Badr opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling, the ornate carvings stretching into a distance that bespoke wealth and grandeur. The room, vast and tastefully adorned, bore the unmistakable stamp of royal opulence. This was the property of the royal family—seized after they fled during the upheaval. He sat up slowly, taking in the intricate details of the mansion’s design. It was a place fit for kings, a symbol of power and authority, now reduced to a prize for the victors.
“A mansion,” he muttered to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips. His thoughts were interrupted by the reminder of the day's appointment with Mr. Chedi Blee, a man reputed to excel in logistics. Badr had read about him in the reports—a meticulous planner and a man of pragmatism.
As Badr got ready, his mind wandered. Once, he had been a hotshot politician in his home country, a name whispered among power brokers. Organizing events wasn’t his forte, but he had worked with event planners—master manipulators who ensured public spectacles served ulterior motives. Fundraisers, for instance, often served as fronts for laundering money. The donations rarely reached the intended beneficiaries.
He chuckled bitterly, recalling those days. “Good times,” he mused, though not with pride. His rise from poverty to power had been built on the back of a corrupt system, a climb as treacherous as it was rewarding. Yet, when the tables turned and he was stabbed in the back, those who once sought his favor denied ever knowing him.
"Life only smiles upon those who stand tall," he thought. "The moment you falter and the sharks smell blood, they’ll tear you apart."
Regret wasn’t in his nature, but now more than ever this particular proverb hit him like a truck.
The meeting with Mr. Chedi Blee was surprisingly smooth. The older man’s demeanor was professional, focused entirely on the tasks at hand. They discussed the logistics for an upcoming event, and Badr, despite his lack of direct experience, quickly picked up on the nuances of the planning process.
“Any singers you like? A celebrity you fancy?” Chedi asked, breaking the monotony of the discussion.
Badr’s brow furrowed. “Not particularly.”
Chedi smirked. “Oh, come on. A kid like you doesn’t dream of someone like Rina?”
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The name sparked a memory. Rina, the young and upcoming singer who had captured the nation’s attention. Badr knew of her, of course. She was impossible to ignore, but his tone remained neutral.
“Not really,” he replied. “But if she’s your choice, we can have her.”
Chedi leaned back, studying Badr with curiosity. “Oh, maybe you have another girl in mind? Someone you know from your neighborhood, perhaps?”
Badr shook his head. “I don’t believe we have any good singers.”
Chedi laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s not the main issue. Still, Rina it is, then. She’ll do nicely.”
A silence settled between them, not awkward but thoughtful. Chedi seemed uninterested in prying into Badr’s past, a deviation from what Badr had expected. He had come prepared for probing questions about his sudden rise, for flattery mixed with veiled interrogation. But Chedi’s focus was entirely on business.
Badr couldn’t help but wonder about the man’s intentions. Was this indifference genuine, or was it a calculated move to disarm him?
That evening, Chedi insisted that Badr join his family for dinner. Reluctantly, Badr accepted. The dining room was as grand as the rest of the mansion, its long table laden with dishes that smelled of spices and luxury. Among the diners was Chedi’s youngest daughter, a vision of beauty so striking she seemed carved from jade. Her presence momentarily stole Badr’s composure.
Chedi noticed Badr’s lingering gaze and smiled knowingly. “That’s my youngest,” he said. “She was promised to the prince himself. But now that they’ve fled, she’s been heartbroken, crying in her room ever since.”
The girl’s eyes met Badr’s for a fleeting moment, filled with a mixture of sorrow and defiance. She quickly averted her gaze, focusing on her plate.
Badr felt a pang of sympathy but said nothing. This house, this family, this girl—all of them were remnants of a world turned upside down. And he, too, was a fragment of a broken past, trying to piece together a future.
The next morning, Badr woke up after a long night at the Blee family house. After a quiet breakfast, he made his way to his study. There, he reviewed a list of all the partners involved in organizing the upcoming event. It was nearly certain that the event would take place in the capital under Badr’s supervision. As he scanned the document, one company caught his attention—the firm responsible for handling the printing and distribution of tickets and promotional materials. Without hesitation, he called to arrange a meeting with them to discuss further details.
Later in the afternoon, Badr visited the publishing company. The president welcomed him warmly, and they sat down over coffee as Badr began to explain his plan. The man was visibly aged, likely in his sixties or seventies, with a face marked by deep wrinkles and framed by white hair. Despite his years, he carried a warm, genuine smile that immediately set a cordial tone for their discussion.