Jabr’s debt still loomed, but somehow it had begun to fade in his mind. It hadn’t disappeared entirely—no, its weight was still there, pressing against the back of his consciousness—but it felt lighter now. The thought of his newborn son, a life yet to be lived, carried him into a place of fulfillment, farther than he had been able to go on his own. It was like riding a horse that needed no reins, gliding forward without force. He realized that his life, the one centered on the debt and the shame it brought, had kept him circling in place. But now, Jomana and Pliny were like a compass, guiding him into a new future.
He had once blamed everyone else for his situation—Ahmed, the demolitions, the greed of others—but now those things seemed smaller, diminished in the shadow of what truly mattered. Jomana. Pliny. A family. What was money compared to those?
Sitting in the quiet of the apartment, Jabr’s eyes drifted to the three green iron bars propped up in the corner. They were cold and heavy, relics of an old plan—a threat he had been holding onto, waiting for the right moment to use against Emir Ahmed. He had kept them as leverage, hoping to one day force the old man’s hand, to twist his guilt into submission.
But now, looking at them, they seemed pointless. “What is this all for?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. Jomana had changed everything. No—she hadn’t changed him; she had reminded him who he wanted to be. And now, with the baby was here, it was time to bury the past, starting with Ahmed.
He reached for the bars, their weight pulling his shoulders down as he stuffed them into a burlap sack. “This is over,” he said aloud, as if speaking to the bars themselves. Then he grabbed the phone on the kitchen table, called a taxi, and made his way to the Dasman Palace.
The courtyard attendant shook his head. “No, please return in two weeks.”
Jabr felt his stomach tighten. “Two weeks? No, it’s necessary I speak with the Emir now.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he added, “I don’t know if he’ll survive that long.”
The attendant frowned but relented. “If it’s that important, wait here. I’ll summon the Minister of Social Affairs.”
Jabr nodded and stood by the gate, shifting the weight of the sack from one shoulder to the other. His mind raced, images of Jomana and little Pliny flickering before him. He wasn’t afraid of Ahmed—he was afraid of leaving things unresolved. He didn’t want that burden hanging over his son’s future. The thought now hovered over him. I’ll not surrender my son’s inheritance.
After what felt like hours, the attendant disappeared into a building. Jabr seized the moment. He knew the way, having been here enough times to plead, to fight, to beg. Now, it was different. With quiet steps, he entered the Emir’s chamber.
Ahmed, seated by the window, looked up from the Quran on his lap, his pale eyes narrowing in recognition. “Jabr,” the old man said, his voice surprisingly strong, his aphasia remarkably better. “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to return.”
Jabr swallowed, steadying his breath. “Your Highness, I’m not here to threaten you.”
Ahmed tilted his head, his gaze shifting to the burlap sack in Jabr’s hand. “You’re not?”
Jabr took a step closer, the bars clinking faintly against each other as he set the sack down. “No. I came to return something. These—” he motioned toward the bulging sack— “were meant for you. They were supposed to be evidence of your wrongdoings, a way for me to force you into submission.”
The Emir’s lips curled into a sneer. “And now?”
“And now I don’t need them anymore.” Jabr’s voice was calm, but it carried the weight of conviction. “I’m done with threats. The debt, it’s still there, and it’s mine to deal with. But I want this—” he motioned to Ahmed and himself — “to be over. I want it clean between us.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. The silence was thick, heavy like the air before a storm.
The door burst open as the attendant and minister rushed in. “Your Highness! He slipped past us—”
Ahmed raised a hand. “Leave us,” he commanded sharply. “I’ll speak with him alone.”
Reluctantly, the men backed out, leaving Jabr and the Emir in the quiet once more.
Ahmed’s eyes locked onto Jabr. “So, you’ve come to make peace?” His tone was mocking, dismissive.
Jabr met his gaze steadily. “No. I’ve come to be free of you.”
Ahmed’s smirk faltered. “Free?”
“Yes.” Jabr’s voice softened, but it didn’t waver. “This isn’t about forgiveness, Ahmed. It’s about letting go. I have a family now. A future. And I won’t let this…this thing between us bleed into it.”
Ahmed’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you think I care about your future?”
Jabr smiled, a small, tired smile. “You don’t have to.” He pushed the sack toward the Emir, the metal clinking as it slid across the floor. “Keep them. Bury them again. Do whatever you want. I don’t need them anymore.”
For a moment, Ahmed was silent. Then, slowly, he bent forward and untied the sack. He glanced at the bars, the dull green iron catching the faint light from the window.
“I thought you’d come to grovel,” Ahmed muttered. “I thought you’d beg for mercy.”
Jabr shook his head. “No more begging. I’ll handle my debts. And you…well, you can do whatever it is you do.”
The Emir’s face twisted into something unreadable. “You are dismissed,” he said coldly, rising slowly to his feet. “Don’t return unless you have another gift for me.”
Jabr didn’t flinch. He simply nodded, turning to leave. As he reached the door, Ahmed’s voice called after him. “In fact, don’t return under any condition.”
Jabr paused, his hand on the doorframe. He didn’t turn around, but he spoke one last time. “I wasn’t planning to.”
And with that, he stepped out into the courtyard, the air feeling lighter around him. He was done with Ahmed. Done with the iron bars and the threats. There was still Riyadh to face, still the uncertainty of the future. But for now, he walked forward, trusting in the weight of something far greater than revenge: hope.
