Chapter 3: Laila, Daughter of Fortune

The canvas flap was ripped open, and a gun barrel slammed against Karim’s throat. Zayd moved in a blur, his palm striking out in a sharp chop that sent the assailant crashing to the ground with a muffled grunt. The lamplight revealed a face covered in stubble—Amir. Karim let out a cold laugh. "Old friend, is this how you say hello now? With a gun?" Amir spat a glob of bloody phlegm. "You stole my shipment. Did you really think I wouldn't hunt you down?" Zayd pinned him to the floor. "Talk. Why are you here?"

Amir wrenched himself free and lowered his voice. "Layla’s family is in secret negotiations with the Riyadh consortium. They’re planning to swallow the antique transport lines your father left behind." Karim’s eyes flickered. "So, you've come to play the whistleblower?" Amir shook his head. "I just want my cut. As for Layla... she looks down on you, just like she looks down on everyone. She'll be at the Chamber of Commerce banquet tomorrow."

Karim sheathed his short blade. "Then I'll go. I want to see exactly how much confidence this high-society princess actually has."

The banquet hall was a sea of cascading crystal chandeliers and gold accents that made the entire room glow. Layla, draped in a diamond-encrusted gown, descended the spiral staircase with slow, measured steps as guests raised their glasses in greeting. Her gaze swept across the corner of the room, landing on Karim. A faint, mocking smile touched her lips. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Karim. I heard you were busy keeping books for people down at the docks. How did you find the time for a place like this?" Low ripples of laughter echoed around them.

Karim held a glass of mint tea, his pace leisurely. "The books still need balancing, but a party is a party. Speaking of which, Miss Layla, is your father’s consortium still holding steady?" Layla arched an eyebrow. "Perfectly steady. No need for your concern." Karim set his tea down. "Is that so? Then why did three massive offshore transfers vanish from your family accounts last night?"

The hall fell dead silent. Layla’s expression shifted for a split second before she sneered. "Nonsense. Since when does a dockside bookkeeper have the clearance to peek at my family's ledgers?" Karim looked her dead in the eye. "There are no secrets in the desert, Miss Layla. Your capital chain is snapping. Covering it up won't help." Layla let out a cold huff and turned away. "Boring. I have matters to attend to. Excuse me."

As she walked out of the hall, her chest tightened for reasons she couldn't explain.

Back at the mansion, the butler presented the day's ledgers. Layla flipped through them casually until her fingertips suddenly froze—three massive offshore transfers had indeed vanished last night, their destination unknown. She dialed the CFO immediately. "What is the meaning of this?" The man stammered on the other end. "Miss... this... this was a board decision. I'm not entirely clear on the details." Layla’s voice turned ice-cold. "Whose decision? Be specific." A long silence followed. "It seems... people connected to Master Zayd have been quietly siphoning funds."

Layla hung up, staring blankly through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the glittering lights of Dubai. She thought of Karim’s eyes—eyes that seemed to see through everything—and felt a surge of fear mingled with curiosity. She ordered an investigation into Karim’s background, but the report came back as a total blank. It was as if the man had appeared out of thin air, yet was somehow everywhere.

Late that night, Layla stood by the window, weighing her options. Finally, she picked up her phone and sent a single message: "Tomorrow afternoon, the Old City spice market. I want to see you."

The following afternoon, the Old City spice market was a cacophony of noise. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat, Layla navigated through the pungent scents of cinnamon and saffron until she finally found Karim in a tea shop at the end of an alley. He was perched on a low stool, a glass of mint tea long gone cold in front of him, as if he had been waiting for an eternity.

Layla sat down and got straight to the point. "Who exactly are you?"

Karim looked up, his gaze calm. "A bookkeeper."

"A bookkeeper who knows about board-level fund siphoning?" Layla sneered. "You'd better tell me the truth. I have three separate investigation reports on you, and every single one is blank."

Karim poured a fresh cup of tea and pushed it toward her. "They're blank because there's nothing to find. Karim: orphan, worked the docks for twelve years. It's not that you couldn't find anything—it's that you refuse to believe an orphan can see further than your family's golden boy."

Layla fell silent for a moment, then lowered her voice. "Then tell me. Why is Zayd siphoning the funds? He's the heir. Why steal from his own house?"

"He's after the shell," Karim said flatly. "The consortium's cash flow won't last two months. Zayd has already moved the most valuable offshore assets into a new company. Once the shell collapses, he'll buy it back for pennies on the dollar and play the role of the savior."

Layla’s heart sank, though she didn't let it show. "You have no proof."

Karim pulled a yellowed piece of paper from his coat, densely packed with dates and figures. "This is the cargo manifest from the docks for the last three months. Several 'export' containers were actually empty, but they used your consortium's shipping lines. Empty boxes going out, funds flowing back. Your proof is right here."

Layla took the paper, her fingertips trembling slightly. As she scanned a few lines, her pupils contracted—the dates aligned perfectly with the fund withdrawals in her ledgers.

