“Ah, I was going to see if she wanted to come choose some clothes.” Dumbest excuse ever, and why am I so afraid to talk to this guy? He’s in my house. What’s the worst he could do? “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize.” His teeth flash, and I see a smidge of how white and straight they are. I bet when he smiles, it’s beautiful, though I get the feeling he doesn’t do it often. He moves forward, grabbing the handle of the door and clicking it closed. “Your dad bring strays in often?”

I shake my head slowly, tucking my blonde hair behind my ear. “No. Never.”

He studies me closely, but I look away. The longer I maintain eye contact with him, the hotter my skin burns.

I step back until I collide with the wall.

“School?”

“Private.”

The corner of his lip twitches. “Private as in you don’t wanna tell me, or private as in the organization?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. Why would I not want to tell him, he’s basically staying in my house. “No, private school. Are you starting?”

He snickers, side-stepping me to open the bedroom door. “Nah, I’m going to work with your dad.” My insides turn cold, and before I can say another word, his door is closed and I’m staring back at the intricate carvings sculpted into the wood. It isn’t that I hate my dad’s work. It’s not technically work. It’s just that it has always taken memories we could have had and replaced them with money. Power. Respect. To some, that may be nice. To Mama and me, it’s a nightmare.

Making my way downstairs, I find Mama sitting in the living room with a book open on her lap. The open fire is cracking and lights dimmed just enough so she can read.

“Hey, baby, everything okay?” Mama’s first language wasn’t English, although she learned it during her school years in Cairo.

I smile at her, lowering myself down onto the chaise directly opposite. “Mama, we can still leave?”

Her eyes narrow on me and she closes her book silently while looking over her shoulder. She leans in closer, her bright blue eyes a contrast to her dark hair. “Habibti, I love him. I told you not to worry about it.” My father met my mother while he was in Cairo for a business trip when she was fresh out of college. They fell in love, but as hard as he loved her, was as hard as he controlled her. He never hurt her, or me—ever. But last month I caught her packing her bags with tears strolling down her face.