Chapter 3

Tariq glared at Karim Haddad, his gaze sharp enough to cut through the heavy, sterile air of the hospital room. He didn't offer an explanation or a plea. Instead, he reached down and hoisted a heavy plastic bag, the handles strained by the weight of the contents. With a dull thud, he tossed the bag onto the bedside table directly in front of Karim and Rana Ghazi. The plastic crinkled, settling to reveal stacks of bound currency. Karim Haddad froze, his mouth snapping shut mid-sentence. Rana Ghazi stared at the bag, her eyes widening in a mixture of confusion and burgeoning anger. "Here's a hundred thousand," Tariq said, his voice dropping to a frigid, low register. "I'm paying you back all at once, including the past loans! Don't ever come here again." Karim's face went through a rapid succession of colors—pale, then a mottled red. He looked from the cash to Tariq's worn delivery uniform, his ego visibly rattling behind his expensive spectacles. "Well done, Tariq," Karim said, his tone dripping with an ambiguous, forced cheer. "You manage to fund this much in such a short time. But I'm curious, who would lend you so much in such a short amount of time?" "Does it have anything to do with you?" Tariq replied indifferently, turning his back on the man. "That's enough, Tariq!" Rana yelled, stepping between the two men. Her chest heaved with indignation. "Karim Haddad has helped us out so many times now, so how can you say that?" Tariq turned his head, his eyes flashing with a barely visible rage that made Rana recoil an inch. "Did I ask him for help? Don't you have any idea who he's doing all this for?" Rana stood stunned. The directness of the accusation, the sheer lack of the usual subservience she expected from her husband, left her breathless. Tariq didn't wait for her to find her voice. He looked back at Karim, his expression returning to a flat, neutral mask. "Aren't you leaving?" Tariq asked. Karim's jaw tightened. He adjusted his suit jacket, offering a final, lingering look at Rana before turning toward the door. "Karim Haddad, let me see you out!" Rana called out, casting a final, burning glare at Tariq before she hurried after the visitor. The room fell silent, save for the rhythmic hum of the medical monitors. Tariq walked to the side of the bed where Layla Murad lay. The three-year-old looked so small against the white sheets, her breath shallow. Guilt gnawed at his insides, a sharp, physical pain. He reached out, gently tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, Layla," he whispered, his voice thick. "I promise you, from now on, you'll have the life of a princess. No more hospital bills, no more suffering." The door clicked open ten minutes later. Rana walked back in, her face like a mask of ice. She didn't look at the child; she kept her eyes locked on Tariq. "Where did you get the money from?" she asked coldly. "I borrowed it," Tariq said, not looking up from his daughter's face. "From who?" "Sami Saab." Rana's shoulders dropped slightly, the tension of suspicion easing into a weary relief. "You've already borrowed from him too many times. You can't keep troubling him. Make sure to return it to him soon. I heard he's getting married." "I know," Tariq said, his voice steady. "I'll return it to him as soon as I can." He looked up then, catching the light as it hit Rana's face. Even in her anger and exhaustion, she was stunning—a woman of grace and education who had spent years tethered to a man the world saw as a failure. She had no idea that the man sitting before her was no longer a beggar, but the heir to the Murad family's global empire. "Tariq," Rana said, her voice shifting from cold to a desperate, urging tone. "Even if it's not for yourself, think of it as doing something for Layla. Come with me to my father's birthday this weekend. Apologize to my parents." Tariq remained silent. The thought of the Ghazi family's sneers and the inevitable humiliation at Khalid Ghazi's birthday gala made his stomach turn. "Then, just keep being this wretched for the rest of your life!" Rana snapped. She stomped her foot, the sound sharp on the linoleum, and turned away from him in total frustration. Tariq let out a long, helpless sigh. Without money and prestige, even the truth sounded like a lie, and even a husband's protection looked like a nuisance. He needed to settle the immediate chaos. He checked his phone, saw the mounting notifications, and knew he couldn't stay in the hospital room any longer if he wanted to maintain his cover for just a few hours more. He left the hospital and mounted his scooter, the engine sputtering to life. He refreshed his delivery list, his thumb sliding over the cracked screen. A notification popped up: a delivery task for Al-Ahram Hotel. The ride to the hotel was a blur of city traffic and flickering neon. He pulled up to the grand entrance, grabbed the thermal bag, and headed for the elevators. Suite 8808. He reached the door and pressed the bell. A moment later, the lock clicked. The door swung open to reveal a woman with disheveled hair and exquisite makeup that was slightly smeared. She was wearing a tiny crop top with spaghetti straps and black shorts that showed off a rose tattoo on her thigh. "Hello, your—" Tariq began, a practiced, bright smile on his face. He froze. "Tariq?" Salma Darwish gasped, her eyes bulging. Before Tariq could process the sight of Sami Saab's fiancée in a luxury hotel suite dressed like that, a man's voice drifted from the bedroom—a thick, revolting sound. "Salma, are you done? I can't wait any longer! You even brought bunny ears today, hehe..." Salma's face went white. She lunged forward, snatched the delivery bag from Tariq's hand without a word, and slammed the door shut. The sound echoed in the hallway like a gunshot. Tariq stood in the carpeted corridor, his hands still shaped as if holding the bag. