The Rival's Contract

Chapter3{Amani}

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chrome. I stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor before leaning against the mirrored wall, feeling like there was a weight pressing down on my shoulders. The silence was deafening, as I stared at my reflection. I looked at myself, in the same navy blazer, the same neat hair, the same composed expression I had worn into the meeting one hour ago. Though now, it felt like a disguise. A mask I'd placed over myself to hide the woman who was on the brink of a breakdown. I watched the elevator descend floor by floor, each soft ding reminding me of a conversation I couldn't escape. “No longer viable.” I said to myself. Letting out a dry, hollow chuckle. The doors opened to the lobby. People hurried with coffees in hand, their conversation blending into the steady rhythm of another regular work day.

Regular. How strange. My world had just cracked beneath me, yet everyone else just continued like nothing had happened. I laughed to myself as I watched the people around me. A business man laughed into his phone. A young intern rushed toward the reception desk with a stack of files. A couple argued quietly over lunch plans. Life moved on. It always did, even though it was actively collapsing around you. I adjusted the strap of my hand bag and walked toward the revolving doors. Outside, a cool breeze greeted me. My eyes stung as I inhaled sharply. “Don’t fall apart here, Amani.” I muttered inwardly. My father always told me that a leader’s greatest strength wasn’t avoiding failure, it was refusing to let failure define them.

Today, those words felt impossible to believe. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and disappear from all my problems forever. However, I knew that wasn’t a choice because my mother would personally drag me out of bed and force me to face them head on. As though the universe knew I was thinking about her, my phone vibrated in my pocket. She was calling. I didn’t pick up though. I just stared at my phone till it stopped ringing. I knew if I picked up, I would have broken down right there in the parking lot. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and climbed into my car. The moment the driver’s door closed, the silence returned. I kept my hands on the steering wheel for a while after starting the engine. I replayed every moment in my head. Each slide, every answer, every statistic I had spent nights choosing. In the end, none of it mattered. The decision was already made before I even stepped into the room.

I drove into the Khalil estate. A place that had once hosted charity galas, business dinners, and celebrations that brought together some of the country’s most influential figures. Now, it was simply home. I parked in the driveway and sat for a few beats before gathering my things. As soon as I stepped inside, the familiar scent of jasmine flooded my senses, and for the first time all day, I felt myself breathe.

“Amani?” My mother’s voice rang out. Mariam Khalil appeared moments later, wearing her signature warm smile. Her smile faded as she noticed my tired eyes and slumped shoulders. I shot her a tight smile, but she saw right through me. “The meeting didn’t go well.” It wasn’t a question. That’s the thing with mothers, they always know things. How? I have no idea. They just seem wired that way. I managed a weak laugh. “Am I really that easy to read?”

“No.” She gently cupped my face. “I just know these things.” She added, confirming my thoughts. I looked away, attempting to hide my welling eyes. “Crestline pulled out.” Silence settled between us. “They’ve withdrawn their investment.” Her hand slowly dropped. “I thought they were willing to listen.”

“So did I.”

“What happened?”

“I presented everything.” I answered, dropping my bag beside the sofa. “The recovery plan, the projections, every solution we’ve spent months preparing.”

“And?” She asked quietly. “They already made their decision.” I watched as her expression softened with quiet sadness. “Oh sweetheart…”

“They never intended to give us a chance.” My voice cracked despite my best efforts. “They let me stand there and fight for a company they had already given up on.” She stepped forward and embraced me. For a moment, I allowed myself to stop being a CEO. I simply rested my head against my mother’s shoulder and drowned in her maternal embrace. “I failed him.”

“No you didn’t, Mani.”

“I promised Baba I’d protect what he built.”

“You are protecting it.”

“It doesn’t feel like I’m doing enough.”

“It never will,” She replied gently. “Because you loved him.”

I closed my eyes, sniffling slightly. “I just… I don't know how many more losses the company can handle.” Before my mother could answer, another voice interrupted. “I’ve been saying that for months.” I stiffened. My uncle, Omar Khalil, stood in the doorway with his arms folded. He looked between us before letting out a quiet sigh.

“I take it that the meeting didn’t go as planned.”

“No.” I answered curtly.

“I warned the board this would happen.” I immediately straightened. Why would he do that?

“I told them Crestline was losing confidence.”

“You could’ve told me.” I said, turning to face him.

