Chapter 6: Whispers of the Past

Chapter 6: Whispers of the Past

The old quarter of the city was a world away from the gleaming, impersonal towers where Layla lived and worked. Here, the streets were narrow, winding veins of history, the air thick with the scent of ground coffee, exotic spices, and the dust of generations. It was a place her father despised, a relic of a past he had aggressively paved over with concrete and ambition. It felt like coming home to a house she’d never known.

Aunt Samira’s workshop was tucked away in a quiet alley, marked only by a heavy wooden door painted a deep, rebellious turquoise. Inside, chaos reigned in a symphony of color. Bolts of silk in every conceivable hue were stacked to the ceiling. Skeins of gold and silver thread glittered in the dim light. The room smelled of cardamom tea, hot irons, and dye. It was the absolute antithesis of Sheikh Khalid’s monochromatic world.

Samira was exactly as Layla remembered, only etched with the fine lines of two decades of laughter and wisdom. Her hands, though stained with pigment, moved with a dancer’s grace as she poured steaming tea into small, delicate cups.

“So,” Samira said, her dark, knowing eyes fixed on her niece. “The Lion roars, and tries to put his pearl back in its box.”

Layla’s carefully constructed composure crumbled under her aunt’s gentle gaze. The words tumbled out—the arranged marriage to Basil, the collapse of the company, and finally, the codicil. She described the morality clause, the legal dagger her father held to the throat of her career.

Samira listened without interruption, her expression one of profound, weary sadness, but not surprise. When Layla finished, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and despair, her aunt reached across the table and placed a warm, dye-stained hand over hers.

“Your father was always a thief of stories, Lulu,” Samira said softly. “He takes what is beautiful and powerful, and if he cannot own it, he rewrites it until it is small enough to fit in his pocket. He did it to your mother. And he did it to his own.”

“My grandmother?” Layla asked, confused. She remembered her grandmother, Amara, as a quiet, benevolent presence, a woman who smelled of roses and existed in the background of her childhood, always smiling, always silent.

Samira’s laugh was a dry rustle of leaves. “Silent? Oh, my dear, no. Your grandmother was the storm. Khalid was just the thunder that came after, making all the noise. People forget. Khalid made them forget.”

She rose and walked over to an old, intricately carved cedar chest in the corner of the room. “The Al-Fahim empire? Khalid didn’t build it. He inherited it. Not from his father, who was a simple pearl merchant, but from his wife. Your grandmother, Amara, was the visionary. She had a mind for numbers and a gift for seeing the future. She bought the land no one wanted, she invested in the technologies no one understood. Khalid was the face, the man who could shout in the meeting rooms. But Amara… Amara drew the blueprints.”

The revelation struck Layla with the force of a physical blow. The entire foundation of her family’s legacy, the patriarchal power her father wielded like a scepter, was a lie. He hadn’t built the kingdom; he had usurped a queen.

“After she died,” Samira continued, her voice hardening, “he buried her story. He erased her from the company ledgers, from the histories. He wanted the world to believe he was a self-made man, not a man made by a brilliant woman. He is terrified of a woman’s power, Layla, because he knows, better than anyone, that it is greater than his own.”

Samira lifted the heavy lid of the chest. From within, she retrieved a stack of leather-bound journals, tied together with a faded silk ribbon. The leather was worn smooth with time, the pages yellowed at the edges.

“She knew he would try to erase her,” Samira said, placing the journals on the table before Layla. “She kept records. Everything. Her deals, her investments, her strategies. But she was clever. She knew he would look for them.” Samira tapped the cover of the top journal. “They are in a code. A mix of the old tribal dialect our family spoke—the one Khalid forbid your mother to teach you—and an early form of corporate shorthand she invented herself. A language only a woman of her bloodline might understand.”

Layla stared at the journals, her heart pounding. This was it. Not a shield, but a sword. The truth, hidden in a language of forgotten matriarchal power. It was a treasure map, a key to a history that could rewrite her future. She reached for them, her fingers brushing against the worn leather.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Clutching the journals to her chest, she left the workshop, stepping out of the warm, colorful past and back into the cold, dangerous present. The alley was dark now, the setting sun casting long shadows. Her path to her car was blocked.

A gleaming black Mercedes was parked at the end of the alley, its headlights cutting through the gloom. Leaning against it, arms crossed, was Basil Al-Qadir. The charming smile he wore in the hospital was gone, replaced by a look of cold disapproval.

“I was beginning to worry,” he said, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth. “This is not a suitable place for a woman of your position. For my future wife.”

The possessiveness in his tone was a physical thing, wrapping around her like a chain. “I am not your wife, Basil.”

He pushed off the car and took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. “A formality. Your father and I have an understanding. And our understanding is that you will be… managed more closely from now on. He was right to be concerned. Your little outburst at the hospital, and now sneaking off to a place like this? It’s unseemly.”

“My movements are my own concern,” she said, her grip tightening on the journals.

“Not anymore,” he replied, his voice dropping to a low, chilling murmur. He was so close now she could smell his expensive cologne, a cloying, synthetic scent that sought to smother the natural spices of the old city. “You are an asset, Layla. A very valuable one. And assets must be protected. From others, and from themselves. You will learn to accept that.”

He reached for her arm.

“I would advise against that.”

The voice came from the mouth of the alley. It was sharp, incisive, and utterly unexpected. Both Layla and Basil turned.

Dr. Zayd Al-Jamil stood there, silhouetted against the streetlights. He was no longer in scrubs, but in a tailored dark suit, looking every bit the scion of a rival dynasty. His expression was one of cool, detached curiosity, as if he were observing a particularly interesting complication during a procedure.

Basil bristled, his authority challenged. “Al-Jamil. This is a private family matter. It has nothing to do with you.”

“On the contrary,” Zayd said, taking a slow, deliberate step into the alley. His eyes flickered to the journals in Layla’s arms, then back to her face. He noted the tension in her jaw, the defiant fire in her eyes. “Dr. Al-Fahim seems distressed. As her father’s consulting physician, I have a professional interest in her well-being. Stress can be very detrimental.”

He was using his medical authority as a weapon, a shield on her behalf, and it was as brilliant as it was baffling.

“This is absurd,” Basil snarled, taking a half-step back, clearly unwilling to cause a public scene with the heir to the Al-Jamil fortune.

“Is it?” Zayd’s lips curved into a slight, mocking smile. “I think trying to physically intimidate the city’s top cardiothoracic surgeon in a dark alley is what’s absurd. Not a good look for the Al-Qadir brand.” He paused, his gaze locking with Basil’s. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I was just offering the doctor a ride. The city can be so unsafe at night.”

Defeated and furious, Basil shot Layla a look that was a clear promise of future retribution. He turned on his heel, got into his car, and sped away with a squeal of tires, leaving a cloud of exhaust and simmering tension in his wake.

Silence descended on the alley. Layla stood, her heart still racing, clutching her grandmother’s legacy. She turned to face her rescuer, her rival. The man who had, hours ago, been her adversary, had just intervened in a way that made no sense.

“Why?” she asked, the single word encompassing a dozen questions. Why help her? What did he want?

Zayd looked from the departing taillights of Basil’s car to the leather-bound journals she held like a shield. A flicker of something—curiosity, calculation, perhaps even a hint of respect—passed through his sharp eyes.

“Let’s just say,” he said, his voice returning to its usual infuriatingly cool tone, “that I have always found the Al-Qadirs to be exceptionally distasteful. And besides…” He met her gaze, a new, intriguing light in his. “A puzzle has been presented. I find I’m interested in the solution.”