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. Salma was here, in suite 8808, with a middle-aged man while Sami was working himself to the bone to save for their wedding. He didn't leave. He waited. Half an hour later, the elevator doors in the lounge downstairs opened. Salma stepped out, her clothes adjusted but her expression fierce. She spotted Tariq sitting in one of the armchairs and marched toward him. "This is for you," she said coldly, pulling a small wad of bills from her designer purse. She held out three hundred dollars. Tariq didn't take it. He looked at the money, then at her. "Is this a bribe?" he asked, snorting. "Five hundred!" she hissed, pulling out two more bills and tossing the entire stack at his chest. The money fluttered to the floor. "Is that enough? This is worth two days of your salary." Tariq stood up, his teeth gritted. "Salma, how could you do this to Sami Saab! He has worked so hard for you, and you two were going to get married by the end of the year!" "So what?" Salma replied, her voice rising in a nonchalant, mocking tone. She crossed her arms, looking him up and down with pure disdain. "Who says I will marry him? Tariq, why don't you just mind your own business. You keep coming to borrow money from Sami Saab, and that's starting to irritate me." She took a step closer, her eyes flashing with pride. "You're a man, don't you have any sense of shame? It's no wonder your wife wants to divorce you, trash!" Tariq's fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. "Don't say a word about what happened today," Salma threatened, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, "or I'll get someone to break your leg." A plump, middle-aged man emerged from the elevators behind her, patting his stomach with a satisfied air. Salma immediately changed her expression, slipping her arm through the older man's as they walked toward the valet. Tariq watched them go. He reached down and picked up the five hundred dollars. It felt filthy in his hand, but he didn't throw it away. He would need every piece of evidence of her character when he spoke to Sami. His phone began to vibrate violently in his pocket. He pulled it out to see the name 'Yusuf Saleh' flashing on the screen. He answered, and the volume was so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. "Tariq, what the f*ck are you doing?!" Yusuf's voice came through in a thundering rage. "I've received more than ten complaint phone calls! Were you delivering to Mars? Come straight back after your delivery, then pack up and get lost!" The old Tariq would have apologized. The old Tariq would have begged for his job, thinking of Layla's medicine. But the man standing in the lobby of the Al-Ahram Hotel was the master of the Murad fortune. "Mr. Saleh," Tariq said, his voice ringing with a sudden, sharp indignation. "You can stop scolding me because I f*cking quit! I just fired you!" "Say what? Tariq Murad..." Tariq hung up before Yusuf could finish. He immediately dialed a different number—the private line for Fahd Abbas. "Fahd, I want to repurchase my company, can I?" Tariq asked as soon as the call connected. "Fahd Abbas here," the butler's voice was calm and respectful. "Young Master, that company was originally founded by you, but you ended up selling it due to bankruptcy. If you want to repurchase it, just say the word." "Okay," Tariq said, looking out at his battered scooter through the hotel's glass doors. "In ten minutes, I want to become its owner!" "Fahd Abbas. Understood, Young Master." Tariq stood in the lobby, counting the seconds. He watched the high-society guests move past him, oblivious to the shift in the world's weight. Exactly nine minutes and forty seconds later, the phone buzzed. "Fahd Abbas. It's done. You are now the owner of Al-Saqr Delivery Services." "Good," Tariq nodded. He walked out of the hotel, the five hundred dollars from Salma tucked into his pocket alongside his phone. He didn't head for another delivery. He headed for the headquarters of Al-Saqr Delivery Services. It was time to settle the score with Yusuf Saleh. Inside the lounge of Al-Saqr Delivery Services Limited Liability Company, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Yusuf Saleh was pacing back and forth, staring at his phone and throwing a fit of rage. "Shit! This Tariq is just looking for trouble!" Yusuf roared, slamming his hand against a desk. "Just because I can't fire you, who are you to speak that way to me? A delivery boy! A piece of trash!" Several staff members hovered near the water cooler, whispering and watching the manager's meltdown. The door to the inner office swung open, and Jamil Nasser, the owner of the company, walked out. His face was uncharacteristically pale, and he was sweating despite the air conditioning. "Boss!" Yusuf cried out, rushing over with a flattering, oily smile. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming? I could have gone to welcome you. We've got a situation with one of the drivers, a real loser named Tariq—" Jamil ignored him, looking instead at the small group of staff. "Everyone, prepare yourselves to welcome the new owner," he announced, his voice tight. Yusuf froze. "The new owner?" "Someone has spent ten million to buy this company," Jamil said, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted his tie. "Ten million?" Yusuf was stunned. The company was worth barely half that. "Who is this new owner? Should we prepare something? A banner? A gift?" Jamil frowned, looking toward the main entrance. "I'm not familiar with the new owner, so everyone, be on your toes later. The sale was finalized minutes ago. The buyer is coming here personally." Yusuf turned to the staff, his chest puffing out as he tried to reclaim his sense of authority. "Everyone, keep your spirits up! The new owner will be here soon. If you perform nicely, you might even get a raise or a promotion! This is about you and your wallets!" He stood by the door, straightening his shirt and smoothing his hair, waiting to bow to the multi-millionaire who had just bought the firm. The glass doors pushed open. Tariq Murad walked in, still wearing his sweat-stained yellow delivery vest. ════════════════════════════════════════