“Barely,” Imaad said, checking his watch. “Father knows the traffic is hell at this hour. I don’t see why he couldn’t have just had a phone conference.”
“It seems he has something too important to discuss over the phone,” Omar said cryptically, adjusting his watch as the elevator numbers ticked downward toward them. A heavy silence settled between them as his father’s surprise meeting announcement roiled through Imaad. He hated being summoned like this, in the middle of his busy day. His father had it easy anymore—sitting in the golden tower, treating Imaad like his little delivery boy.
Because of course he’d do anything his father asked. It was the only worthy contract
in life—to honor his parents.
“Is there such a thing as too important for the phone?” Imaad scoffed, stepping into the elevator once the doors whooshed open. “I can handle it, whatever it is.”
“Then you should have put your foot down,” Omar said, sending him a sly glance.
Imaad sighed. Like that would be possible with their father.
“You know, you’re only making this worse for yourself.” Omar arched a brow. “You always jump when he asks you to. You’re a grown man. Your response shouldn’t always be ‘How high?’.”
Imaad narrowed his eyes at his brother. Of the three brothers, he and Imaad were often mistaken for twins. It didn’t help that they often independently chose the same close-cropped haircut, and tended toward the same relaxed, business casual style. And in moments like these, it was like glaring at his reflection. Omar’s steely gaze provoked him in a way that their oldest brother, Zahir, couldn’t accomplish.
“Thank you for the unsolicited advice,” Imaad said.
“You should listen to it.”
Omar would never understand. As the youngest, Imaad was perpetually seen as the least capable, no matter how much he succeeded. And even Omar didn’t understand the extent to which their father relied on him. He could never let him down, no matter how much it stung to bend to his will.
Imaad balled his fists. If Omar weren’t his brother, he’d let him have a piece of his mind. Ever since their mother’s death, he’d sworn to do everything possible to maintain the family unit. No in-fighting or resentments would break them apart, like it had their uncles and aunts.
“I suppose I’ll find out soon enough whether I should take your advice,” Imaad said, casting him a strained smile as the doors slid open at the top floor. The brothers stepped out, and Omar clapped his shoulder.
“Good luck. I’ll see you later.”
Omar headed down the hallway toward his own office. All three of the brothers had offices on the top executive floor, but as Director of Operations, Imaad was usually out on assignment, overseeing the various plants and factories, and more recently, coordinating a stinging wave of layoffs.
Imaad arrived at his father’s opulently carved office door, the surest way to know where the CEO sat in this building. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before pushing inside. His father’s back was to him when he stepped into the lushly carpeted office. The older man turned to him, a bright smile on his face, and set two glasses on the desk.
“Imaad! Come in.” He gestured to the seats facing the desk and grabbed a bottle of whiskey.
Imaad lifted a brow. This was not how the meetings usually went in his father’s office. “Are we celebrating something today?”
“We are, son.” His father poured a finger of whiskey into each of the tumblers and then offered him one. “Sit down, I’ll explain.”
Imaad took the drink, clinking glasses with his father before easing back into the seat. All around the office, enormous framed works of Persian art watched over them, overseeing their celebratory drink.
He sipped at the amber liquid, hesitant to fully enjoy the drink before he knew what the news was. “This is the good whiskey. This must be important.”
“Anything regarding your future is important, my son. And recently I’ve made a few important decisions about where that future of yours is headed.”
Imaad’s belly knotted furiously. Oh no. So that’s where this was headed. Dark curiosity filled him. “The future?”
“The company is merging with an American business, my boy. And you’re getting married.”
Imaad squinted at him, his father’s dark mustache blurring into a comical line, as he struggled to process the words. “I’m sorry, what?”
“We’re merging with an American company—”
“No, father. I heard that part.” Imaad squeezed the tumbler in his hands, furrowing his brow. “I’m getting what?”
“Married!” His father let out a triumphant whoop, as though this were good news to both of them.
Imaad’s mouth parted as he searched for the appropriate reaction, one that didn’t include screaming “Hell no!” and running out of the office. He took a big gulp of the whiskey, emptying the tumbler, and set it onto the desk. He grimaced as the burning liquid went down.