Chapter 3: Watched at the Family Banquet

Omar followed Rashid through the top-floor corridor laid with a deep-red Persian carpet. The pile underfoot was soft and heavy; every step seemed about to sink in, yet it clearly supported his stride, and that sensation gave him an illusory sense of safety.

The air was filled with a mixture of expensive oud fragrance and tension, the scent so rich it was almost viscous, trying to mask the cold current lurking in the room. On the walls along both sides of the corridor hung portraits of the family's successive heads; the people in those black-and-white photographs had cold, stern gazes, as if silently watching this master and servant pair about to step into the center of the storm.

The banquet hall blazed with light, the crystal chandeliers refracting dizzying spots that danced in the air like countless prying eyes. Fatima moved through the crowd, her fingertips unconsciously stroking the bracelet; the cold metal seemed to carry the temperature of something alive, numbing her fingertips with its heat.

When her gaze touched Omar, the bracelet suddenly lit up, and an invisible ripple pierced Omar's defenses in an instant. Omar felt a violent dizziness as a memory that was not his flooded his mind: a bank hall late at night, a broken capital chain, the red warnings of a frozen Riyadh account jumping on a screen.

It was his deep anxiety about bankruptcy, a fear potent enough to keep this Dubai magnate awake at night, as if real hunger were gnawing at his stomach. Omar forcibly suppressed the spasm in his abdomen and, feigning nonchalance, picked up a cup of date coffee; the cup wall was warm, but his fingers gripping it had gone white with force, and his eyes had turned sharp as blades.

He understood now: Father was not simply magnanimous in temperament — he was struggling at the edge of an abyss. What this bracelet transmitted back was not merely information; it was the cry of a soul on the verge of collapse.

Khalid crashed in through a side door, still carrying the coarse smell of sand and dust from the edge of the Muscat desert, and that wild aura instantly diluted the perfume in the hall. He slapped Omar's shoulder roughly, with force enough to nearly knock him off balance; Omar's body swayed slightly, but he steadied his center of gravity.

The gazes around them focused at once. Yusuf's fingers tapped lightly on the tabletop in a hurried, dangerous rhythm, like a countdown. Khalid's voice rolled like gravel over rock, carrying undisguised provocation, tearing straight through the crack beneath this exquisite facade; there were even still-wet mud spots on his boots, especially jarring on the polished marble floor.

Omar did not retreat. He keenly caught the longing at the bottom of Khalid's eyes, not hidden by the dust — a craving for the freedom of driving, for escaping the family's bonds, a desire purer than anger. In that moment, Omar made his decision: this was the only key to undoing the father-son deadlock and seizing control of the whole game.

He had to turn this rebellion into a blade, and guide it toward the right direction rather than wasteful internal friction.

Suddenly, Yusuf slammed his coffee cup down hard on the table with a dull bang, a few drops of coffee splashing out and staining the white tablecloth. He pressed in close to Omar, an unprecedented cold killing intent in his turbid yet sharp eyes, as if to pierce Omar's soul through.

He interrogated Omar about the true origin of his identity, his voice low and hoarse, carrying unchallengeable pressure: if there was a single false word, Omar would be permanently expelled from Dubai's wealthy circle, and face graver consequences besides — the family's curse and the law's sanctions would both come crashing down. Omar stood where he was, his heart drumming, but he did not step back.

He looked straight into the old man's eyes, preparing to meet this final confrontation. Outside the window, Dubai's nightscape blazed with lights, the shadows of skyscrapers cast upon the glass, yet they could not illuminate the dark corners deep within this labyrinth of power. At this moment the gears of fate meshed completely with a grating friction, heralding an irreversible upheaval about to begin.

Omar raised a hand and gently stilled the dispute about to erupt. His voice was steady yet carried indisputable authority, carving a vacuum out of the clamor. He cited the ancient clause concerning pioneers in the family's honor code, weighing every word, and redefined Khalid's seemingly reckless impulse as a pioneering mission to explore new markets.

Khalid froze for a moment; the hostility in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by the wild joy of being recognized — the release of something long suppressed. Yusuf's originally gloomy expression softened slightly; although the doubt in his eyes had not fully dispersed, the rhythm of his tapping fingers slowed.

Under Omar's exquisite manipulation of language, this fierce conflict turned from a possible rupture toward a temporary compromise. Khalid agreed to take part in the Riyadh logistics project as an agent, which temporarily calmed the Council of Elders' anger and quietly raised Omar's standing in everyone's eyes; several representatives who had held prejudices against him cast him reappraising looks.

