I nod in understanding and address the room. "Please continue," I say, signaling to the confused faces that there's nothing to worry about.
I smile at the back of Mohamad's head as the presentation resumes. Ai Chan Yeol has made it onto the list—one of three women my boss has selected out of over two hundred thousand candidates to be part of his secret project.
In less than five minutes, the presentation is over. The room erupts into applause, but the sound quickly dies as all eyes turn to Mohamad. Adam's apples bob up and down from one man to the next. They're intimidated by my boss—and with good reason.
Mohamad isn't a typical businessman. With two PhDs in chemistry and biology, the distinction of being the youngest recipient of the Breakthrough Prize in Life Sciences, two nominations for the Nobel Prize in Medicine, and his name stamped on several world-famous medicines, he has a reputation for asking the most challenging questions after every presentation.
This one is no different. The drilling lasted forty minutes.
On the way to our next meeting, I ask him, "You seemed mesmerized by Ai Chan Yeol. Should I forward her profile to you?"
His eyebrows rise, and here's another rare occasion when he looks surprised. Is it possible he's not aware of her effect on him?
"No," he says, then glances back down at his iPad, continuing to read the briefing.
The rest of the day goes as usual, with one meeting after another. By the time we have to change into our formal wear for the black-tie charity auction, I'm completely drained. Still, I'm looking forward to seeing Mohamad with the public girlfriend I recently picked for him. A rising supermodel and Miss Spain from two years ago, Eugenia Silva makes the perfect partner standing beside him.
He looks refreshed as we take our seats, facing each other in the limo. Smiling at him, I feel a spark of excitement as we head to pick up Eugenia from her hotel. She flew in just for this, her official first public appearance with him. Mohamad's inexpressive face doesn't falter. The limo stops, and I rush out to greet her.
Offering her my hand, I say, "Good evening, Eugenia." Her smile is mesmerizing.
"Hello, Jason. Is he already at the event waiting for—?" she asks, noticing Mohamad isn't in sight.
I motion toward the limo door and say, "Please."
Her face lights up at the sight of him, as expected. But she makes her first mistake: she sits inches away from him.
Mohamad immediately moves to the opposite side—to my side—and sits down.
She looks confused, and all I can do is offer her a kind smile. She's forgotten the two rules I specifically told her about Mohamad. One, he hates people in his personal space. Two, he doesn't like talking or displays of emotion when they're alone.
As usual, he ignores her, his focus entirely on the iPad in his hands. I step in to make small talk, keeping her calm and normalizing the situation.
But as soon as we arrive at the event, Mohamad steps out of the limo and opens her door for her. She steps out, and he offers his arm. She takes it, smiling.
I trail them as we enter the event and head toward our assigned seating. He pulls out her chair, and she sits. Her shawl slips off her bare shoulders. Noticing the goosebumps on her skin, he picks it up and spreads it over her again. Then, he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over her as well. She blushes under his attentive care.
In public, Mohamad is the perfect gentleman—a dream boyfriend who's attentive down to the tiniest details. It makes my job difficult when his hired girlfriends inevitably fall in love with him. They can't help it. They see the man he pretends to be in public and start wishing for that version of him in private as well.
What they don't realize is that his public self is his real self. Mohamad is the gentleman with a passionate soul and a loving, loyal heart. But he can't be that man and still win against his father's cruelty. His private self is a version he created solely to focus on his vengeance.
Sometimes, it breaks my heart to see the loneliness when his mask falls. Sometimes, I want to convince him to let go, but I know he can't.
What happens after he gets his revenge? Will he be at peace then? Will happiness come to him? What about love?
I sigh and start to dig into my dinner.
But my eyes immediately turn to Mohamad. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly as he looks down at his lit phone. He gets up and moves toward a private corner to take the call.
His most beloved person—the only woman ever to have his heart—is on the other line. She's the main reason he hates his father. If only he could convince his mother to leave the abusive man she can't tear herself away from, bound by love and duty.
The charity event drags on like they always do—polished speeches, hollow generosity, applause that means nothing.
Until he arrives.
The resemblance is unmistakable. Same face. Same bone structure. Just aged thirty years and corrupted by excess. Mohamad goes still beside me. Not stiff—contained. His rage doesn't show where most people would betray it. It settles in his eyes, darkening them by degrees. His fingers curl slowly into a fist, knuckles whitening, then release just as deliberately. The mask slips back into place.
Right on cue, his father makes a spectacle of himself. Like most billionaires who mistake wealth for taste, he's draped in it—diamonds catching the light, gold layered without restraint, logos loud enough to be read across the room. Subtlety, clearly, was never part of his education.
His gaze drops—openly, unapologetically—to Eugenia's cleavage. Not a glance. A statement.
Mohamad steps in front of her without a word.
"A new toy," his father drawls, that smirk cutting deeper than any insult. "Spaniard this time." His eyes flick lazily over her. "Your tastes are getting… eclectic."
Mohamad doesn't rise to it. He stands there, calm and cold as the night air, as if the man in front of him is nothing more than background noise.
"How much is she?" his father repeats, louder this time—just enough to carry.
When Mohamad doesn't react, he sidesteps him entirely.
Bold. Deliberate.
He positions himself in front of Eugenia, invading her space like he owns it. She looks confused, but manages a polite smile—the kind people wear when they don't yet realize they're being insulted.
"She has your mother's cheekbones," he says, almost thoughtfully.
Then, to Eugenia—casual, conversational, as if discussing wine or art—
"His mother was a remarkable beauty. Seventeen when I decided to keep her."
He lets the words hang there, satisfied—possession dressed up as nostalgia.
Then his hand lifts—toward her face. Mohamad's hand moves—fast enough that for a second, I think he's going to hit him. Instead, he grips his father's wrist. Hard. Not enough to draw attention. Enough to hurt.
"Don't."
A beat.
"Speak about her again."
Then releases him like nothing happened.