance. Chase this trash out of here immediately!" Sara took a breath, straightening her blazer. She looked at Jawad, then at Tariq. "I'm sorry, Mr. Al-Hashemi, but I cannot do that." Jawad blinked, stunned. "What did you say?" "Our manager, Lina Quinn, has given us very strict instructions," Sara said, her voice remaining professional but firm. "We are to be respectful to all guests who enter Al-Badr Gallery. Mr. Murad has stated his business with Mr. Ghazi, and he is permitted to stay. We do not discriminate against anyone based on their appearance or occupation." Jawad's mouth hung open for a second. He looked at his friends, then back at the young staff member. The silence in the lobby became suffocating. He glared at Tariq, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. He couldn't believe a mere gallery assistant was defying him in front of his peers. "Fine," Jawad spat, pointing a trembling finger at Tariq. "Keep your trash. See if I care. But don't think this is over. You don't belong here, and eventually, everyone will see it." With a final, venomous look, Jawad turned on his heel and marched toward the exit, his friends scurrying after him, their whispers of "unbelievable" and "how rude" echoing in the hall. Tariq watched them leave, his expression unreadable. He turned back to Sara, who offered a small, nervous nod. He began to walk toward the inner halls to find Khalid, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, seeing a message that made his blood run cold. Rana was at Al-Nujoom Club. He didn't hesitate. He turned away from the exhibition halls and headed straight for the exit, his mind no longer on the gallery or the insults. He had to get to her. ════════════════════════════════════════