Amara went still.
For illustration purposes only
“No one.”
Andrew frowned.
“You’re flying alone to Paris for an international fellowship?”
“Yes.”
“Who paid for the ticket?”
“The foundation.”
“Hotel?”
“They said they arranged it.”
“You’re sixteen.”
“I know.”
Something in her answer was not defiance.
It was exhaustion.
As if she had been reminded of her age only when someone wanted to limit her, not when someone should have protected her.
Andrew lowered his voice.
“Do your parents know?”
Amara looked out the window.
“My mother died when Micah did.”
Andrew went silent.
“And your father?”
“I don’t have one.”
It was said too quickly.
A door closing.
Andrew did not push.
Not then.
Lily sighed and settled deeper against Amara.
The cabin lights dimmed further.
Some passengers finally slept.
But Andrew remained awake, watching the girl who had calmed his daughter and unsettled him more than any boardroom enemy ever had.
After a while, Amara whispered, “You can sleep.”