Yusuf slowly rose, picked up the cup of coffee long gone cold, and stared icily at Omar. He demanded to know how Omar had learned of Khalid's most secret escape plan — that longing for freedom he had never breathed a word of to anyone.

Omar feigned composure and began dissecting the complex logic of the consortium's accounts, steering the topic to the contradictions between capital flows and personnel allocation, his voice calm without a ripple, successfully diverting the elder's attention. This high-intelligence counterattack left Yusuf momentarily speechless, but the coldness in the old man's eyes only deepened, as if he were weighing the depth of his prey.

A deathly silence filled the hall; only the crisp sound of coffee dripping onto the table could be heard, especially piercing, each drop like an alarm bell struck upon the heart. Omar felt cold sweat seeping down his back, and he realized this was not merely a contest of intellect, but a probing of the boundary between life and death.

Layla passed by carrying a tray, the bone-china cups and saucers on it making not a sound. She leaned close and whispered a reminder to Omar: Elder Yusuf was closely watching his every move, as if verifying whether he truly held that core secret. Omar lowered his eyelids, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were a frozen lake.

He knew the risk of the bracelet's information leaking was extremely high; if Yusuf sensed anything abnormal about the source of his information, the consequences would be unthinkable. He decided to build a defensive line of lies, to probe the old man's hand. Layla glanced worriedly at Fatima, who was clenching the bracelet tightly, knuckles white, as if it were her only lifeline.

The atmosphere in the hall grew tense again; every exchange of glances was full of probing and maneuvering. Omar stood at the center of the storm, needing to protect both the family and his own secret — one careless step and he would be doomed beyond redemption.

Yusuf's gaze was nailed to Omar's face like an iron hook; the air in the hall congealed into substance, and even breathing became a luxury. Omar felt his temples throbbing, but his expression did not change. He had no road of retreat; he could only meet the blade hanging over his neck.

"Elder," Omar began, his voice low yet steady, "rather than ask about my identity, first ask how, in a single night, I could see clearly young Master Khalid's yearning for the freedom of the road, and—" he paused, his gaze drifting unintentionally across Father—"and the crack in the family's accounts they least wish to show others."

Yusuf's pupils contracted slightly, his fingertips slowly rubbing along the edge of the table, waiting for what followed. Omar knew that at this moment any defense was inferior to one irrefutable fact. He raised his wrist, his fingertip lightly touching the bracelet; the icy touch of the metal came through as if chaining his soul. He said slowly: "My ability comes from this bracelet. It lets me see the deepest desires and fears in people's hearts."

A low sound of sharply drawn breaths rose in the hall. Fatima's face changed abruptly; she subconsciously clutched the corner of her clothes — that bracelet was one she had touched with her own hands, and now it had become the key that unlocked this night. Yusuf stared at the bracelet, a strange glint flashing in his turbid eyes — something between scrutiny and wariness.

"Origin?" Yusuf said in a deep voice, hoarse as sandpaper scraping iron.

Omar answered unhurriedly: "An object left by our ancestors, handed down from generation to generation, passed only to the heir of the bloodline." He met the old man's gaze, word by word: "Though I was lost outside from childhood, my bloodline is genuine. If the Elder doubts it, you may verify it — but let me ask, Elder: what truly worries you — my blood, or these eyes of mine that can see through people's hearts?"

As his words fell, the hall sank into a deeper deathly silence. Yusuf was silent for a long time, then suddenly let out an ambiguous cold laugh and slowly sat back into his chair, the killing intent in his eyes slightly restrained, replaced by a deeper scrutiny, as if reweighing the young man before him. He spoke slowly, his voice carrying a chill: "Very well. Since you are so frank, this old man will give you a chance.

Tomorrow, come with me to see the clan head, and say the origin of this bracelet of yours once more, before all the seated members of the clan."

Omar's heart sank violently. He knew this was not trust, but another, crueler gallows. He took a deep breath and nodded slightly: "As you command."

Yusuf rose, flung his sleeves, and left, the lingering cold of his voice like frost. At the doorway, Fatima looked back at him once, her gaze complex. Omar stood alone in the center of the empty hall; outside, the night was deep and the lights like a sea, yet he felt ice-cold all over. He knew the true storm had only just lifted a corner.

And that bracelet was faintly heating at his wrist, as if it too were waiting for tomorrow's judgment of life and death.