"You..." she stared at him. "Why are you helping me?"

Karim stood up and brushed off his robe. "I'm not helping you. I just don't want to see an honest person buried under a liar's bad debts."

As he turned to leave, Layla called out, "Wait. If I want to audit every single account, how long would it take?"

Karim paused and looked back at her. "That depends on whether you have the guts to look at the real books."

Layla bit her lip and finally nodded. "Tonight, I'll find a way to get a backup of the family's core ledgers."

A strange glint flashed in Karim's eyes. "Fine. Tomorrow night, same time, I'll take you somewhere—to your father's first counting house."

Layla froze. "My father's first counting house? He closed that old shop twenty years ago. It was torn down long ago."

Karim didn't answer. He only gave her a meaningful look before turning and vanishing into the chaos of the market.

Layla gripped the manifest, feeling a vague sense that she was stepping into a secret far deeper and older than a simple capital chain.

(End of Chapter)

Layla gripped the manifest and hurried through the market. The night wind whipped against her face, but she didn't feel the chill—the sweat on her fingertips had nearly soaked the corners of the paper. Returning to the estate, she dodged the night patrol and slipped into her father's study.

The key to the counting house was hidden in a secret compartment in her father's desk; she had never touched it. As the lock clicked open, her fingers hesitated for a second before she pulled out a stack of ledgers and a wax-sealed letter, stuffing them into her bodice. Just as she was about to close the compartment, footsteps approached from the hallway. She held her breath and dove behind the curtain.

The door opened, and Steward Liu stepped in. His gaze swept across the desk and landed on the secret compartment—the door was still slightly ajar. He frowned but didn't step forward, merely muttering to himself, "The consortium is about to face a change in the weather." He stepped back out and closed the door behind him.

Layla's heart hammered against her ribs. Steward Liu knew exactly where the compartment was, and his words were clearly a probe. Taking a deep breath, she returned to her room, lit a lamp, and spread the ledgers open.

Black and white. Every single empty container date on the manifest matched. But as she flipped deeper, she began to panic: the recipients of those "export" containers all pointed to the same offshore company. And that company's registered address was located in the very same Old City where Karim was from. She turned the pages one by one until she reached the final leaf—at the end of the ledger was a single line in her father's handwriting: "All deficits are due to an acrostic poem." There was nothing more.

She gripped the paper until her knuckles turned white. Who was Karim? How did he know this? And why choose to expose it publicly at the banquet? How could a dockside broker hold the keys to her family's core accounts? The more she thought, the more anxious she became. She threw on a cloak and summoned her most trusted attendant, Ah Fu.

"Go to the docks. Dig into Karim's background. Don't alert him; just see who he's associating with." Ah Fu took the order and left. Layla returned to the lamp and stared at the yellowed manifest, suddenly flipping it over—there, sketched hurriedly in charcoal, was a simple map: a few streets, a circle, and the words "The Old Shop." The date was from thirty years ago.

She froze. Karim hadn't mentioned the back of the paper when he gave it to her. Was this intentional, or an oversight? She remembered his final words—"your father's first counting house." That shop had been demolished, yet he insisted on taking her there tomorrow. If he really was an acquaintance of her father, why not say so? If he had another motive, where was this map leading?

Layla rubbed her temples. She didn't want to trust Karim completely, but lies weren't usually this precise. She walked to the window, looking out at the heavy darkness. She thought of Steward Liu's comment about the "change in weather," and then the "acrostic poem" in the ledger. There seemed to be a single thread connecting the two.

She bit her lip and made a decision: she wouldn't wait until tomorrow night. She would uncover Karim's secrets first before deciding whether to keep the appointment. She called Ah Fu's second-in-command and whispered, "Ready the horses. Before dawn, I'm going to the Old City in the south." The man hesitated. "Miss, that place has been derelict for years." Layla gripped the charcoal map. "Derelict is perfect. If he left a map, he has his reasons."

She donned her cloak, but before leaving, she looked back at the open ledger. The phrase "acrostic poem" floated before her eyes. She suddenly remembered—in her father's study hung a piece of calligraphy he had written in his youth, the brushwork bold and sweeping, dated back to the era of The Old Shop. She had seen it since she was a child but had never actually read it. She spun around, rushed back into the study, and flipped the calligraphy over.

Stuck to the back of the paper was a faded slip. It contained only one line, written in her father's hand: "Karim, son of my old friend. If you see these words, do not doubt him."

Layla's fingers trembled. She finally understood what Karim meant by "not wanting to see an honest person buried under a liar's bad debts"—he wasn't a stranger; he was the son of her father's old friend. But if that were the case, why not just reveal his identity? Why take such a long, winding path?

She gripped the slip of paper and looked out at the whitening sky. Her decision was made: she would keep the appointment tomorrow night, but first, she had to find out exactly what Karim owed her father, and why he felt the need to pay it back this way.

She tucked the paper away and blew out the lamp. As the first light of dawn filtered through the window, she had her horse ready and rode alone toward the Old City in the south.