Chapter 3

Eleanor sat at the head of the conference table like she owned the world. At seventy-eight, she still had the kind of stare that could make grown men squirm.

"Sophia, sit," she said. No please, no warmth. Just a command.

I slid into the chair across from her, my hands already clammy.

"Our Middle East oil project is in crisis," Eleanor cut straight to the point. "Serious crisis. Ethan leaves tomorrow to fix it, and you're going with him."

"What?" I nearly fell out of my chair. "Me? Why would I—"

"Because I need my grandson protected," Eleanor's eyes turned to ice. "The situation over there is volatile. I won't let him go alone."

The conference room door creaked open.

Isabella appeared in the doorway, pale as a ghost in her white lace dress. She swayed slightly, one hand pressed to the doorframe like she might faint.

"Eleanor, did I hear correctly? Ethan's going to the Middle East?" Her voice shook. "But isn't there fighting there? All those conflicts?"

Ethan was on his feet instantly, catching her elbow. "Bella, what are you doing up? Dr. Morrison said you need to rest."

"I was worried about you." She melted into his arms, the picture of fragility. "The Middle East is so dangerous. What if something terrible happens?"

Then she looked at me, and for just a split second, I caught something calculating in her expression before it shifted to concern.

"Sophia's going too?" Isabella bit her lip, her voice barely above a whisper but somehow carrying to everyone in the room. "But she's never traveled internationally. How could someone so... inexperienced possibly help? Those regions can be so hostile, and she's always been so sheltered..."

My nails dug into my palms. Classic Isabella—sounding worried about Ethan while systematically tearing me down.

"She has a point," Ethan frowned at Eleanor. "Sophia has zero international experience. She'd just be dead weight."

Something snapped inside me. "I am not dead weight!"

"Then what exactly would you contribute?" Ethan's voice was flat. "You don't know the business, you don't understand international politics."

Isabella nestled deeper into his arms. "Ethan, don't be harsh with Sophia. I'm sure she wants to help, it's just..." she paused, eyes full of fake sympathy, "some situations really do require specialized knowledge."

God, she was good. Never a direct attack, always wrapped in sweetness that made everyone think she was the caring one while she systematically destroyed me.

"Enough!" Eleanor's hand slammed the table. "The decision is final. Sophia goes with Ethan. This isn't a debate—it's an order."

Isabella went even paler, if that was possible. She swayed dramatically, and Ethan's grip tightened.

"Isabella, what's wrong?"

"I'm just... so worried about your safety," her voice got weaker. "If only I could go instead. At least I understand Middle Eastern customs..."

Another perfect little dig. Reminding everyone that she was the valuable one, the one who belonged at Ethan's side.

"Your health couldn't handle that kind of trip," Ethan brushed a tear from her cheek. "Stay here and get better for me."

Watching their little performance made my stomach turn. Three years of marriage, and he'd never touched me that gently.

"Isabella's just concerned about us," Ethan turned to me, his eyes cold. "Don't take everything so personally."

Personally?

I almost laughed. They put on their romantic show right in front of me, tear me apart piece by piece, and I'm being too personal?

"I'm not taking anything personally," I said through clenched teeth. "I'm just wondering when 'concern' became code for questioning my competence."

Isabella's eyes immediately filled with tears, like I'd slapped her. "Sophia, I really am just worried about Ethan..."

"That's enough," Eleanor cut through the drama. "Flight leaves tomorrow morning. Go pack."

The next afternoon, I threw clothes into a suitcase like a robot. Three years of this marriage had taught me to handle everything alone, including mysterious trips to war zones.

A knock on my door made me look up.

"Dad?" I blinked in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Professor David stood in my doorway with tears in his eyes. He opened his arms, and I fell into the first real hug I'd had in months.

"My little girl's going so far away..." his voice cracked. "I'm terrified."

I breathed in his familiar scent—coffee and old books and safety.

"I'll be careful, Dad."

He slipped something into my hand. A folded piece of paper. "If anything goes wrong, contact this person. Remember—you're my pride and joy, always."

I stared at the note, confused, but tucked it away carefully.

The next morning, the Blackstone private jet felt more like a prison than luxury. Ethan sat across from me, buried in paperwork and radiating disapproval.

"Did your father put you up to this?" he asked suddenly, eyes full of suspicion.

"What?" I stared at him. "My father's a professor, not some corporate spy!"

"Cut the innocent act." Ethan closed his folder. "Three years you've never cared about my work, and suddenly you want to travel with me?"

Heat flashed through me. "Eleanor ordered me to go. How is that my father's fault?"

He just gave me that cold smile I'd learned to hate.

A flight attendant approached, asking something in Arabic about drinks.

"شكراً، أريد قهوة من فضلك" (Thank you, I'd like coffee please), I replied without thinking.

Ethan's head snapped up.

"ما هي الحالة الأمنية في المنطقة التي نذهب إليها؟" (What's the security situation where we're heading?), I continued.

The attendant launched into a detailed explanation of local politics while I listened, asking follow-up questions about tribal dynamics and recent policy changes.

The whole time, I could feel Ethan staring at me. When I finally looked over, his expression had shifted from shock to confusion to something I couldn't quite read.

"Since when do you speak Arabic?" His voice was barely controlled.

"College elective," I said casually. "And just so you know, we were discussing oil policies and tribal relations. Does that count as 'specialized knowledge'?"

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it.

I picked up my magazine, hiding a smile. Three years, and he never bothered to actually know me. Never even tried.

To him, I was just arm candy, a political marriage trophy.

But he was about to learn exactly how wrong he'd been.

The plane climbed through the clouds as I stared out the window, something shifting inside my chest.

Maybe this trip would change everything.