Then he nodded.
Not because he liked it.
Because I respected her.
And because, for the first time in a long time, I understood that protecting someone didn't always mean keeping them out of the fire.
Sometimes it meant going in with that person.
Together.
VIII
The warehouse smelled of salt, rust and old gasoline.
The industrial lamps hung from the very high ceiling like sick moons. The echo of the sea hitting metal structures filtered through the cracks in the walls.
Amira walked to the front.
Dressed in off-white.
No unnecessary jewelry.
Without visible fear.
Zafir was next to him, in black, with his face uncovered for the first time in public.
Because it didn't matter to hide anymore.
Not that night.
Not at the end.
Farid Nassar was waiting for them next to a metal table.
And behind him, in a chair with serum attached to his arm...
Don Hassan.
Alive.
Weak.
But alive.
Amira felt a shock of relief so brutal that it almost caused her to lose her balance.
Farid smiled.
That smile of a man who thought he was invisible for too long.
—The heir girl and the ghost prince —he said with disgusting softness—. What a poetic image.
—Give me my father back —Amira said.
—Clear.
Farid placed both hands on the table.
—Sign first.
He slid a folder.
Amira didn't even touch her.
—What is it?
—The transfer of operational control over armored assets. Energy, ports, telecommunications, perimeter defense. You preserve the facade. I take the real machinery. The government receives stability. Your shareholders, calm down. You... survive.
Amira let out a short, cold laugh.
—You've been sitting at our table for fifteen years and you still haven't understood anything.
Farid tilted his head.
—Oh, right?
She took a step forward.
—I was not raised by an empire to sign on my knees.