“I did.” He folded his arms. “You simply refused to listen.”

I felt irritation rise in my chest. I wonder how my dad managed to tolerate this guy.

“Omar,” My mother tried to interject.

“No, let him finish.”

Omar looked directly at me with an annoyingly smug look on his face. “Your father was an exceptional business man.”

I stared back, remaining silent.

“But determination isn’t the same thing as experience.”

The words hit harder than expected. I could take the discouraging remarks from the board members, but hearing them from family hurt way more.

“You’ve been running this company with your heart.”

“And you think that’s my mistake?”

“I think you’re trying to save a sinking ship with optimism.”

“No, I have a plan.”

“You have hope.” He took a measured breath. “The board needs stability.” He added, his eyes never leaving mine. “If stepping aside is too difficult for you to suggest…” He paused. “I will.”

The room fell silent. I stared at him in utter disbelief. “You think you should replace me.” My chest tightened at the words.

“I think the company needs someone who’s spent decades in this industry.”

I swallowed. The truth finally registered. He wanted to take over. He truly believed he was better than me. I swallowed, before looking at him. “So that’s what it is.”

“It’s not personal, it’s business.”

A bitter smile crossed my face. “It stopped being just business the moment you questioned if I deserved my father’s company.” Without waiting for a response, I picked up my bag and headed towards the stairs.

“Amani.” My mother called.

“I just need a little time.” With that, I disappeared upstairs, heading for the only room in the house that seemed to calm my thoughts.

I exhaled slowly as I walked down the hallway until I reached the last door on the left. I hesitated, before I wrapped my fingers around the brass handle. The door clicked shut behind me, as I stood there, taking in the scent of linseed oil, acrylic paint, and fresh canvas, letting the silence sink in. This room was my safe space. No board members, no investors withdrawing their support, no Uncle Omar reminding me that I wasn’t enough. It had once been my father’s study. After his death, I had transformed it into the only place I could find peace. Sunlight streamed through the windows, lighting up the canvases that held fragments of my life over the years. Some paintings were of places I’d been, others of people I loved, and others of feelings I couldn't find words to express, but in the middle stood an easel holding an unfinished piece. It had remained untouched for months. Much like the rest of my life.

I sighed, taking off my blazer and draping it across the back of a chair before tying my hair into a loose pony tail. Painting was never about perfection. It was my way of processing emotions. My therapy. When board meetings became unbearable, I painted. When my grief became too heavy, I painted. When I missed my father more than I could bear, I painted. I squeezed fresh paint onto my wooden palette. The scrape of the palette knife against the wood was strangely comforting. It reminded me that some things in life could still be controlled. I dipped my brush into the blue, blending it carefully with a touch of white till it matched the evening sky I’d started painting weeks earlier. A faint smile tugged against my lips. “Baba would’ve said it needed more colour.” The memory surfaced before I could stop it. Baba never understood art. Every time he wandered into her studio, he’d fold his arms, tilt his head dramatically and offer the most ridiculous advice imaginable.

“Too much blue.”

“It’s the sky, Baba.”

“Exactly. Add something exciting, like a dragon, perhaps.”

I would laugh. He would insist he was serious. And for a little while, the weight of the world disappeared.

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came. My gaze drifted across the room until it landed on a framed picture resting on a nearby shelf. Hassan Khalil. My father, smiling confidently outside Khalil Holdings the day the company opened a new branch. I walked over and gently picked it up. I wiped my thumb over the glass, brushing away a thin layer of dust. “I wish you were here,” I whispered. “So much has happened.” I laughed quietly, trying to stifle my tears. “I lost Crestline today.” The words hung in the room like a confession. “I tried everything.” My eyes stung. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right anymore.” Silence answered me. As expected when talking to a picture. I looked back at the unfinished canvas before noticing the paint still on my brush. Navy blue. The exact colour of the tie he had worn the last morning I saw him. My grip tightened around the wooden handle. The room seemed to disappear, the smell of paint fading. In its place came the faint smell of fresh coffee, the sound of his laughter, the promise he’d made before walking out the front door. “No…” I wasn’t ready. Not today. Probably not even the days to come. With a shaky breath, I rinsed the brush and placed it back into the jar. The painting would have to wait. I switched off the studio lights and quietly closed the door, leaving the unfinished canvas standing alone in the middle of the room.