Chapter 7

The Al-Fares glided to a halt in front of Al-Karam Residence. The restaurant's facade was a masterclass in architectural opulence, marble pillars rising to support a gilded entryway that screamed of exclusivity. In Madinat Al-Waha, this was the ultimate threshold of status—a place where a minimum annual spend of one million dollars was merely the price of admission. Tariq Murad looked out the tinted window and felt a headache forming. At the entrance, a line of men in sharp suits stood straight-backed, led by a middle-aged man who paced with visible anxiety. "Didn't I say to keep a low profile?" Tariq asked, his brow furrowing as he turned to Fahd Abbas. "What's with this extravagant display?" Fahd adjusted his cuffs, looking slightly sheepish. "Young Master, Omar Al-Rashid must have wanted to give you a surprise. He's been quite eager to meet the man behind the investment." "Surprise my foot! I don't like it," Tariq said coldly. He watched the group at the door, spotting the chairman of Al-Tajir Trading Group checking his watch for the tenth time. "Head to the parking lot and inform your friend to meet us in private. I'm not walking through the front door like a circus act." Fahd nodded immediately, signaling the driver to bypass the main entrance. "As you wish, Young Master." Near the main entrance, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Omar Al-Rashid stood at the head of his management team, his expression a mask of patient solemnity, but his son, Rami Al-Rashid, was far less disciplined. The younger man shifted his weight, his face twisted in a scowl as he looked at the empty driveway. "Dad, just who are we waiting for?" Rami grumbled, his voice dripping with irritation. "Aren't they too arrogant? It's already been twenty minutes. We're the ones with a three-billion-dollar company, yet we're standing here like doormen." Omar turned his head slightly, his eyes flashing with a warning. "Behave yourself," he hissed in a hushed voice. "The person coming today is the one who holds the lifeline of our expansion. If they show up and you make even a single mistake, just see how I'll take care of you later." Rami went silent, though he continued to mutter under his breath about "big-shots" and "ego." A moment later, Omar's phone vibrated. He answered it quickly, his posture straightening even further. After a few brief words, he hung up and gestured to his team. "They've arrived through the private entrance," Omar announced. "Follow me." Rami followed, still grumbling. "So we wait out here like idiots and we don't even get to see the big-shot arrive in his car? This is ridiculous." They were led to a palatial private dining room on the top floor. The decor was understated yet undeniably expensive, featuring hand-woven carpets and antique vases. When the doors were pushed open, Rami pushed past his father's secretary to get a look at the mysterious investor. Inside, two men stood near a large mahogany table. One was Fahd Abbas, whom Rami recognized as the chairman of Murad Group. The other was a younger man dressed in clothes that looked like they belonged in a bargain bin—worn, utilitarian, and utterly out of place in Al-Karam Residence. Rami's gaze locked onto Tariq. He blinked, certain there had been a mistake. The man looked like a migrant worker who had wandered into the wrong building. Omar Al-Rashid didn't share his son's confusion. He hurried forward, a broad smile plastered on his face. "Fahd Abbas, you're finally here." He then turned his gaze toward Tariq, his eyes searching for a clue. "And this is...?" Fahd stepped aside, gesturing toward Tariq with a level of deference that made Omar's heart skip a beat. "This is my young master, Tariq Murad. He's also the investor this time around." The air seemed to leave the room. Omar's smile froze, then transformed into an expression of profound shock. He knew Fahd Abbas was the chairman of Murad Group—a titan in the business world. For a man of Fahd's stature to refer to someone as "young master" could only mean one thing. This young man was the true authority behind the Murad family's incomprehensible wealth. "This humble servant, Omar Al-Rashid, has been too dense to recognize the young master of the Murad family," Omar said, his voice trembling with great trepidation. He bowed low, his forehead nearly touching his chest. "I hope that you can forgive me for my lack of foresight." Rami stood frozen in the background, his mouth hanging open. The "migrant worker" was the heir to the Murad family? Tariq waved a hand dismissively, his expression neutral. "Omar Al-Rashid, I still have some things to take care of, so let's make this quick. I heard from old Fahd that your company requires financing. Give me a figure." Omar straightened up, though he remained slightly stooped in a gesture of respect. He signaled for his secretary to bring forward the documents, but he didn't wait for the paper. He knew the numbers by heart. "Young Master, our company is preparing to open up the art pieces market to international countries," Omar began, his tone becoming professional yet remaining deeply cautious. "The channel sales in America and Italy have been doing extremely well, so as an estimation, we would require one billion in financing. Please don't worry about the returns. In exchange for this investment, we will give you 25% of the shares and a generous bonus at the end of the year." One billion dollars. It was a staggering sum for most, the kind of figure that