A guard reached for her. She twisted away. Another blocked her path, but she slid between them like water through stone. She was small. She was quick. Poverty had taught her how to move through places that did not want her.
“Don’t get in that car!” she cried.
The head of security grabbed her arm.
“Back off,” he snapped.
Marco turned, irritated.
“What is this?”
Kiara fought to catch her breath.
“I heard them,” she said. “The driver and the man in the suit. They were speaking Arabic. They said to hide you when you got inside. They said something about a tunnel.”
The guard holding her arm scoffed.
“Mr. Alliance, we are already late. This is just a street kid looking for money.”
Marco’s gaze moved from the guard to Kiara.
At first, his eyes were cold.
Then curious.
“How do you know Arabic?”
“My grandmother taught me,” Kiara said quickly. “She came here from war. I know what I heard. Please don’t get in that car.”
The security chief, Aaron, tightened his grip slightly.
“She could have heard anything and invented the rest.”
Kiara looked directly at Marco.
“They said, ‘When he enters, don’t let him wake before the tunnel.’”
The sentence changed the air.
Marco’s expression hardened.
He raised one hand.
“Let her go.”
Aaron hesitated.
Marco’s voice lowered.
“I said let her go.”
Aaron released her arm.
“Victor,” Marco said, turning to another guard. “Full inspection of the limousine. Driver detained, quietly. No one leaves.”
Aaron stepped forward.
“Sir, with all due respect, Theo has passed every protocol. We cannot shut down the schedule because—”
“Since when do you question my orders?” Marco asked.
The silence that followed was sharp.
Aaron lowered his eyes.
“Of course, sir.”
Marco turned back to Kiara.
“You’re coming with me. I want every word you heard.”
“I need to go home,” Kiara said, suddenly aware of her dirty sneakers, sweaty shirt, and the lobby full of polished people staring at her like she was a stain on the marble. “My grandmother will worry.”
“You’ll call her,” Marco said. “But first we talk somewhere safe.”
As they entered Alian Tower, Kiara felt Aaron’s eyes burning into her back.
Not skeptical.
Angry.
Personal.
And something in her stomach turned cold.
The executive elevator moved silently upward.
Kiara stood beside Marco, clutching the strap of her empty cloth bag. She watched floor numbers rise. Forty-two. Forty-eight. Fifty.
The doors opened into a world she had only seen in movies.
Marco’s office was enormous. Glass walls. A panoramic view of the city. Leather sofas. Abstract art. Awards displayed like weapons. A desk large enough for three families to eat dinner around.
Kiara hovered near the entrance.
Marco noticed.
“You can sit.”
“I’m dirty.”
“It’s a sofa, not a holy relic.”