"Sir, would this be wise?"
The words fell out quietly, uncertainly—but they echoed in the stillness of the office like thunder. Everlyn's voice, usually precise and composed, cracked just slightly as she spoke. Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman had just exited the room, and Alexander Blackwell was still facing the door, hands behind his back, the light from the chandeliers throwing shadows across his frame.
Everlyn's eyes followed her father, now halfway down the corridor with the prince. Despite her attempts to stay professionally detached, the weight of what they had just done gripped her chest like a vice. She had repeated her concerns countless times. Even though she had agreed—no, committed—to this plan, even though she had strategized, plotted, and pushed for it with ambition burning in her chest, fear still found its way through the cracks.
They were in too deep now. And she knew it.