would take months of due diligence and board meetings to approve. Tariq leaned back slightly, a casual smile playing on his lips. "I'll invest two billion, but I want 40% of the shares." The room went deathly silent. Omar Al-Rashid stared at Tariq, his breath hitching in his throat. He had asked for one billion to stay afloat and grow; Tariq had just doubled it as if he were ordering an extra side of fries. "Young... Young Master," Omar stammered, barely able to speak. "Are you sure you want to invest two billion?" Tariq tilted his head. "Too little? I can add a bit more if the project requires it." "No, no, two billion is enough!" Omar said quickly, his hands shaking with excitement. With an infusion of two billion dollars, Al-Tajir Trading Group wouldn't just expand; it would dominate. The company's value was currently three billion, but with this, it was guaranteed to reach over ten billion within two years. "That is more than enough. Thank you, Young Master!" Omar turned to his secretary, snapping his fingers. The woman hurried forward with a long, silk-wrapped box. Omar took it with both hands and presented it to Tariq. "Young Master, this is an authentic painting by the famous Bassam Al-Brooks of China," Omar said, smiling broadly now that the deal was struck. "I've kept it in my personal collection for many years now, and today I'd like to present it to you as a token of my appreciation for your trust in our vision." Tariq looked at the box. He knew the name. A Bassam Al-Brooks original was worth over ten million dollars on the open market. He nodded slowly. "You have my thanks, Omar Al-Rashid." He took the painting, the weight of the history and value resting in his hands. Without further ceremony, he turned toward the door. "Fahd, let's go. I've stayed here long enough." As they exited the private room and moved toward the elevator, a man in a sharp, silver-toned suit intercepted them. He was followed by several waitstaff who stood at a respectful distance. "Young Master, please wait," the man said, offering a deep, polished smile. "I am the owner of Al-Karam Residence, Jamal Hale." Tariq paused, looking at the man. Jamal Hale was a figure of significant influence in the city's social scene, known for his connections to the elite. "I didn't know that both of you were coming today, so I have failed to welcome you properly," Jamal said, bowing slightly toward Tariq and then nodding to Fahd. He reached into his inner pocket and produced a shimmering, metallic card. "This is the platinum VIP membership card of Al-Karam Residence. It grants access to our most private suites and bypasses all reservation requirements. If you doesn't mind, please take this." Tariq glanced at the card. A platinum membership here required a minimum annual spend of a million dollars, but more than that, it was a symbol of status that money alone couldn't always buy. "Thanks," Tariq said in a casual tone, taking the card and slipping it into his pocket. He didn't wait for a conversation. He walked toward the exit, leaving Fahd to trail behind. Fahd stopped for a moment, catching Jamal Hale's eye. "Mr. Hale, my young master doesn't like to be too conspicuous," Fahd said, his voice neutral but carrying a sharp edge of command. "If anybody asks..." "Understood, understood!" Jamal replied immediately, nodding fervently. "Please don't worry, Fahd Abbas. No other soul besides me will know of the Young Master's identity." Tariq stepped out into the humid air of the afternoon. He felt the weight of the painting under his arm and the card in his pocket—two items that represented more wealth than most people would see in ten lifetimes. He looked toward the bike rack where he'd planned to rent a bicycle to head home. Just as he reached the edge of the sidewalk, a group of people emerged from a fleet of cars parked near the entrance. Tariq froze. Walking toward the entrance of Al-Karam Residence was Rana Ghazi. She was flanked by several people in business attire, including a man with a slicked-back undercut and a smug expression—Kamal Al-Khoury, the marketing manager. Rana's eyes scanned the entrance, likely checking the time, when they landed on Tariq. Her footsteps faltered, her expression shifting from professional focus to pure confusion. "Tariq?" she asked, her voice rising in suspicion. "What are you doing here?" Tariq felt a surge of panic. He was standing in front of the city's most exclusive restaurant, holding a high-end art container, having just come from a two-billion-dollar meeting. "I... I, uhm..." he stammered, his mind racing for a cover story. He looked down at his worn clothes, then back at his wife. "I'm here for a delivery." He gestured vaguely at the painting box, hoping she wouldn't ask why a delivery man was carrying something that looked so expensive. Before Rana could respond, Kamal Al-Khoury stepped forward, looking Tariq up and down with an unpleasant, mocking sneer. "Deputy Manager Ghazi, is this delivery man that husband of yours?" Kamal asked, his voice loud enough for the other colleagues to hear. He let out a short, derisive laugh. "He looks only so-so. As expected of a kept man. Does he always hang around the places you work, or is he just looking for a free meal?" Rana's face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and anger, her eyes darting between her husband and her mocking manager. Tariq tightened his grip on the Bassam Al-Brooks painting, his knuckles whitening. ════════════════════════════════════════