Chapter 7

"The warmth of the seafood restaurant's interior contrasted sharply with the cold rain pelting against its windows. The smell of butter and garlic hung thick in the air, mingling with the excited chatter of the CNN crew celebrating their documentary's success. Georgiana watched as her colleagues devoured the fresh Maine lobsters, their faces flushed with both wine and triumph.

""So, Jessica,"" Sarah leaned forward, her wine glass tilting precariously, ""where did you disappear to yesterday? Amanda said she couldn't reach you all evening.""

Jessica dabbed her lips with a napkin, a flicker of hesitation crossing her perfectly made-up face. ""Oh, I was in Washington,"" she replied, her voice carrying that practiced casualness that always seemed to accompany her name-dropping. ""Had to do some interviews with a few military personnel. You know, with all the buzz around Georgiana's 'War-Torn Aleppo,' I thought it would be good to do some follow-up pieces.""

Georgiana noticed Laura and Sarah exchange a knowing look. It wasn't the first time Jessica had tried to capitalize on someone else's success. The station's ""Best Reporter of the Year"" nominations were coming up, and everyone knew both Georgiana and Jessica were front-runners.

""Really?"" Laura's voice dripped with feigned interest. ""What kind of follow-up pieces?""

""Just some human interest stories,"" Jessica waved her hand dismissively, her diamond bracelet catching the light. ""Actually, I interviewed this officer who was part of the evacuation team. His name was Michael, I believe...""

The seafood sauce Georgiana had been carefully applying to her lobster suddenly spurted everywhere, a few drops catching her right in the eye. The sharp, spicy sensation made her gasp.

""Oh God, are you okay?"" Sarah half-rose from her seat.

""I'm fine, I just—I need to wash this out,"" Georgiana stammered, already pushing back her chair. ""Amanda, could you...?""

""Of course!"" Amanda jumped up to accompany her, but Georgiana was already speed-walking toward the restroom.

Once inside, she locked the door, ignoring Amanda's concerned calls. Her hands trembled as she leaned against the cool marble counter, a mix of stinging pain and wild hope making her heart race. Could it be him? The same Michael? The man whose eyes had haunted her dreams, whose cross necklace still lay hidden in her jacket pocket?

She splashed water on her face, trying to calm herself. Through the door, she could hear Amanda's worried voice: ""Georgiana, do you need help?""

""I'm fine!"" she called back, unable to keep a smile from spreading across her face. Her reflection in the mirror looked almost manic – eyes bright, cheeks flushed, water dripping from her chin. If this was the same Michael, if fate had somehow brought him back into her orbit...

By the time the dinner wrapped up, the rain had intensified into sheets of water that transformed Boston's streets into reflecting pools. Georgiana insisted on driving Laura and Sarah home, partly to make up for her strange behavior at dinner, partly because she needed their company to keep her from doing anything rash.

""You know what Jessica's doing, right?"" Laura said from the backseat, her voice barely audible over the rhythmic swish of the wipers. ""These military interviews – she's trying to steal your thunder. She saw how much attention your documentary got, and now she's trying to ride your coattails.""

""Classic Jessica,"" Sarah agreed. ""All connections, no substance. If her father wasn't a congressman...""

""It doesn't matter,"" Georgiana said softly, her eyes fixed on the rain-slicked road ahead. ""Everyone has their own path.""

She dropped them off at their usual corner, where the sisters shared an apartment. Instead of taking her usual right turn toward home, she found herself continuing straight ahead. In her rearview mirror, she caught Sarah's knowing look as the realization hit her friend's face – this road led to the military base.

The rain created a curtain around her parked car as she sat there, staring at the base's gates through her foggy windshield. The cross necklace felt heavy in her pocket. Was she crazy for being here? What would she even say if she got in? Sorry to bother you, but did you happen to save my life in Syria?

A beam of light cut through the rain, and a guard approached her car, holding an umbrella. Georgiana's heart hammered in her chest as she rolled down her window.

""Ma'am, this is a restricted area,"" the guard said, professional but firm. ""I'm going to have to ask you to move along.""

""I'm..."" Georgiana fumbled with her press credentials, her usual composure deserting her. ""I'm actually here to follow up on some questions for my colleague, Jessica Wilson? She interviewed a soldier named Michael earlier today...""

The lie felt clumsy on her tongue – she'd never been good at deception. But something in her expression must have seemed genuine enough, because the guard's stance softened slightly.

""Wait here,"" he said, before speaking quietly into his radio.

Minutes later, Georgiana found herself being escorted into a warm office, the kind of space that spoke of authority without ostentation. A coffee cup steamed between her cold hands as she perched on the edge of a leather chair, her wet clothes leaving dark patches on the upholstery.

Then she heard it – footsteps in the hallway, growing closer.

Her heart seemed to stop altogether as the door handle began to turn. In that moment, all she could think about was a pair of steel-gray eyes behind a bomb disposal mask, and the way they had looked at her on what should have been the last day of her life.

The door opened."