Across from them sat Sheikh Omar.
Older. Calm. Grounded.
His Italian suit was flawless, but prayer beads rested beside his phone — a man of tradition surrounded by predators.
“Water,” Callaway said without looking up.
Adam placed the glasses carefully, hands steady.
As he leaned forward, the document on the table tilted slightly.
Light caught the page.
And Adam read it.
His stomach dropped.
Because the Arabic didn’t say escrow.
It said irrevocable transfer.
It didn’t say temporary hold.
It said waiver of immunity.
Adam’s grandfather had taught him to read contracts before bedtime stories.
“Words,” the old man used to say, “are sharper than knives.”
Adam saw the blade instantly.
If Sheikh Omar signed, the money would vanish — legally stolen, unrecoverable.
This wasn’t an investment.
It was a trap.
Adam froze.
He wasn’t supposed to speak.
Kids like him didn’t interrupt billionaires.
But Sheikh Omar was lifting the pen.
“Sir.”
The word slipped out before Adam could stop it.
The table fell silent.
Callaway looked up slowly, irritation flashing across his face.
“What is this?” he snapped. “Who let a child here?”
Adam ignored him.
He looked directly at Sheikh Omar.