Chapter 4

Twelve hours later, we touched down in a country most Americans couldn't find on a map.

The heat slammed into us the second we left the airport—thick, choking air that tasted like diesel and cardamom. Ethan was back to his usual ice-cold self, like my little Arabic display on the plane had been some party trick.

"Car's there," he nodded toward a black Mercedes. "Hotel first, then we meet the local partners tomorrow."

Still talking to me like hired help instead of his wife.

I was about to tell him exactly what I thought of his tone when the world exploded.

BOOM!

The ground bucked under our feet. Windows blew out across the street, and a mushroom of black smoke bloomed over what looked like government buildings. Sirens started wailing like the world was ending.

"Jesus Christ, what was that?" Ethan grabbed my arm, his face going white.

Something clicked in my brain—like a switch flipping. For the first time in three years, everything felt crystal clear.

"Coup," I said, watching the smoke and calculating wind patterns. "Based on where that blast came from, rebels just took the government quarter. We need to move. Now."

"A coup? How could you possibly—"

Another explosion, closer this time. People poured out of buildings, screaming, running in every direction.

"Questions later!" I grabbed his hand. "Move!"

I dragged him toward the hotel's service entrance, my mind racing through everything I knew about this place. Dad's old briefings, news reports, intelligence summaries—it all snapped together like puzzle pieces.

"Sophia, what the hell are you—"

"Shut up and trust me!" I'd never yelled at him before. Ever. "You want to see Isabella again? Do exactly what I say!"

That stopped him cold, but he followed.

The hotel lobby was chaos. A dozen American businessmen shouting at the poor desk clerk like volume could solve their problems.

"I need a flight out NOW!"

"Where's the goddamn embassy?"

"Someone needs to protect us!"

I looked outside—armed men were already setting up checkpoints. We had minutes, maybe less.

"Hey!" I climbed onto a chair. "Everyone shut up and listen!"

The lobby went quiet. Even Ethan stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

"I'm Sophia Blackstone. What's happening outside is a military coup. The rebels have the government buildings and they're locking down transport routes."

"What would some rich girl know about—" a fat guy in a wrinkled suit started.

"The embassy's in the government district," I cut him off. "Which means it's surrounded. You want to get out alive? Listen to me."

I turned to the hotel manager, switching to rapid Arabic. His eyes went wide, but he started talking—back exits, safe routes, anything that could help.

"There's a path to the harbor," I announced. "French cargo ship. Captain owes my father a favor. But we go in small groups—five max. Any more and we're targets."

"Why should we trust some—"

The front windows exploded inward. Armed rebels stormed through, shouting orders, weapons raised.

Everyone hit the floor except me.

I stepped forward and started talking to them in their local dialect—not textbook Arabic, but the real thing. Tense minutes passed. Finally, they nodded and gestured toward the back exit. Ten minutes, they said. That's all we got.

"Still have questions?" I looked at the terrified faces around me. "Groups of five. Move."

The next two hours were a blur of back alleys and whispered directions. One by one, I got every American to that cargo ship. Only when the last businessman stumbled aboard did my legs start shaking.

Ethan had stayed with me the whole time, silent, but I could feel him watching me like he was seeing a stranger.

The ship pulled away from the burning city. We were safe. For now.

Night fell fast. Most people crashed in the crew quarters, exhausted. I found myself on deck, staring at the fires still lighting up the skyline, when I heard crying.

A little girl, maybe seven, was huddled in a corner with blood soaking through her sleeve. Shrapnel from the docks, one of the crew explained in broken English.

The cut was deep. Without proper care, infection would set in fast.

I knelt beside her, asking for the ship's medical kit. My hands moved automatically—cleaning, pressure, sutures. Muscle memory from all those hours Dad made me spend in the medical school.

"هل يؤلمك؟" (Does it hurt?), I asked softly.

She shook her head, but her eyes were still wide with fear.

I started humming an old lullaby I'd learned years ago, something my Arabic tutor used to sing. Slowly, the little girl relaxed, even smiled.

"All better," I said, tying off the last bandage.

When I turned around, Ethan was standing in the doorway, staring at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"When did you learn to do that?" His voice was quiet, careful.

I packed up the medical supplies, not sure how to answer. The question brought back memories I'd buried.

"Sophomore year," I finally said. "Dad made me audit surgery classes at the med school."

"Why?"

I remembered that afternoon in Dad's study, how serious he'd looked.

"He said the world wasn't kind to women like me. Women in families like ours. Said I needed to be able to protect myself. And other people too."

My voice caught. "I thought he was being paranoid. What danger could a professor's daughter face? But now..."

"Now what?" Ethan sat down beside me.

"Now I think he knew this day would come." I watched the distant flames. "He was preparing me. Languages, medicine, crisis management—everything he could think of."

Ethan was quiet for a long time.

"I always thought you were just..." he paused, guilt creeping into his voice. "Some spoiled princess who didn't understand the real world."

I looked at him, his face strange in the moonlight.

"Three years, Ethan," I said quietly. "You never once tried to know me."

"Sophia..."

"You know what the worst part was?" I continued. "Every morning, watching you and Isabella come into that dining room together, laughing about something. I was invisible. You'd talk about work, about life, about everything—but never to me."

His hands clenched.

"I thought you weren't interested—"

"You thought?" I interrupted. "In three years, did you ever ask what I was interested in? Do you know what I studied? My favorite book? Hell, do you even know when my birthday is?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. We both knew the answer.

We sat there listening to waves slap against the hull.

Then I saw it—a red dot sliding across the deck, moving toward my chest.

Sniper.

Before I could move, Ethan slammed into me, driving us both to the deck. His body covered mine completely, arms wrapped around my head.

CRACK! The bullet punched through the railing where I'd been sitting.

We stayed down for what felt like forever, his heart hammering against my ribs.

When he finally lifted his head, his hand touched my face—gentle, shaking.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was raw.

I shook my head, suddenly realizing this was the first time in three years he'd touched me like this. Not for show, not out of duty, but because he was scared for me.

"Ethan..."

"I think I've been wrong," his thumb brushed my cheek, "about everything."

There on that swaying deck, with gunfire echoing across the water, I saw something new in his eyes.

Not coldness. Not obligation. Recognition.

"Maybe," I whispered, "we could start over."

He took my hand—not to protect me, not for appearances, but because he wanted to.

The city kept burning in the distance, but something between us had shifted.

Something real.